Incense And Documents: The Definitive Albums Of The Paisley Underground

dreamsyndicateDREAM SYNDICATE The Days Of Wine And Roses (Ruby/Slash, 1982)
The dream that grunge was made of. Steve Wynn made like a lucid version of Lou Reed, Karl Precoda squeezed jagged sparks from his barely tuned axe and Dennis Duck and Kendra Smith kept the beat. “Tell Me When It’s Over” might be the best song ever penned by a Paisley group, single-handedly resurrecting the ghost of the Velvets and making guitars cool all over again. Later name-dropped by Kurt Cobain as a formative influence, The Days Of Wine And Roses is scheduled for reissue this summer by the Rhino label.

RAIN PARADE Emergency Third Rail Power Trip (Enigma, 1983)
David Roback’s first Paisley endeavor was heavily indebted to the folk/rock bands that made up the first wave of L.A. psychedelia: Byrds, Buffalo Springfield and Love. Sprinkling in a pinch of Television’s two-guitar pixie-dust, Power Trip scores with the beautiful calling-card “What’s She Done To Your Mind,” setting the stage for Roback’s eternal search for the slow-motion chord in Opal and Mazzy Star.

BANGLES All Over The Place (Columbia, 1984)
Before the money (and Prince) rolled in with “Manic Monday” and “Walk Like An Egyptian,” there was this LP, one of the finest girl-group/garage-band albums ever recorded. Equal parts Troggs, Rubber Soul and Mamas And The Papas, All Over established Susanna Hoffs as the most recognizable voice of the Paisley Underground, whether belting out “Hero Takes A Fall” (written for Wynn) and “James” or adding a floating layer of harmony to their classic rendition of Kimberley Rew’s “Going Down To Liverpool.”

THREE O’CLOCK Sixteen Tambourines (Frontier, 1983)
At the intersection of the Monkees’ buoyant bubble-pop and the Hollies’ more sophisticated juxtaposition of harmony and melody came
Sixteen Tambourines, the Three O’Clock’s first album after an EP and a previous release as the Salvation Army. “Jetfighter” established Michael Quercio and Co. as the power-pop masters of their day, while their unusual use of the organ—when married to dance beats—would surface again in the sounds of Madchester bands like the Charlatans UK and Inspiral Carpets. Pure pop for now people.

GREEN ON RED Gas Food Lodging (Enigma, 1985)
These Arizona transplants were instrumental in forging the nascent sound of “desert rock,” taking Neil Young’s mid-‘70s work with Crazy Horse as a starting point and adding a honky-tonk swing. Frontman Dan Stuart was believed by most to be the guiding artistic light of the Paisley Underground, a poetic genius with an ear for phrasing and a way with a riff. Groups like the Meat Puppets, Giant Sand and Calexico claim kinship with the embryonic sound and vision found here.

LONG RYDERS Native Sons (Frontier, 1984)
Sid Griffin’s Long Ryders (“The perfectly right band at the perfectly wrong time,”according to U.K. critic Johnny Black) paved the road for the alt-country legions who followed in the ‘90s. Taking Gram Parsons’ “cosmic American music” and applying it to the ragged sensibilities of the punk movement then flourishing in L.A., Native Sons (the Ryders’ second album) pointed the way for fans such as Uncle Tupelo and Whiskeytown, who would later found the alt-country nation on the bedrock of musical strands heard on this album.

OTHER NEEDLES IN THE PAISLEY HAYSTACK
TRUE WEST Hollywood Holiday (New Rose, 1983): produced by Wynn
LEAVING TRAINS Well Down Blue Highway (Bemisbrain/Enigma, 1984): produced by Roback
NAKED PREY Under The Blue Marlin (Frontier, 1986): produced by the Dream Syndicate’s Paul B. Cutler
CHRIS CACAVAS AND JUNKYARD LOVE Chris Cacavas And JunkYard Love (Heyday, 1989): a “supergroup” consisting of members of Green On Red, Opal, Long Ryders, Dream Syndicate and Rain Parade

—Corey duBrowa

Frank Black: Odd Ball

frank-black366Former Pixie and long-standing master of the obtuse, Frank Black evinces a small change by taking rock ‘n’ roll head-on. By Matthew Fritch

In a very cold, dank basement lit by a bare lightbulb, I’m at long last face-to-face with Frank Black. Alias Black Francis. Alias Charles Thompson. Alias Chuck. Notorious agent of the underground, complicated code-talker and former leader of a well-known organization responsible for sinister innovations like the “Bone Machine” and the “Wave Of Mutilation.”

A rusted instrument lies on the small table that separates us. A silent man with close-cropped blonde hair sits behind me lighting a succession of cigarettes. This is good. I’m thinking Marathon Man, I’m thinking I have ways of making him talk, I’m thinking … that I’m interrogating Frank Black with the fumbling ineptitude of Colonel Klink.

MAGNET: Throughout your career, you’ve sung in Spanish, French, German. What is it about foreign languages or phra—
Black: “Psycho killer! Qu’est que c’est! Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa …
MAGNET: Sure, but—
Black: “Mi-chelle, ma belle, sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble …
MAGNET: Point taken. Maybe another way of asking the question is what you find compelling about non-literal lyrics.
Black: You ever listen to a Beatles record? Why don’t we do it in the road? No one will be watching us. Why don’t we do it in the road? Birthday. You say it’s your birthday. Birthday, birthday, birthday.

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Stephen Malkmus: Being Stephen Malkmus

“I’m not what you think I am,” declares Stephen Malkmus on his post-Pavement solo debut. No, he’s not really Yul Brynner or the King Of Siam. But it’s still a wonderful life. By Jonathan Valania

I’m driving Stephen Malkmus’ car. In America, that’s tantamount to possessing someone’s soul. But wait, it gets better: I’m listening to Slanted And Enchanted—make that Malkmus’ copy of Slanted And Enchanted—and it sounds great as I tool down the sun-kissed streets of Portland, Ore., with the windows down and the stereo up. There’s a parking ticket flapping beneath the windshield wiper—and it bores me. I look around at all the people, and I just don’t care. Not a care, really, in the world. I am, for a moment, Stephen Malkmus, fortunate son. Listen to me, I’m on the stereo.

Actually, I’m driving Malkmus’ girlfriend’s car. Which you would know is even better if you’ve ever seen his girlfriend. Her name is Heather Larimer, and she’s beautiful and bright and 28. She was a cheerleader and she has a master’s degree in creative writing—a major-league summer babe (AOL Keyword: Babia Majora). By the time you read this, you may have already seen her singing in Malkmus’ new band, the Jicks. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s back up.

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Elliott Smith: Emotional Rescue

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If it’s true that only love can break your heart and that only a love song can help to mend it, then the fitter, happier and more productive Elliott Smith is healing by the thousands. By Jonathan Valania

With all due apologies to Nick Hornby, here are my desert-island, top five break-ups of all time:

5) Colleen Reese: Beautiful girl. I loved her with all my heart. To quote Weezer, we were good as married in my mind. Sadly, we never lasted past kindergarten. Break-up record: “Seasons In The Sun” by Terry Jacks.

4) Christine Thompson: Golden-haired Teutonic goddess. Because we were the tallest in our sixth-grade class, we always got seated together in the back. Somewhere along the way, she turned into a “bad girl” and got shipped off to Catholic school. Break-up record: “Come Sail Away” by Styx.

3) Tracy Stocker: Cute as a button, head majorette. I took her to the junior-high prom. Didn’t see her all summer, and my terminal shyness around girls forbade me from telling her I still liked her when we met up again in high school. She wound up going out with some jerk who wanted to kick my ass. I should’ve let him. Break-up record: Abbey Road by the Beatles.

2) Lynette Miller: Smart, sultry and voluptuous. High school sweethearts, we lost our virginity together. Probably should’ve married her, though I practically did, as we dated on and off for the next 15 years. Living together put an end to that. This just in: She said yes when the keyboardist in her band proposed onstage a few nights ago. Break-up record: “So. Central Rain” by R.E.M.

1) Jude Gillespie: Breathtaking, ruby-haired beauty with a heart as big as the great outdoors. Really should’ve married this one. She wanted to, but I was too wrapped up in my own bullshit, which is pretty much all she left me with. Break-up record: Figure 8 by Elliott Smith.

And now, it would seem, all my trains have left the station.

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Steve Earle: Runnin’ Down A Dream

steveearle47380Chased and cornered by his demons six years ago, Steve Earle is now almost impossible to pin down, MAGNET hits the road with the songwriter, label owner, political activist and literary hopeful. By Robert Baird

“You don’t like chocolate?” Steve Earle exclaims with genuine astonishment at Elisa Sanders, the label manager of his E-Squared Records. “Well, that’s like not liking fucking!”

It’s five minutes before Earle and his band, the Dukes, go onstage at The Belly Up in Solana Beach, Calif. Even though everyone in the group is a hardened road veteran—none more so than Earle—and this isn’t the biggest show the band will play on this tour, there’s still a touch of backstage jitters. The mention of the f-word triggers Earle’s legendary iconoclastic wit.

“You know,” he says, “Church Of Christ people never fuck standing up because they’re afraid someone might look in the window and think they’re dancing.”

As everyone doubles over with laughter, bassist Kelly Looney—who, with 12 years of service under his belt, is the senior Duke—moves to the food table and takes a swig of Gatorade. “You know, Gatorade tastes like boogers,” Looney says with mock seriousness. Inspired by a fresh wave of laughter, he continues. “And the best part of the gig was the boogers.”

Ah, backstage with Steve Earle: clean and sober, yes, but still a good time. Good times are, in fact, a major theme in Earle’s life these days, though you’ll have to excuse the man if he doesn’t pause to genuflect on the matter. He’s simply too busy making up for lost time.

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Daevid Allen: Magical History Tour

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For three decades, Daevid Allen has cast eccentric spells on prog rock, conjuring flying teapots and pothead pixies with such groups as Gong and Soft Machine. By Mitch Myers

Examining musician/poet/psychedelic survivor Daevid Allen’s uncommon life, the infamous premise of Brion Gysin’s cut-up method immediately comes to mind. In 1959, painter/writer Gysin cut newspaper articles into sections and rearranged them at random. Some of Gysin’s guerrilla art emerged as coherent, meaningful prose without the slightest bit of editing. Why does Gysin’s alien collage strategy bring to mind Allen, an aging renaissance man who most folks have never heard of? Three reasons. One is that Allen still shares Gysin’s appreciation for the French surrealist movement of the ‘20s. Second, Allen became friendly with Gysin while staying at the Beat Hotel in Paris in 1963. And finally, Allen himself is a cut-up, a merry prankster who repeatedly reminds us not to take life too seriously. When art consistently goes against the grain, it can be upsetting, revelatory, offensive, inspirational or just damn funny. In Allen’s case, it’s often all of the above.

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Mudhoney: Where Have All The Good Times Gone?

In the decade that’s passed since Mudhoney emerged as the Seattle beer barons of garage swing, grunge has shot through the charts and shot itself in the foot, the head and the arm. After three years of semi-retirement, Mudhoney reunites, playing to empty seats on the Pearl Jam tour. MAGNET tags along to share the last laugh. By Jonathan Valania

Camden, N.J.
Mudhoney is due to hit the stage in 30 seconds, and singer/guitarist Mark Arm is in the shitter. The rest of the band pull on their special stage costumes for this series of gigs with Pearl Jam: matching football jerseys that spell out M-U-D-H-O-N-E-Y when they stand side by side. The shirts are a response to Billy Corgan’s crack that the members of Mudhoney were probably jocks in high school. Guitarist Steve Turner glances down at his skinny-ass frame as if to say, “Not fucking likely!” Arm outs himself as a noseguard in high school. Drummer Dan Peters feigns a look of betrayal.

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David S. Ware: Saxophone Colossus

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Avant-garde saxophonist David S. Ware and his quartet represent a new breed of jazz players whose notes will reverberate into the next century. By Bill Meyer

Tenor saxophonist David S. Ware’s stormy, high-energy music encompasses the history of jazz. Enthuses Matthew Shipp, who plays piano in Ware’s quartet, “He’s one of the last of the Mohicans—there’s nobody in the world who has what he has. In one way, he embodies the whole tenor tradition; there’s the stream of John Coltrane and Albert Ayler in his playing, and all that represents. Then there’s the added dimension of the whole Sonny Rollins thing and the whole Rahsaan Roland Kirk thing, too. To my knowledge, there is nobody who has synthesized the whole tenor tradition in the way he has.”

This synthesis is the product of decades of hard work on the avant-garde fringe, work that’s come to fruition with the Columbia Records release of his quartet’s new album, Go See The World.

Ware was born in 1950 in Scotch Plains, N.J. “I was raised in a house where I heard music early on,” he recalls. “My father had all of these hundreds of 78 records: Illinois Jacquet, Billie Holiday, blues bands.” David came home from a fifth-grade band demonstration all set to play the drums, but his dad redirected him to the saxophone. “I guess that’s why I’m always going through one thing or another with drummers, because I would have been a drummer,” Ware says. “I always feel close to the drummers.”

Nonetheless, he took to the tenor saxophone, and within a couple years, he was exchanging letters with one of the instrument’s masters: Sonny Rollins. This correspondence developed into an informal apprenticeship. “When I was in seventh or eighth grade, he started writing me letters,” says Ware. “To make a long story short, it was basically around 1969 when I finally just told him, ‘Look man, I would like to play for you.’ So he invited me over to his apartment in Brooklyn. After that, we started hanging out and we started practicing together because he saw that I was a sincere individual. I was like 19 or 20 at the time. I used to tell his wife that this is like a little boy meeting Superman—it was a dream come true to be able to develop a relationship with him.”

Ware has followed Rollins’ example in several important ways. Like his idol, he’s a life-long student of his instrument—both men have taken years off from their public careers to practice their horn. Like Rollins, Ware has gone his own way regardless of what anyone has had to say about the music he plays. And both men, after a certain point, stopped working as sidemen in other people’s bands so they could focus on their own ideas.

Ware also took inspiration from other key players. A 1966 concert by Coltrane’s group with Pharoah Sanders was an example of how intense, energetic music could transport a listener into a state of spiritual ecstasy. “It really opened up something in me,” says Ware. “It made me want to keep going in whatever direction I was going in—it propelled me forward. I was just so very, very happy.” (You can hear some of this performance on Coltrane’s epic Live At The Village Vanguard Again! on Impulse.)

For 18 months in the mid-‘70s, Ware played with pianist Cecil Taylor, whose percussive approach meshed well with Ware’s rhythmic affinity. After Taylor, Ware worked for William Hooker, Andrew Cyrille, Beaver Harris and Milford Graves (all drummers) and started to develop his own band. In the early ‘80s, Ware toured Europe and recorded a couple of now-rare LPs, but for most of that decade, the only public place you could find him was in the driver’s seat of a New York City cab. He dropped out of the music scene to work undistracted on his craft, and the years of woodshedding are evident in his tireless stamina and unique instrumental voice. In his horn’s midrange, Ware gets a huge, grainy tone with a fluttering vibrato that gives his melodies emotional weight. His extended forays into the upper register leap from quicksilver squeals to complex split tones.

But Ware wasn’t just working on his own chops; he was developing a band concept. Many jazz musicians spend their whole careers playing in impermanent ad-hoc groupings, but since 1989, Ware has maintained a stable quartet that’s recorded 11 albums. Parker has been his bassist since the late ‘70s; Shipp has been with him since 1989; Susie Ibarra stepped into the drummer’s chair in 1996 (replacing Whit Dickey). Ware never sits in with other groups, preferring to stick to his own band.

“I really believe in that very strongly,” says Ware. “I think I’ve got enough music to deal with on my own; I don’t like to play under somebody else’s umbrella philosophically. I don’t know what they’re into. Yeah, it could be another payday—whatever, we all need money—but there are certain things that are more important to me than making money. That’s why I drove a cab for all those years, so I wouldn’t have to go through that. Miles Davis and Duke Ellington and Charlie Mingus—these people were institutions, their bands were institutions, a chance for players to come through there until they get it together. I think there needs to be more of that. I think isolation like that is good. Things get a chance to solidify, develop, and you get a chance to get thorough in a certain thing.”

“What David wants,” explains Shipp, “is a very deep level of communication where you don’t even have to talk a lot—things are just felt. He doesn’t like to teach you things; he really feels that if you don’t find a solution for yourself to a particular piece, whatever is the problem that is being worked out, that there’s no point for you to even be playing.”

“What he wants is for the music to be itself,” says Parker. “His concept is not telling you what to do. Hopefully, what you play will be the right thing.”

This method might sound haphazard, but the results are not. Each member of Ware’s quartet has a strong individual voice; by keeping the group together long enough for them to really know each other’s playing and his tunes, Ware has created a sonic force field that wields amazing power with terrifying precision. Each musician fulfills multiple functions and can change roles instantly. Shipp defines the tonal architecture, but he also batters out great rhythm blocks. Ibarra’s cymbals and gongs create near-orchestral textures, but her swinging stick work is also the gas flame that heats Ware to the boiling point. Parker’s tightly knotted plucking erects an abstract but structurally essential scaffolding for his leader’s forays, but he can redirect a piece with the irresistible gravity of his bowed solos. The point of all this effort, as Ware sees it, is simply to play improvised music with care and trained intuition instead of random indulgence.

“I want to see this music have the attention that it deserves,” he says. “Now that means that if it gets the attention that it deserves, it should be worthy, it has to be together. I want to see the music in its correct position of influence, of prestige. This should be a music that’s held in high esteem. It’s not. It’s totally misunderstood by musicians and listeners alike. There needs to be more education about what’s going on in the music—the philosophical side of it and the musical side of it. All of these things need to be brought out, but no one’s going to listen to you anyway if you’re not held in high esteem. Us being on Columbia is part of that. It’s part of the music rising to its correct position.”

The quartet’s recent signing to Columbia is an event so flabbergasting that it could make an atheist believe in angels. Although the label once issued influential recordings by Miles Davis and Charles Mingus, its main contribution to the past 20 years of jazz is Wynton Marsalis, a solid technician whose neo-conservative vision aspires to turn the music into a museum piece. One aspect of this neo-conservative agenda has been a concerted effort to deny that what the quartet plays is jazz at all. Ironically, it was Wynton’s brother, Branford—in his first act as a creative consultant for Columbia’s jazz division—who signed the band.

Go See The World shows no signs of external tampering; instead, it captures the group at the top of its interactive game. “When you look at what else constitutes major-label jazz,” says Shipp, “it’s such a joke that it’s actually kind of funny that we’re there. Basically, this is a chance to be a terrorist and assault the major-label jazz world, which I hold in complete disdain.”

Ware takes a less inflammatory view. “It is a prestigious thing to be on Columbia,” he says. “It has a long history, and to be part of that is an accomplishment in itself for me on a personal level. I hope that our success will bring something to this avant-garde part of music. Because it needs all the help that it can get.”

Elliott Smith: Down On The Upside

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Somewhere between acquiring a broader musical palette and bouts of Oscar madness, Elliott Smith has become an unlikely pop star. And he did it all by himself. By Matthew Fritch

“Hi, this is Elliott Smith and it’s been 10 years. Congratulations.” As the video camera’s red light flickers out, Smith shoots a wry, sideways grin at me, obviously amused at the multimedia invasion (well, me and the guy with the camera) going on in his dressing room. He’s just flatly delivered his line for a promotional spot marking the anniversary of the venue where he’s performing tonight.

Smith shakes his head. “It’s strange,” he says. “Ever since I got here, they’ve been asking me to do that. I’ve never even been here before.”

Lately, we’ve been seeing Smith in all the unfamiliar places: the Academy Awards, MTV, Entertainment Weekly. And now gracing the cover of a plush, orchestrated pop record for the DreamWorks mega-label.

XO is the album, and its compositions appropriately conjure the intimacy of handwritten notes, heartwarming and heartsick sentiments and, of course, hugs and kiss-offs to lovers, friends and those who just don’t understand. Whether Smith’s migration from Portland, Ore., to Brooklyn last year had any inspirational effect is a question that doesn’t need asking; New York City is imprinted upon the record like a silent partner’s songwriting credit, lyrically hovering in the background alongside the cosmopolitan touches of piano, strings and brass arrangements. It’s safe to say that no one will call XO a folk record.

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Lisa Germano: Geek Love

Lisa Germano has been a sad, sad girl. Lucky for us, she swings moods, misfortunes and malaise into songs that make us hurt so good. By Jason Ferguson

Preconceptions abound about Lisa Germano. The most prevalent is the one that’s always prefaced by “John Mellencamp’s fiddle player” and closes with “she’s really sad.” And, in as much as both of these statements are currently untrue, so are all the assumptions in between. Germano has come a long way since her Bloomington, Ind., upbringing hurled her into a very small corner of pop culture’s spotlight with her most famous neighbor.

“Yeah, a lot has happened,” says Germano mock seriously, “I got my hair cut.”

Indeed, the long tresses this skinny girl from Indiana used to hide behind on stage are gone, replaced with a short hairdo that nearly borders on “perky.” And, as superfluous as it may seem, those locks may have symbolically held as much sway as an inverse Samson.

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