LIARS!
21st Century Neanderthal: The Evolution of The Liars
By Danny Fasold
Photo: Joe Dilworth, 2007
I can still remember the day when I opened up the reviews section of Spin and saw that they’d rated The Liars’ second album, They Were Wrong, So We Drowned, with the worst grade possible. There is was, staring back at me with an alarming intensity: An F. Big and fat and bold. This was quite a feat, since even Kid Rock had managed to earn higher marks in the pages of what was supposedly America’s reigning ‘alternative’ magazine. Rolling Stone hadn’t thought so highly of the album either, basically writing it off as nothing more than a trough of pretentious trite. Basically, the album was a total failure. At least in the eyes of America’s premiere music magazines.
“It was tough because we really believed in that record,” says Liars frontman Angus Andrews. “But at the same time it was really very interesting because it created a lot of discussion between people. There were people who were choosing sides. I suppose one of the best things in the world that you can look forward to when you put something out is that there will be an argument about it, and I think that’s a positive thing. So on that level we succeeded. When we heard that people didn’t understand it, I think we felt that they just needed more time, not us.” ...More
Rockin’ the Rink With the D.C. Roller Girls
By: Heidi Snoots
Photo: Armand Emamdjomeh
The portrait of today’s athlete is a turbulent one, at best. If we’re not reading about Major Leaguers skirting around being hopped up on ’roids, then we’re reading about those wrapped up in sleazy sex scandals that require a hearty brain-scrubbing afterward. As ticket prices for events continue to skyrocket, egos and paychecks flare faster than sprained ankles in the last second of a final quarter. There’s optimism to be found in team-funded, adult sports leagues, though, be it soccer, lacrosse, flag football … the list goes on. However, what if you were never conventionally sports minded? Just ask any of the ladies on any of the 4 teams that currently make up the Washington, D.C. Women’s Roller Derby League—they can most likely empathize.
Now, Urbancode certainly does not uphold itself as a sports outlet, and though I’m a Yankees fan—unabashedly—I’ve never had aspirations to be a sports writer. However, after spending an afternoon with the unreserved Roller Derby ladies at their final regular season bout, I realized two things. It would be unjust to simply shade the Roller Derby under the umbrella of “sports.” More specifically, the Roller Girls are not just “athletes.” This league requires so much more than simply strategizing their way around the floor. In fact, according to Scare Force One’s Condolezza Slice, “[Roller Derby] is an art form.” ...More
Bar-lit Ranting with Mike Maloney
By James Mitchell
Photo courtesy James Maloney
The three-song sampler Mike carries around with him is quiet; acoustic, warm, and stunningly full for such sparse instrumentation, the untitled disc sketches the idealized singer-songwriter alone at a microphone. It’s label-worthy and radio-ready, but I’m not too sure Mike is.
Just a few weeks after this interview, Mike looks up from his guitar on a typical Wednesday night at Clarendon’s Iota, where he hosts a very popular open mic. “Before I go,” he pauses and points down to the stack of samplers at his feet with urgency, “I’ve got some CDs, with a lot of the songs you heard tonight, and they’re free!” He looks up and covers his eyes, strumming here and there. “And I hope you come grab one. Not that you couldn’t just go to Myspace and find me.” Some people laugh. “I know, right? Myspace. We all hate it.”
Someone shouts back, “We all use it anyway!”
“Ha,” Mike laughs with the rest of the crowd, “Yeah, we all gotta use it,” he mumbles into the microphone before moving into his bluesiest number, “Brickyard for a Garden”. He closes the thirty minute set on a somber, brooding note, as one or two people quietly find their way to his feet to pick up a copy of the CD. Perhaps everyone else is just going to go to Myspace.
Weeks earlier, we’re at Solly’s off U Street. Mike Maloney wouldn’t have picked this place (he was invited for a show), but it made sense for our schedules, and I’ve been trying to get him on tape for weeks now. We had met a few times before, at his regular stomping grounds in Clarendon: Iota and Galaxy Bar. And then there were the shots of Patrón one off Saturday night at 18th Street Lounge, where Maloney bartends. ...More
Oompa Loompas on Parade
The Phantasmagoria of Jennifer Gentle
By Danny FasoldPhoto: Courtesy Jennifer Gentle Myspace
So now psychedelic music isn’t the sort of shtick everybody can get into. I mean, honestly, do you really expect that eighteen minute jam/drone by Can with that Japanese singer of theirs wailing on and on like a Tourettes-stricken beatnik demanding answers from the sky to really catch waves? Well then, get over yourself. It’s been thirty-six years and still no one knows what the hell band you’re talking about.
Now there—there’s just the thing about psychedelic music, what I just now said. Eighteen minutes. That’s how long Can’s “Halleluhwah” lasts. That’s how long a whole lot of psychedelic music lasts when you really get down to it, and while these kinds of tunes can weird out helpless bystanders more successfully than dangling your bare toosh in public, a lot of it amounts to no more than a bunch of crazy, overly long, mind-raping sludge. This may be good for some (I myself am itching for a listen of “Halleluhwah” after having ranted about it for a good two paragraphs), but it can be…er, well…a bit of a trial for others. I mean, really, how many people will willfully subject themselves to excruciatingly long periods of cacophonous noise while looking deeply inward to their own bare naked souls? Hippies excluded, not many.
All the more reason why Jennifer Gentle is an irregularity (And before I go any further, let me just stop and say that Jennifer Gentle is not a girl, but actually a band. From Italy. There. I’ve gotten that one out of the way. Let’s move on then.). Here you have true bare-to-the-bones psychedelic music—strange and shrieking and schizophrenic—but compressed into neat little three-to-four-minute pop ditties which are not only short and sweet, but also playful. There are no strange journeys of the inner being here, no transcendental guidance—just a whole lot of wild and crazy noise. At times, the noise sounds almost like twee, albeit of a particularly odd brand. Alongside other psychedelic artists who prefer to dwell in worlds of backwards guitar and sitar and twisted epic journeys, these guys are something to behold. ...More
Singles over Albums, Business over Art:
Has the singles driven market killed the artistry in Rap?
By Daryl Nelson
Since rap music’s inception, artists have been primarily judged by the quality and content of their album. Fans typically waited the year or two that it required for rappers to be inspired, then eagerly headed to local record stores to purchase their favorite MC’s musical contribution. However, music-times have vastly changed and an artist having an exceptional album is no longer mandatory for commercial or critical success. Due to the abrupt birth of ring tones and also competing with the digital age, album sales have plummeted to an all time low; while ring tones and single downloads contain a perpetual ascension. Fans and industry insiders alike have attributed this decline in record sales partially to a lack of artistry among recent albums in exchange for rapidly created and released singles. Other genres such as Rock, Country, and Dance music also suffer through the mp3 age, but the importance of the actual artistry and boundary pushing have not been compromised to fit today’s mass production style of creating music. Exclusively, Rap music has suffered the most significant shift in terms of its approach of making music, and continues to make strong efforts to “dumb down” its content, while other genres are still able to maintain its musical integrity. This is done to keep up with the short-lived life of a Hip-Hop single. Most rap singles have a radio life of 2 to 3 months, so songs must be easily digestible, without too much for the listener to ponder. It has always been a challenge for the music industry to except Hip-Hop music as actual art that isn’t disposable, and now many rappers have adopted this same industry viewpoint. ...More
Reeling in the Rain with MGMT and Yeasayer
by Danny Fasold
MGMT Photo courtesy MGMT Myspace
It’s one of those piss-poor rainy nights,
practically a deluge of January water droplets pelting our bodies as
they wrap around the building, and as usual, scarcely anyone has an
umbrella. After all, this is Los Angeles. Rain is practically a myth.
But not right now. Right now we’re all soaked from our heads to our
shoulders and wishing rain truly was a myth. But no matter. We’re
almost inside—we’re almost there!
Such is the atmosphere at the
Echoplex as I’m waiting in line to see MGMT and Yeasayer, two
up-and-coming rock bands from Brooklyn whose buzz has vibrated the
blogospheres more and more lately. I’m only faintly familiar with both
of them, but hey, it’s a Saturday night in L.A. and music just seems
like such a happening escape from the rain right now, so here I am, all
umbrella-less and wet and ready to rock.
When my small retinue and I
finally make it inside, the opening act of the night—some raucous indie
band whose name I never do learn—is finishing up. I like them well
enough. As the band clears the stage, we make our way to the bar for
refreshments. By the time we’re finishing our beers, Yeasayer is ready
to go on and it’s "let the games begin."
I like Yeasayer right off
the bat. What makes them so endearing, besides their music, is the fact
that they don’t seem to give a flying fuck about what their audience
thinks of them. Their game is head-trips. Under their presence, you
will be teased, prodded and toyed with. Never is this more apparent
than when lead singer Chris Keating—who plays the smug Brooklyn-boy
hipster look to a tee—asks the crowd with a shit-eating grin, "So, how
many wannabe actors are here tonight?" The crowd’s response? A couple
of scores of boos and one guy with a buzz-cut standing just three feet
away from me saying (and I kid you not), "That’s me you’re talking
about—look at me! You’re not looking at me!"
As far as their music
went—well—that part rocked. Something along the lines of Beach Boys
meets Kraftwerk meets a whole lotta soul, their songs were every inch
as psychedelic and vibrant as music should be. But the real highlight
of the set came when Keating hurled a maraca into the audience at the
end one of his songs, inadvertently blasting some poor girl square in
the head. Minutes later, the sound guy interrupts the band mid-song to
alert the band of their folly.
"Is she dead," asks a wide-eyed Keating.
"What?!" shouts somebody from the back.
"No, really," Keating says. "We’re serious. Is she dead?"
"No, man. How the fuck are you going to say something like that?! What’s wrong with you?!"
Moments
later, the guys in front of me (which include the aforementioned
buzz-cut-sporting wannabe actor) proceed to hurl a mix of insults and
water bottles at the band. For a moment, I’m practically expecting a
Brian Jonestown kind of scenario to go down, bar brawls and kicked-in
teeth and all, but the tension finally eases up after Yeasayer starts
playing again, and slowly, the guys in front of me disperse.
Yeasayer
shuffle off at the end of their set uttering whole-hearted apologies,
their singer wearing the same look on his face that you’d see on some
pre-pubescent punk who’s just gotten caught with his hand in the cookie
jar, and a half hour later, MGMT takes to the stage.
Now here was a
whole other beast entirely. Like Yeasayer, MGMT’s game is psychedelia,
but their songs are more inclusive, tinged with that bubbly sort of
feel-good sunshine rhythm that you can’t help but dance to. And sure
enough, everyone does just that. Next to me, the large, oafish looking
guy who wouldn’t know a beat from his left foot—even he’s swaying to
the disco light come the house-party beats of "Time to Pretend," easily
the band’s most radio-friendly gemstone to date.
Songs like "Future
Reflections" and "4th Dimensional Transition" pulsate like they were
birthed on the dark side of the moon, a sound that’s only lime-lighted
by singer/guitarist Andrew Van Wyngarden’s quivering Wayne Coyne-like
falsetto. At the end of their set, Wyngarden and his partner-in-crime,
Ben Goldwasser (who’s clad in black leotard pants, a wife beater and a
rockin’ sweatband—work-out style, baby!) bust out their Karaoke party
tricks to their dance-anthem "Kids" while the rest of the band takes a
backseat.
"We want to party with you all tonight," says a starry-eyed Wyngarden at the apex of the song.
As
my friends and I venture out of the club and back into the rain, I hear
a girl near the bar exclaim excitedly to anyone listening, "Those guys
are going to be huge!" And though I’m usually a rather contentious guy,
especially when it comes to all things music, in this case I happen to
agree. We want to party with you too, MGMT.
The Gay Blades: 2008’s Jesters of the Indie Rock Court
By: Heidi Snoots
There are moments when I am in the car, or out at the local dive, or even just hanging out at the front of the stage before a show and I’ll hear a song that manages to entrench itself into my audio memory, only to rehash itself when I hear it again months later. I am constantly inundated with music—of course, I allow myself to be. However, oftentimes, it happens so fast, I've forgotten to inquire about the song's title, or the band's name and/or point of origin. Well, last fall I was out somewhere and remember having a "moment" with the song "O Shot" by the New Jersey duo The Gay Blades.
I remember feeling this insistent need to move my neck and hips in sync with this power-crooner’s voice at the forefront of these super tight, systematic, pounding drums. These two elements seemed to be simultaneously complimenting a blatantly sassy, strong, indie-esque crunching guitar. The bass line wasn't too bad, either, and there were moments in the song that I felt even gave brief nod to the genre they are frequently associated with—Glam Rock. I had to find out who these guys were. It wasn’t until early February that they came up in discussion. It was as if a light bulb came on and instantly it was like I was remembering an old kindergarten friend. Needless to say, I turned to You Tube.
Though The Gay Blades aren't flashy in the sense of gallivanting around in metallic stretch pants, lead singer Clark Westfield certainly provides enough spastic movement on stage to qualify the band as a glam act. Drummer Puppy Mills, however, is content on watching Westfield, every now and then shooting looks and nods of approval while maintaining a steady, constant stream of structured, clean thrashing. I finally got a chance to witness this sort of musical exorcism on March 5 at the Washington, D.C. venue, DC9. I was not disappointed in the least. In between songs, Westfield chose to kid along with the crowd, making jokes about himself and the after-work crowd. He made remarks about a loud, boisterous man from New Jersey who seemingly insisted on making the evening all about him, rather than the band on stage. The crowd provided Westfield the indulgence of thunderous laughing and a collective rolling of the eyes toward the obnoxious man.
After seeing the band, I decided I needed to hear the album. The entirety of their 2007 release, “Ghosts,” is equal parts cohesive as it is bipolar. Though it starts out with the pelvic thrusting that is “O Shot,” Westfield shows he's got soul on the track devoted to relationship misunderstandings—"You're a Garbage Barge, I'm a Dreamboat." No, this song isn't about breaking up, or hating the person you broke up with, but like with most of their misleading song titles, it’s about trying to figure out how to make sense of a new love’s body and verbal communication. Westfield even becomes a little vulnerable and in need of some gratification and reassurance during the somewhat angst-y "Compliments Can Kill." His drippy, poignantly-pop voice proves successful here in both instances, and definitely allows us to rethink the rest of Westfield's quirks, like his onstage performance.
With this band, don't get too comfy with the frills that the studio effort provides its listeners. Like their sense of humor, they dangle their marketing and sound sensibilities in your face, only to show you its bare bones on stage. The synthesizers, bass and additional vocals, besides the sometimes chiding of Mills, are absent during the live shows. It's just a thundering guitar and the base drum riffs for these two and those who choose to spend an evening with them. This two-man approach, though, certainly does not take anything away from their overall sound. In fact, they still sound larger than two dudes on a stage. And it adds to their intrigue and credibility of being professionals, no matter how goofy they want you to think they are.
I had the opportunity to interview the band recently. Like I’ve alluded to, they offer up idiosyncratic answers to questions asked of them in interviews. That was OK for me, though, as I had prepared myself for this kind of banter from them. What their music and their answers revealed was that they are trying to inject genres that have become explicitly serious in lyrical nature (i.e., too political, too much lover’s remorse) with some light reflected from a different angle. Some might look at this as some PR stunt, but by taking this approach they are allowing their music to take the helm. The Gay Blades aren't signed to a record label yet, which I think might be a good fit for them at the moment. They are playing the music that they want, they are projecting themselves the way they want, and they want you to give it a go at figuring them out.
Heidi Snoots: Who, or what, was the mastermind behind the Big Bang leading to the forming of The Gay Blades?
The Gay Blades: It's a funny story. Puppy Mills was working at an unnamed package delivery company … as one of their internal airline pilots. At the same time, Clark Westfield was working driving the stair-car over at Newark Airport. One day after drinking lunch (as pilots often do), Puppy had the misfortune of taking off with the stair-car still attached to the plane. In between take-off and the following emergency landing, we became fast friends. Minutes after the emergency landing (and subsequent firings), we decided that the fast-paced world of package delivery was not for us, and set our sights on the entertainment industry. That day, The Gay Blades were born (and placed on no-fly lists everywhere).
HS: On your most recent release, “Ghosts,” there is a huge range of sound—sometimes in your face, sometimes pleading with the audience. Why is this?
TGB: Because people should be actively listening to music instead of playing it softly in the background while studying for their physical therapy finals. There are a lot of ins, a lot of outs and a lot of what-have-yous on this record. People should be listening to it at full volume, trying to decipher the whispers buried deep in the loud songs, and trying to figure out which of our Myspace friends the softer songs are written about.
HS: So, from what I've read about you two and from what I've seen on your You Tube vids, you seem to adopt this really charismatic, explosive stage persona. What does this stem from?
TGB: Mostly amphetamines and grain alcohol. And most of the live show dialogue is stolen from the scraps on writing-room floors of popular television shows. Let's just say we have some "people on the inside" over at the WGA [Writers Guild of America], and now that the writers’ strike is over and “Lost” and “The Office” are back on the air, you can expect a whole bunch of new live show banter. It's really quite scary to think where we'd be today without having J.J. Abrams in our proverbial pocket.
HS: The next stop after your D.C. show at DC9 is the underground hangout The Crayola House in Virginia. How'd you guys hear about or get invited to play there?
TGB: Every Sunday
night, after “The Simpsons” and “Family Guy” is over, we watch “Kiss the Girls”
twice in a row before we go to sleep. One night, during an electrical storm,
the power went out, and after finishing out the movie line-by-line between the
two of us, we decided that we wanted to play a show in the basement where they
shot a lot of that movie. After a (very long) futile search, we decided to find
a place that was as similar as possible to that setting. We posted ads on Craigslist,
in papers, on breakdowns and publications nationwide, and one place kept
getting suggested: The Crayola House. So we contacted them, and after
completing the very painful and brutal Crayola House initiation (which they
adopted from the Bapedi tribe of South Africa), we were finally
allowed passage on to their hallowed stage. This show better be worth it, or we
want our missing skin back!
HS: I think a lot of people who are fans
of your music want me to ask this: You guys are a really polished, complete
indie-darling package, so why the hell aren't you signed yet?!
TGB: Believe us, we have been pursued by all the shiniest labels with the best-looking A&R guys you've ever seen. But the truth is, we're waiting for our perfect fit; our 'glass slipper' if you will. All we know is that we need to get that special deal inked by 12:01 a.m. on New Year’s 2009, or our instruments will turn back into vegetables, and our genitals will turn back into the greasy food that rotates in those spinning grills on 7-11 counters nationwide.
HS: Where do you two see The Gay Blades by the end of this year? Maybe in the studio for another masterpiece?
TGB: Actually yes, we plan to be in the studio working on our next full-length album by the end of the year. We are currently working out the details for securing time at a little-known recording studio inside "Space Mountain: Mission 2" in Paris, France. As a result of low theme-park attendance, Disney has opened most of the individual facilities at Disneyland: Paris for private lease to keep their international income from dipping too low. So keep your ears open, because if things work out, you'll be able to hear the faint sound of minimally-occupied roller coasters in the background of our next record.
Have you not seen or heard of these guys before? Interested to know how cute they are, or whether or not Clark Westfield contorts his face to match his fancy foot work while belting out such anthems as "Why Can't I grow a Beard?” If you missed their DC9 performance, then check out The Gay Blades' performance of "Bob Dylan's 115th Nightmare" as performed at Rider University:
Visit The Gay Blades on their Myspace page: www.myspace.com/gayblades
Photo Courtesy Eyeball Records.