Familiar Music For The Future

It seems like only yesterday (it WAS yesterday, is why) that I was walking around "the office" bitching about how much I hate it when hip-hop acts perform with live bands.  Well.  Clearly, an exception must be made.


These guys are Death Grips.  The drummer is the dude from Hella.  They're probably my favorite thing as of Right Now (1:38 PST, July 17 2011) and they can Do No Wrong.  You should probs hurry over to their website, which hosts a ton of amazing videos and a free download of their mixtape, Exmilitary.


What will you be getting?  Oh, I'm so glad you asked.


You'll be getting scorched earth lyricism ("Secret order, elitist horde of creeping fire, seizing power, riders of the lupus hour") that still manages to be uplifting and energizing (in a bleak, desperately fucked way).  You'll be getting totally dusted beats and giant walls of avant-noise.  And you'll be getting some SERIOUSLY intense performances... like Wu-Tang Clan turned up five notches or M.O.P. turned down two.  Some lesser scribe said Exmilitary was like getting yelled at by a hobo for forty-five minutes, and I think that was supposed to be some kind of insult.  Whatever, square.


This is a rich, deep album.  Despite the overall theme of tooth-grinding intensity, there's a surprising amount of tonal variation in the songs. Sure, it's mostly neck-snapping Break Shit Music, but Death Grips also tackle moments of existential contemplation, wild joy, and even bravery and dignity. Also, these dudes (and lady) are exactly the kind of Pop Music Obsessives I want making beats.  Sampling Black Flag and The Doors and The Crazy World of Arthur Brown?  Building a whole song out of Link Wray's "Rumble"?  Fuck yes please and thank you.

If you think you can live without an album that references both EPMD and The Minutemen, you are clearly the Greatest Fool In The World, and I can do nothing for you.  The only sane response to Exmilitary is to send Death Grips all yr money and begin holding yr breath for the proper album release.  I want a West Coast tour ASAP.

Anytime, Cowboy.

There is a question that every practitioner of the rockwrite has learned to fear:  "So, who's your FAVORITE BAND?"

On its surface, this query is innocence itself.  All I do around this joint is opine about musics.  Surely there must be one I like the best... the toppermost of the poppermost, as the Limeys like to say.  It should pose no trouble at all to name that Blessed One... hell, one might even expect such action to give me PLEASURE.

But.  Such things are not simple.  Such things are not Clean Cut.  After a few decades of immersion in The Rock Game, most scribes find their tastes becoming... mercurial, I suppose.  Rather than One True Love, we find a series of dalliances, changing our affections to fit a certain mood or fancy.

All of which is a lot of poncey bullshit cooked up to keep from answering a question that you, in all honesty, did not ask:  Who is my favorite band?  Well, this is where things get awkward (it is?).  Because I must now admit (in mixed company) that my favorite band (at least twenty percent of the time) is a bunch of racist, misogynist, homophobic cowboy art-punks.  From Scotland.  Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you... The Country Teasers.

Calm down.  Be still.  Cease your sputtering, "What... do you mean to say... how can you... are YOU... if... but then... ARE THEY REALLY?!"  Yes.  They are.  And no.  Or, at least, not entirely.

Perhaps singer/guitarist/mastermind Ben Wallers puts it best when he says "There is no bias on my hates... I will pick you all off, one by one, as you walk through the gates."  Or perhaps he puts it best when he says "We are the Hitler of comedy, and everybody else is the Jew."  Or perhaps "Personally I think, and this is just my point of view, ALL HUMAN LIFE SHOULD BE DESTROYED."  

The Country Teasers exist in that magical place where one is so exhausted by the horrors of the world that a sob turns into a hysterical laugh.  Where, upon viewing the grand agonies and tiny tortures that humans visit upon each other daily in the guise of "civilization", one sneers, takes a sip of whiskey, and says, "Aw, fuck it, what the hell."  And then begins to laugh, long and loud and clear.

So, can one fault an artist for holding up a mirror to society if the reflection is TOO ACCURATE?  TOO UGLY?  Not when the artist is HILARIOUS.  For such are The Country Teasers.  All this misanthropy and gloom would be indescribably tedious if handled with po-faced seriousness  (Michael Gira, I'm looking at you) or fake-macho aggression (Whitehouse, I'm looking at you), but the Country Teasers remember the cardinal rule of Being Offensive:  You can get away with anything as long as you're funny.

So, what have we got here?  Why, it's my own primitive stab at a Teasers Career Retrospective... a "Best Of," if you will.  No, it cannot hope to capture the full glory of their vision.  No, it cannot give a proper accounting of the subtle nuances (yes I said it shut up) that allow their songs to transcend shock comedy for the realm of the absurd, the triumphant, and (yes, even) the tender.

To business.  First album, The Pastoral Not Rustic World Of Their Greatest Hits gives us a cover ("Stand By Your Man", which is always a chortle when a bloke sings it), a pseudo-cover ("Black Cloud Wandering"), and a stone-cold fucking classic ("Anytime, Cowboy") which serves as fine advice for any young couple hoping to manufacture a happy relationship in These Modern Times.  The lads are in basic art-garage-country mode on this one.  A fine effort, but it pales in comparison to...

Satan Is Real Again or Feeling Good About Bad Thoughts is what we in the trade call "A Fucking Masterpiece".  Choosing which songs to share on this behemoth is a challenge for which my drinks-addled brain is not well prepared.  You are receiving "Panty Shots", "It Is My Duty" (which has the above bit about Hitler in it, along with loads of other chuckles), and "Thank You God For Making Me An Angel" (which blatantly rips off Joy Division and is probs my favorite Teasers song of all time).  I could have given you anything else off the album and you'd thank me for it.  Find yrself a copy posthaste, and get me another bottle of rye while yr at it.  Something seems to have happened to mine.

Destroy All Human Life is next, and it marks the point at which the few critics who bothered to show up started shitting on Our Boys.  No, it's not a career-defining pinnacle like Satan, but it DOES feature a sort of thoughtful melancholy that would help the band to escape the horror/shock corner they were in danger of painting themselves into.  I have, of course, chosen to showcase exactly NONE of the gorgeous heartbreak jams ("David, I Hope You Don't Mind" and "Golden Apples" are both weepy stunners that I can perhaps play you if you want to come over some night with a bottle of something medicinal).  INSTEAD:  "Hairy Wine" (about the dangers of being a stupid junkie), "Destroy All Human Life" (which showcases a burgeoning experimental vibe that would, along with the moodier numbers, keep this shit fresh for Ages Yet To Come [it is also possibly The Teasers' most offensive song yet, if yr keeping score]) and "Song Of The White Feather Club" (mainly for the bit where Wallers announces his intention to play the "KKK Klassic, 'Even My Shites Is Whites Whites Whites'".)

Science Hat Artistic Cube Moral Nosebleed Empire (nice album titles, fellas) is a singles comp that I bought on double vinyl after watching The Country Teasers share the stage with Wesley Willis and a Burlesque Troupe from Seattle.  While the heathen tough-guy assholes in Seattle chose to heckle the ladies, The Teasers proved to be perfect gentlemen, eventually coercing several of the scantily-clad lovelies onto the stage during The Teasers' set.  "Let's Have A Shambles" is a pretty standard Country Teasers jam about having sex in a public lavatory, "I'm A New Person Ma'am" is a personal favorite but won't play on my computer... maybe you'll have better luck?  Oh, and here's a cover of "No Limits" by techno-jock-jam favorites 2 Unlimited.  Giggles.

 Recorded entirely on 4-track, Secret Weapon Revealed At Last received a whopping 3.1 rating from the stupid cunts over at Pitchfork.  While easily the least cohesive (and coherent) record in The Country Teasers discography (a good portion of it is so fucked and experimental as to be almost unlistenable), it does feature some BRILLIANT material.  "Deaths" is perhaps the most touching song Ben Wallers has ever written (about the deaths of early Teasers guitarist Alan Crichton and Wallers' Aunt Pen), while "Please Stop Fucking Each Other" and "Man V. Cock" are both hilarious and expertly recorded.  And "The penis mocks the soul for not fucking around more," is an amazing lyric.

So, here we are, almost caught up (there's a newish split 12-inch out that I've been too poor to import).  The Empire Strikes Back finds The Country Teasers back in prime form... it's easily their best record since Satan.  "Spiderman In The Flesh" cops from Pink Floyd while painting a masterful portrait of postmodern alienation and ennui (perhaps I WILL have a bit more whiskey, thank you!).  "Points of View" ties together Zyklon B, English Football, and toast to scorchingly incisive effect.  Finally (whew!) "Please Ban Music/Gegen Alles" praises "The woman-loving Taliban" for their progressive stance against noise pollution while urging the listener,  "Do not conform to type, and don't mock the avant-garde.  You only mock the avant-garde... because it's a bit too hard."


And with that, I take my leave of you.  Thanks for yr patience.  A terrific interview with Wallers is HERE.  Good night.

Child Eating Demon Queen

While I was at work the other day, I noticed a CD sitting around with the word "Rangda" on the cover, spelled out by the roots of a particularly spooky tree.  Enticed by the spooky, I gave it th' old once-over.

"Harrumph.  Rangda is the NAME OF THE BAND?  That's terrible.  It's a nonsense word.  They're probably hippies.  What a waste of a spooky tree."

With that, I turned the thing over.  I found myself confronted by a photograph of the band in mid "rock-out".  "Feh.  They look like an all-dad blues band.  Who the hell are these jokers OH SHIT THAT'S SIR RICHARD BISHOP."  For indeed it was the guy from legendary avant-noise-arabic-art-weirdos Sun City Girls on guitar.  And the other guitar?  Ben Chasny, from likewise big-deal art-weirdos Six Organs of Admittance.  Oh, and the drummer's some dude named Chris Corsano, who plays with meaningless nobodies like Thurston Moore and Nels Cline and Sunburned Hand of The Man and... look, if yr MOM was in a free-improv noise band in New York in the last ten years, he probs played with her, too.


So, yeah, I grabbed it.  And it's great.  Pretty much what you'd expect (if you were expecting three dudes just TACKLING their instruments for about forty-five minutes).  Epic, shrieking walls of noise and drum abuse alternate with quiet, contemplative pools of gentle plucking and brushed snares.  Sometimes it's sweeping waves of high-end scree, sometimes it's the vague desert motif of "Bull Lore" which sounds like a free-noise version of "Hotel California".  Except, y'know... GOOD.


And "Rangda" isn't a nonsense word after all.  It's the name of a Balinese Demon Queen (above left) who eats children and leads an army of witches against the forces of good.  Which means I should probably take a seminar on Balinese Cultural Literacy, but my stupid job doesn't offer one.  God, they're so backward.  I mean, what century IS this? 


For yr consumption:  th' aforementioned "Bull Lore" and "Serrated Edges," the most... um, NUANCED of the batshit noise assault tracks.

Artist & Creator

 
The gentleman hiding behind the tote bag is David Liebe Hart.  He is an actor/comedian/musician/public access host.  He has appeared on such television programs as "Good Times," "What's Happening," and "Tim And Eric Awesome Show Great Job."  He recently performed in Portland, Oregon at Valentine's, and I was lucky enough to attend.


It was a bit of an odd night.

Bearing in mind that this was some of that "outsider art" that people go on about, I showed up an hour late, hoping to bypass at least one of the opening acts.  Unless they are legitimately nuts themselves, the class of people who get roped into opening for this sort of thing are either half-assed "experimental" "artists" or annoyingly unfunny "comedy" acts.   My luck running true to form, there was one of each on the menu, and no, I hadn't managed to miss them.


The first act was called "Sustentacula" (I know, right?) and it was one of those two-dudes-and-a-ton-of-gear-making-white-noise propositions, which is usually fine with me as long as the set stays under twenty minutes.  Unfortunately, one of those dudes (I think his name is Dude With Beard) started singing.


He had one of those affected, pseudo-folky, Neutral Milk Hotel/Decemberists kind of voices, and the fact that he was singing over a bunch of atonal electric gurgles meant that he didn't really have to stick to any sort of melody, instead opting to intone lyrics like "Fish tale mammary inside the pelvic womb, impale the menstrual heart June cocoon."  Not exactly, but you get the idea.  He'd also get up occasionally from his bank of whoosh-makers and do some preposterous performance-arty antics... hopping on one foot while windmilling his arms, or leaning backwards while flapping his lyric sheets like flippers and then scowling.  That sort of crap.


It was while he was doing this second bit that something amusing actually happened.  When Dude With Beard finished flapping his lyric fins, he tossed them "contemptuously" toward the audience, then sat back down at the Gurgle Controls.  At this, David Liebe Hart LEAPED to his feet and scrambled over to pick up the lyric sheets.  He carefully dusted them off, stacked them neatly, and placed them on top of DWB's stack of gear.  It was great.  DWB is trying to be all "I'm a Supes Intense Artist" and Liebe Hart is just like, "Oh, dear, you dropped these.  Let me help you out, buddy."  Classic.


Eventually, the gear stopped burbling and the dudes went off to shave or something.  Then a group of ladies (allegedly) got up, all dressed in fancy-ish dresses with loads of makeup on (one lady also had her hair tied under her chin like a beard, which I guess created a bit of artistic unity with the first act) and began doing some of that "performance art" you kids seem so keen on these days.


They were called "Galactic Daughters of Passion", and I include their name here so you will be able to AVOID THEM AT ALL COSTS.  Their act basically consisted of a bunch of tantric breathing exercises done at irritating volume into a microphone... and then they started rubbing their crotches on each other's legs... and talking about how they're "gonna come".  And then one of 'em tore her dress and put on a warped old blues tape and stood on a table... and then I don't know what happened because I got out my Mike Tyson book and focused on my Manhattan.  People were laughing, so I guess it was supposed to be funny... question mark.


Look, I can find transcendent qualities in art that is stupid, in art that is vulgar, in art that is amateurish, in art that is awkward, and in art that is annoying.  But when your art is stupid AND vulgar AND amateurish AND awkward AND annoying?  You can pretty much fuck off and quit wasting my time.

Thankfully, David Liebe Hart finally got up and did his thing.  He did not bring any puppets with him, which was probably for the best, as it allowed us to focus on the man and his music.  He was accompanied by his partner Adam Papagan (visible at extreme right in the video) on guitar and THAT'S IT.  No frills.  No antics.  Just a man with delightful, life-affirming songs sung with a strong voice and a rockin' guitar.  And the occasional interlude about being seduced by alien women who look like Betty Page.


And sometimes, that's all you need.  Easily the best live performer since Jonathan Richman, and all the idiots who walked out (passing DIRECTLY in front of David Liebe Hart, btw) are the worst sort of scum.


Which is to say, they were fans of the opening acts.

Anyway, here's yr ipod filler for the day.  Only one jam, 'cos David Liebe Hart really needs yr money.  This is off the "Public Access" album from 2008.