Classics.

Joy Division in 1979. "She's Lost Control," from the TV show 'Something Else.'

MBV

Random reviews of random albums...

My Bloody Valentine - MBV (2013)

22 years.

Stories are lived and lives are sculpted in 22 years. From 1991 to 2013. 22 years.

In 1991, I was an awkward middle school kid who had just discovered the soul-enlightening life-affirming power of music through Nirvana's Nevermind. I'm sure this was many kid's of my generation entry point into music obsession. But it wouldn't be a few years later until a friend would turn me on to another 1991 album--equally world-opening. Another album that equals and then exceeds the sonic brilliance of Nevermind. That album is Loveless by My Bloody Valentine. Loveless. A wall of sound saturating hooks and chord changes in a way that both invites and the listener in and challenges everything you think you know about music, and how music should sound. 

Loveless, the second album from Ireland's My Bloody Valentine was the high-water mark for the British indie shoe gaze movement (along with Ride's Nowhere and the debut album by The Stone Roses... duh). But it never received a follow-up. The world (of music nerds like myself) craved a new album for years. But this was with trepidation. A new album means more sonic beauty to melt into, but what if they wait too long, and like so many other bands, are never able to capture the moment they painted on Loveless again. 

22 years later. The next My Bloody Valentine album was finally released--2013's MBV. The genius of Kevin Shields had returned. 

The album is a combination of time and its gaps. Part of the album was recorded before the band broke-up in 1997. The some recording happened in 2007. Finally, the last pieces were recorded in 2012. Usually an album can be a way to capture a certain period of time. A brief period of time for an artist. MBV is different. It is an album that captures 22 years, and the sound of time sometimes passing. Sometimes stopping. Some songs sound like they could have been Loveless outtakes. Others are fully dressed in mid-90's drum and bass influence. Some sound new. All sound My Bloody Valentine.

"She Found Me" opens the album as the only song that was recorded in its entirety in 2012. Every other song is built of pieces from before 1997, from 2007, from 2012. This track is drenched in distortion. Chords bend and sustain the crumbles. It is a slow building track, with primitive drums keeping time. You feel like you are exactly where you thought you would be when you listen to this--in a My Bloody Valentine record.

Much of the album lacks choruses, and sometimes the hooks are hidden. Pristine melodies lines are buried and serve as they evidence, once uncovered, of Shields' affinity for classic pop and indie pop song structures.

"Only Tomorrow's" long outro interplay of exaggerated guitar lines and a following bass beg for a cinematic visual to be projected.

Song titles seem to mean nothing. This is exacerbated by the fact that the lyrics themselves are indistinguishable. What are these songs about? I guess nothing. All that matters is the sound.

"New You" stands out as one of my two favorite tracks. It is driven by a head-bopping dance groove. You just have to dance in your car seat as you listen on that drive. The vibrating guitar chords sparkle. The tambourine tinker bell flutters.

My other favorite track is "In Another Way." Are those saxophones? Is that a jungle house beat? Fuses lit then explode. This is the auditory equivalent of a Pollock painting. Dynamite blows away the face of the mountain. Drum and bass beats and another drawn out outdo. Gorgeous highlight of the album. There is a riff of siren guitars, celestial synths, exploding snares, kick, hi-hats. It propels you along unstable paths. Comforting in its chaos. Then it ends.

And 22 years never sounded so good.

"Stay Together" Suede, 1994

"Come to my house tonight,
We can be together in the nuclear sky. 
We will dance in the poison rain, 
We can stay a while in heaven today."

I had a copy of Suede's Singles that lived in rotation in my pick-up truck. I was always much more of a fa of their debut album's songs, but "Stay Together" from Dog Man Star stood out as an essential, crank up the volume, roll down the windows and wail along with Brett Anderson. I feel sorry for anyone who pulled up next me with their windows down. Not a pretty sight. Or sound.

This was a seminal song for long drives from Redondo Beach down to Carlsbad. When the 5 Freeway was wide open. It didn't really resonate with me lyrically. When the song hit me hardest, ten years ago, in my twenties, I was not in the place in my life to beg anyone to Stay Together with me. But, as a single guy courting single girls, the opening line's sentiment sang clear.

I was always a fan of the Brit-pop bands of the nineties (certain ones--no thank you, Oasis). Suede stood out as the band more influenced by glam rock, like Bowie and T Rex, as opposed to Blur's seeming obsession with The Kinks.

This is very clear in Brett Anderson's styling and poses in the video for "Stay Together." Oh, the 1990s. I still love and miss you.

"Dub Magnificent," King Tubby

"King Tubby truly understood sound in a scientific sense. He knew how the circuits worked and what the electrons did. That's why he could do what he did"

"Dub Magnificent" was the first King Tubby piece I ever heard. It was my entry point into Dub music. I would bump it out of the tiny speakers on my Nextel cell phone while walking to and from dive bars in Hermosa Beach.

Dub and the beach will always go together.

"English Dream," Generation X, 1979

"I once had a dream
A feeling inside
A yearning so bad
You have to shout it out"

Yes. That's Billy Idol.

Generation X were always a bit more posing, and a little less punk, then their British punk first-wave cousins. But for the music, that's not a bad thing. "English Dream" is my favorite track from their criticized sophmore album Valley of the Dolls. It's produced By Mott the Hoople man, Ian Hunter. That should indicate the band's more rock and roll direction.

Look, they're not The Clash. They can never be the Clash. But it ain't bad.

"The English dream
Don't let me down
The English dream
Don't let me down"

Double Nickels on the Dime

Random reviews of random albums...

The Minutemen - Double Nickels on the Dime (1984)

What is a sigh? The dictionary on my Mac says it is a long, deep, audible breath expressing sadness, relief, tiredness, or a similar feeling. A Google search gives me more. Psychologists write that a sigh can be a reaction to discontent, a way to regulate breathing in times of stress, a subconscious action to express anxiety visibly, or a possible mental reset button.

I sigh when I listen to Double Nickels on the Dime by The Minutemen. However, none of the above connotations for the sigh capture my exact sentiment. I’m searching for a different word. English is often missing the perfect word for these existential moments. German, that’s a language that has some fantastic terms for moments like these. First, you got angst, “a feeling of deep anxiety about the human condition or the state of the world in general.” How about fremdschämen, “the feeling of shame when seeing someone else in an uncomfortable situation.” One more—weltschmerz, “describes the pain we feel when we realize the world will never live up to our wishes for it.” That’s a good one. Got to hand it to the Germans.

But still, I search for why I sigh when I listen to this album.

Double Nickels was my background soundtrack for piece of writing I recently worked on about Volkswagens and memories. I even used a song title as the name of the piece—“Corona.” It was the perfect fit.

The VW engine kicks and starts and the album begins. Then it is declared, “Serious as a heart attack!” The vocals shouted in such a way that you cannot doubt it. This is serious business. The Minutemen are serious on this, their 1984 opus, a 43-track, 81 minute, double album treasure. But serious does not mean stern or morose. Serious can also connote a dedication to being sincere in the music they create. To be true. These San Pedro boys’ music is true. 3-piece band, that sounds  like they recorded all of their songs live. No over-dubs or doubling up vocals. No George Martin Sgt. Pepper studio tricks. You might say this album is raw. I say sincere. Serious.

D. Boon’s vocals are poetry blasts, sometimes Dadaist one-liners, or barbed political daggers hurled at Reagan’s America. His guitar lines are abrasive and bright. Industrial stainless steel, but so funky. Licks that demonstrate that although The Minutemen get lumped into the Los Angeles hardcore punk rock scene, Boon was also studying Band of Gypsies era Hendrix and “Superfly” Curtis Mayfield. Mike Watt dances and bounces on his bass. The bass lines hop all over the auditory spectrum, commanding you to move. George Hurley on drums, snaps in time with Watt to create an enviable rhythm section. They hold down the songs as Boon’s shouts and guitar leads meander in unpredictable directions.  

Their musicianship rises above any punk expectation. The Minutemen were easily the best musicians on the SST label. They could jump from straight ahead punk rock to funk. From Spanish flamenco guitar to the avant-garde. From norteño polka to stripped-down, bare bones, bare your soul songs. And they wore no masks. “This Ain’t No Picnic to Viet Nam.” “Cohesion” to Nature Without Man.” “Corona” to “History Lesson – Part II.” None of these genre shifts feel contrived. They are sincere. Serious.

Did I mention “History Lesson – Part II? That song is sigh-worthy. Soft, acoustic guitar finger-picking, descending bass line, simple straight beat drums, no chorus, and D. Boon telling the story of The Minutemen, the story of his friendship with Mike Watt:

“Our band could be your life,
Real names will be the proof.
Me and Mike Watt, we played for years,
But punk rock changed our life.”

Boon continues on for three more spoken verses about driving to Hollywood from Pedro, about drinking and pogoing, about his dream to be Bob Dylan. He ends with one last tender line: “Me and Mike Watt, playing guitar.” That line always gets me. Serenity in its simplicity. Sincere and serious. The beauty of deep, deep friendship. Made even more poignant when you know that in December of 1985, less than a year and a half after Double Nickels was released, D. Boon and his girlfriend were involved in a fatal car crash. Weltschmerz.

So I sigh. I have an idea why now. There’s the anguish that lives on in knowing how D. Boon and Mike Watt’s friendship ended. Combine that with the feeling nostalgia breeds in the brain. Nostalgia for those moments in our past that we are happy to have experienced and maybe a little depressed to know that they happened once and can never happen again. To be a teenager and be played an album like Double Nickels on the Dime for the first time by a friend who was much older and much cooler. Where’s the great German word for that?

Gallery Jukebox. Jackson Pollock and My Bloody Valentine

Pairing a painting with the song that it explodes in my mind.

A Jackson Pollock painting is an explosion – an explosion of life forever captured in its most chaotic state. The seeping lines of paint pulsate and veer across space. Drips here and splatters there. Soft white puddles are pierced by jagged slashes of black, multiplied many times over. His work captures the exactness of his action. Each splash of paint is the literal representation of the physics of gravity meeting the artistic choices of Pollock. The result is the creation of abstract expressionist action painting. The result is a gift from the gods of art. 

The first Pollock I ever saw in person was One: Number 31 at the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan. I stood dwarfed by its colossal majesty. Over eight feet tall. Over seventeen feet long. Over-lapping grooves of enamel paint adorn the mammoth canvas. It is void of form. Pools of tints, dotted with grays, and sliced by black. The drips of white reach out and split into different directions and remind me of the diagrams of the nervous system from biology class, controlling all actions voluntary and involuntary. 

His paintings captivate me. They are as violent as eruptions of suns. Or, they are as tranquil as waves in a bay. I see joy, saddled with despair. Exuberance with depression. Open-mouthed smiles and hidden tears. I see life. Ebullient life. Chaotic life. The paintings appear like flashes without anyone direction holding order, without any commentary or message. Just expression. They inspire me to create, not destroy. Out of chaos can come beautiful art that shines with precision and order. Chaos doesn’t have to be all bad. But Pollock disagrees with me. 

“No chaos, Damn it,” His famous response to an art critic who used the term chaos to describe One: Number 31. Pollock defends that he is in control of each drop of paint, each launch of bucket’s contents across the canvas stretched out on the floor. That he makes artistic choices the same as any other painter does, as he walks around and on his work. Attacking it from every angle. 

There is an automatism present in his work. He taps into his subconscious. He paints first and thinks second. Pollock believes in the artistic embrace of the accidental as a way to bypass the conscious mind. He once said, “When I am in my painting, I’m not aware of what I’m doing. It is only after a sort of ‘get acquainted’ period that I see what I have been about.” That sounds pretty chaotic to me.

My Bloody Valentine, "In Another Way," MBV, 2013