Imagine Dead John Lennon... That would be Times New Viking, Sir

Hooks hang from the amplifiers. Blood curdling pop hooks. A distorted mess of reverb and, well, distortion of the guitar, the synth, even the drums, attack you like The Beatles are long gone. And they are, aren't they? And there are voices, shouting and singing, off key and on key, honest, earnest, fighting, pulling out knives like lovers breaking up and making love in unison. In this pit, or basement, or Andy Warhol museum, or loft, or Velvet Underground memorial... this is where we'll shovel dirt on the last rockstar's grave and sing songs with Times New Viking.

The trio of Times New Viking make pop songs, as much as The Velvet Underground are nihilistic hippies. And probably more so, even. What has been beaten to death in articles and interviews about them that it already eschewed your elitist views? That they record their songs with a lo-fi buzz? The constant comparisons to Guided by Voices, Pavement, et al? That they signed to “major” indie label Matador, coming from Siltbreeze, and some bellyaching “sellout”? They play noise shows with actual songs? Being buzzed about by hipsters, and in turn, hated by the more snobbish bastards of whatever precious scene? Well, fuck all that. Forget all that shit and stop bitching, because when it comes down to it, you’re still not listening and still up to arms with your Pitchforks and Spins and NMEs and Rolling Stones. It’s disgusting.

Times New Viking heralds what it is to be musicians and artists, and at the same time it doesn’t escape them that what they do is a product once it is commercially available. Adam Elliot, drummer and co-vocalist of TNV, said in an interview with donewaiting.com, “I am proud it’s product. We are tapping into the field of product. But we still have control over it. It’s an idea. When you choose between two records at the store you are choosing a product. When you see us live, it’s not a product. If you come to my house to see a fine-art collage I made then it’s not product. But when I put it in a gallery and hang up flyers then its product. We are selling ideas.” As much as they do this with their own volition, with a very DIY aesthetic, it doesn’t get to their heads. They don’t start slinging shit about who is more punk than whom, just because they toured with their own money and time, playing crowds of a whooping forty people, because in the end, if its commercial, its product—no matter how high your mohawk is.

If asked to describe Times New Viking’s music, in music vernacular, it would still be pop music. Take away all these other baggage you’ve heard about them, and what you hear is still pop music ala The Clean. But it’s pop with a serrated edge. If I may be so bold, they’re picking up where the Velvets left off. It’s nihilistic, but in their nihilism, you find beauty. Amidst all the whips and jangles, Warhol and Vinyl, the Exploding Plastic Inevitable, there is real beauty and majesty packed within a minute and a half of song.

And as for noise and the lo-fi debacle, shitty mics are shitty mics. When asked about this, once again, Elliott responds, “We just record it and that’s how it comes out. And that’s how it sounds. In a way the process is anti-. But we don’t have computers. We are not the computer type band. I went to school to learn how to make Intaglio-prints. Fucking old, archaic, dead product. No one makes Itaglio-prints for their original purpose. We never recorded our songs to hear a professional band. We record our songs to document the afternoon we were there. To document the song. The lo-fi works because we have shitty-ass equipment. We have shitty mics. We don’t go out and buy better mics. Cause we have mics. Why would we buy more mics?” Couldn’t have said it better myself.

I could go on and on about aesthetics and beliefs and all these other nonsense, but in the vein of “because in the end,” it doesn’t matter. Put your ear to the ground. If anything, underneath TNV’s nihilistic views, they are optimists. You could hear it with what they do. And just like their music, you need to listen to hear it, because underneath all the noise rubble (nihilism) there are pop gems (optimism). And if you listen really, really closely, you could hear postmodernism rattling its cage.

So why don’t we take a page out of TNV, it’s not like they didn’t borrow pages of their own. The world may be hopeless, but that shouldn’t stop us in being hopeful. Let’s get up and do something. Let’s all drop out. Drop out from society, the pre-packaged subculture, our lives, and just start living it. Being detached doesn’t actually mean you’re not attached. Trying something new sounds like a plan, isn’t it? Lift the needle from that Pavement record and listen to The Shags, it’s not a very scary thought once you think and set your mind to it. Just go out there and do it, like what Mark David Chapman did. He killed John Lennon. And this, my friends, is what Times New Viking sounds like.

12.19.08

Distilling Brody Dalle: From Punker to Hot MILF

I wasn't the biggest Distillers fan, but I always did like them. I'm listening to them again, and its been like what? Five years since they broke up? Never listened to them ever since the break-up. Remember when Brody Dalle looked like a punk as fuck Marilyn Manson? Let me refresh your memory:

Yeah. She even got the sneer right. Punk rock Manson! With real tits! Way to go!

Anyway, a little history lesson for those who forgot or where too young to enjoy punk drama (oh those punks and their drama!). Brody is the ex-wife of Tim Armstrong. Yeah Tim Armstrong from Rancid brah. Ok, now, The Distillers, especially Brody, were always plagued by the rumors that Tim and the rest of Rancid ghostwrote Distillers' songs. This led to a messy break-up, the band and their marriage. (edit: I left out the fact that they hooked up when Brody was still 16 and still living in Australia, although she lied about her age. Can you imagine Tim smashing Brody's underage burger? Dude.)

Listening again to The Distillers, I figured out why I always liked them. Its because these are the Rancid albums that they never released because they were too pussy to do it. Yeah dude. That's not a knock against the Distillers, mind. But it seems that its either Brody gets easily cajoled by the people he hangs out with or she's a succubus. Whichever it is, whatever. I could care less. Because The Distillers had more balls than Rancid anyway. There, I said it. Fuck Rancid. Rancid sucks. Tim Armstrong is a douchebag.

But then, Brody gets married to another frontman. The one Josh Homme. J.Ho motherfucker. The huge guy that could totally beat your ass with the arms he tore off your shoulder sockets frontman of Queens of the Stoneage. And then makes a band called Spinnerette.

Now, she looks like this:

Can you say Courtney Love?

Although she looks more like this lately:

Dude! Brody Dalle turned fucking hot over the summer! Btw, that's Tony Bevilacqua, another former member of Distillers.

What's with this obsession with how she looks you ask? Well, you see, when she started hanging out with cooler people like QOTSA, Jesse "Boots Electric" Hughes and Eagles of Death Metal, Jubilee and the Buddyhead crew, she in turn dropped her so-called punk image and became, well, a hotter milf version of herself. Oh and also, did I tell you that Spinnerette sounds like a girl fronted QOTSA?

Yeah. That's right. Once again, even in a different band, even trying to drop her old image, she still gets plagued by the same problems she had in the past. Although again, this is not a knock against Spinnerette, I quite like a girl fronted QOTSA. Here's a video. And here's a video of Brody actually playing with the Queens at the Natasha Shneider Memorial Concert.

What's the point of all of this? Why did I waste everyone's time with writing this article trying to dissect two bands with the same frontwoman? And her numerous baggage? To tell you the truth, I don't know. Because quite frankly I like both her bands and could care less if she's a blood sucking succubus poser. And I guess, that's what matters. All this other superficial bullshit is not important. It comes down to liking the music or not. That, and Rancid sucks donkey balls.

12.14.08

The Volodor Dance Boss: Noise Vodoo of Magik Markers

They have an extensive (really fucking extensive) discography of LPs and CD-R releases since 2002 – but why haven’t you heard of the Magik Markers yet? Its either you’re not trendy and hip with your ear to the underground like most of the jaded hipster crowd of NYC, or you have a slow internet connection (amongst other things are: you're not from Hartford, Connecticut or you suck). Or maybe it’s because of The Volodor Dance.

Now, not being their first release, not by a long shot, The Volodor Dance is soundscapes caught on the wire, plugged into amps and blasted into great heights while hurricanes are fucking over Kansas – meaning it’s not accessible, not unless you listen to Merzbow, or at least Sonic Youth’s younger albums (Sonic Death times 10? Yes please). From start to finish it pummels you to the ground with (seemingly) noise improvisation, I’ll be quite surprised that the casual listener wouldn’t surrender their first born after the first track, The Scream of the Horses Glowing White, a 20 minute clusterfuck that would make you shit. And it doesn’t end there, following Horses is the 26 minute I’ve-run-out-of-adjectives-to-describe-it, :::::::::: Binary for Carey Loren. After this showing, you still have 2 more tracks to go, one lasting another 14, Ab'R-AChad-Ab' Ra, and the only 3 minute song, Pinkie Brown Goes To The Shore (the hero of the sea is a hero of death).

I’m not saying that just because of the sheer length of this effort that it’s not listenable, but it is part of it. Other than that, 20 minutes of feedback and Elisa Ambrogio masturbating over her guitar isn’t really party music for your buddies to drink to. This is a record you play while you’re alone, and you marvel at its greatness because the guitar “shouldn’t be played that way”, while you dream and picture Hendrix watching a Magik Markers show. The sonic majesty of a record such as this could only be mellowed out by listening to something like World’s End Girlfriend afterward. Or maybe Kenny G.

Still, this doesn’t mean you can’t get into the bandwagon. Their release last year, the Lee Ranaldo produced (natch!) Boss, is definite ear candy. Their second studio effort and second for Thurston’s Ecstatic Peace! is easier to get into. The noise improvisation is still there, but structured into them are slow burning indie songs. Body Rot sounds like a more punk version Be Your Own Pet playing garage rock and Bad Dream/Hartford's Beat Suite would be played in college radio by said NYC hipsters that go gaga over My Bloody Valentine. Also, Ambrogio sounds like Kim Gordon when she gets to sing which is always a plus factor. This album, basically, is peppered for the Pitchfork kids that would be too scared to listen to the Markers’ all out warfare in their earlier releases. Not taking anything away from this album though, it’s still a well structured album with the right bursts of noise to amuse SY fans and has enough indie hipness for those who champion The Strokes, maybe even a little bit of the blues or folk. I recommend listening to Last of the Lemach Line and to the piano(!) “ballad” Empty Bottles, which coincidentally play right beside each other.

After all this is said, listening to these two makes it obvious where you stand in the Magik Markers camp. Its either you harp what older fans are rallying, screaming “sell outs!” (like they always do when one of their obscure underground heroes go "aboveground"), or you cream over the slick Boss. Or if you’re like me, you jam both and just let the detuned mountains come tumbling down until there is nothing left but silence of static, hoping and wishing the assault won’t end with the morning ahead.

02.25.08

Emo Doesn't Mean Emotional, Fuckhead: A Capulette Interview

There are a lot of misconceptions in the music world about the term “emo.” When people hear the term emo they think its faux teenage angst with screaming and detuned guitars – it’s either that or they don’t know it at all. What you don’t read on music rags that pride themselves as the voice of the new generation of music listeners *cough*SPIN!*cough*ALTERNATIVE PRESS!*cough* is emo is a genre, an off shoot of hardcore and punk music. They mention Rites of Spring, then jump to the mid-90s with Sunny Day Real Estate. What the fuck? It started in the mid-80s when hardcore kids got tired of the same tough guy attitude of the scene; some decided to go the emotional route instead but still fusing their personal politics and punk ethics in the mix. Where’s Moss Icon? Orchid? Indian Summer? Fucking hell, where’s Portraits of Past in the pages of these poor excuses for music magazines?

Now the mainstream media has made emo a catch-all phrase, dubbing bands that has nothing to do with the genre stick out like a sore fucking thumb. That’s what the scene gets after living under the radar for 20 years, being portrayed as suicidal kids that wear black eyeliner, stupid tight as fuck girl pants and write bad poetry about their ex-girlfriends. “What’s worse is the portrayal of emo in the mainstream as a lifestyle centered on tight pants, greasy hair, and faux depression. And the cutting is the worst part. None of that garbage has anything to do with hardcore,” Francis Maria of Davao based band Capulette said.

Thank someone for bands like Capulette for keeping with the essence of what emo really is. This four piece band is relatively young in the scene, not to mention the members being young as well with all of them under the age of 20, but they do have their fair share of trials and tribulations -- from releasing a short list of EPs, putting up their own shows and even being hated on by most of the Davao scenesters. “[We get hated on] just for organizing shows and not hanging out with the older DIY people. We don't care about that. A scene is a scene no matter how old or how young [you are]. It’s doing stuff for yourself and other people, for the greater good,” Francis quips about the subject. “We just shake it off. Some people say we try to look tough. Dammit, I’m a posicore kid; I’m not supposed to look tough.”

Capulette’s history is a pretty simple story of a bunch of kids just wanting to play music they would love. “Well, Paeng and I tried to start lots of bands but never with any permanent members. We eventually found a drummer and a chick [on] bass. Soon, we talked to Ron and Jireh of local post-hardcore band Days of Glory since we kicked our drummer out, and instead of bass Danica moved to guitar. After playing a few shows with her, we kicked her out too leaving Capulette as a four piece,” Francis recounts sounding a tad harsh on his former band mates. Well you can’t expect life in a band to be easy can you? And in a scene like Davao, filled with crusties and death metal kids, you can’t really expect a very warm welcome for an emo band as well. Blame the media for shoving My Chemical Romance or Chicosci down our throats and calling it emo, completely bastardizing the proper use of the term.

“Well, sound wise, I think we'd fit in there. Still [looking for] our niche,” Francis told me when I asked if he considered Capulette as a “real emo band.” But with songs like 1941, reminiscent of the band Indian Summer, or Today Marked the End of a Page Inked in Cold Blood, where they get all Pg.99 up your ass, its not a very hard sell. “As much as we want to we know we shouldn't [sign to a major label]. It's going to cave everything in. Of course we want money, but not like that. We're playing for the sake of playing because it's what we love. That's what day jobs are for, so you work and get paid. Not bands. That's something that's going to suck us dry. I'd rather get signed on a small label like Puro Ka indie! Collective, more creative control and a common view of music are shared. Inside perspective, that's very important.” And it also seems they got the punk ethics down too as well.

Maybe there is hope for the youth of today.

2006

[ed: Capulette has since disbanded. Ex-members could be now heard playing with the band Caitlyn Bailey.]

Sunday: A Review of Partial Sonic Youth Albums and Anthems

I have my eyes closed, a makeshift pipe stuck in-between my fingers. Inside my headphones the slow burning Wild Flower Soul churns out melodic passages and it’s like listening to… life.

TV Shit and Silver Session for Jason Knuth, these EPs jolted me back into reality. It wasn’t a rude shock, but the feedback did indeed do its job. Walls of sound of mind numbing magnitude as I slowly close my eyes again and take a long drag on the tinfoil. As the drum machine blares in the background, guitars pummeling the amps and their owners and the ears of listeners, I don’t even notice that the world held its breath and stopped spinning.

I almost forgot to breathe as well.

Pink Steam rises and falls covering our extended jams with clouds and headless heroes, we gather protection. And just like Washing Machine sending us to punk 2.0 oblivion and salvation, Rather Ripped crudely crafted pop records and songs from stone to gems to dust and back to stone. The same road traveled down to a near by Murray Street and not missing a step in Sonic Nurse.

Hits of Sunshine! For Allen Ginsberg!

The all time favorite was always been Daydream Nation, where a generation dreams up their own nation; it has parades of guitar strings and frets wedged with sticks and bones and it ran non-stop through blood, sweat, and knob tweaks. Or slides. Or majesty. But with the risk of blaspheming, The Diamond Sea makes up the bulk of everything, culmination ad infinitum – a daydreaming nation or otherwise. Blasphemer!

Confusion is Sex? Kill Yr Idols? EVOL? Nothing can touch early Orson Welles. And by god, Death to Our Friends. They sound like church bells. Pissed off church bells wielding chainsaws and hand grenades. Kiss mama g’bye and off to war, aren’t we all too lucky eh Johnny? And by the time Goo creeps in, we sign out, maybe protest a little and cry sellout. Doesn’t matter. The amazing looks and sounds better in these parts anyway.

Wow, erratic behavior. Red, red, green, green, red, red, red, green.

A Thousand Leaves is a worthy opponent for the Washing Machine. And a fight to the death would be match of the musical decade. Being more cohesive helps the surgeons sniff out the pinko cancers. But being a crude predecessor does have its perks. And like natural life progressions go, we’ll talk to NYC Ghosts and Flowers for the right pep talk.

Don’t get me started about the genius of a twenty five minute Diamond Sea or Kim vomiting through noisy sins in The Ineffable Me. Don’t fucking push me.

02.24.08