Category Archives: FEATURES

Toxic Holocaust: Chemistry Conversions


Toxic Holocaust leader Joel Grind straddles the divide between thrash, punk and heavy metal

“Lots of Samhain, Misfits, lots of Black Flag’s Damaged, Venom, Welcome To Hell. All those kind of records—when I had my first car, those were in the tape deck.”

Toxic Holocaust frontman Joel Grind is proving our theory that metal kids might just be the best kids. Or at least the friendliest. Despite a downright gnarly public persona—the cover of the new Chemistry Of Consciousness (Relapse) has a rather unsettling cobra-and-disembodied-eyeball motif, and the band’s videos are fire and leather—Grind is one of the most affable artists we’ve interviewed in ages. There’s an energy to his voice that belies his career as a thrash-metal malcontent, as the purveyor of decidedly non-bubbly records like An Overdose Of Death… and Evil Never Dies. After ingesting five albums of Toxic Holocaust, talking to Grind is like getting lifted off the floor of the pit by the kid who knocked you on your ass in the first place.

“I don’t have any brothers or sisters,” says Grind, “but I had a friend with an older brother, and we used to all skateboard and stuff. And he made me a few mixtapes, and one of the first he made me was like D.R.I.’s 4 Of A Kind and Nuclear Assault, I think. From then on, I was like, ‘All right, this is really cool.’ I was bit by the bug after that and then it became my life, you know?”

Grind’s laughter underlines the nuttiness of a life laid out on 120-minute Maxell tapes, but his back story isn’t uncommon—in fact, for a generation of metalheads, it was pretty much standard. Grind’s taste for the classic sounds of crossover is impeccable, an affection that wasn’t always fashionable and, frankly, never needed to be. The bludgeoning drums bonded by blood to fist-in-the-air choruses are the sorts of things that never go out of style. Or into style, for that matter. This is outsider music that resists trends—even within the underground—blasting forth like spiky-haired hellspawn. But the sophistication in Toxic Holocaust’s songwriting, the razor-sharp social commentary and ultimate listenability doesn’t come from a calcified moment in musical history—the astuteness of songcraft comes from an ever-evolving ear.

“When we finally had wheels, we would go and record-shop on our own,” says Grind. “We would go to Philly—I grew up in the Maryland area—and buy records on South Street and stuff. That’s when I discovered punk. I did some research and just picked out some records that looked cool to me, not knowing if they were punk or metal, but they just looked cool. That’s kind of my motto ever since: I never really draw a dividing line between those two. I draw influence from both. I’m just a music fan in general. I’m always digging for all kinds of music even outside of metal and punk. I’m always listening to all kinds of stuff. Especially on tour, when you’re touring with three other metal bands or punk bands, the last thing you want to do when you get in the van after a show is listen to another heavy record.”

And while Grind’s dalliances with other genres remain the provenance of his bedroom and hard drives (“I’ve done a lot of records that are sort of soundtrack-y, and I’ve done a lot that are almost psychedelic”), their influence can be felt. Chemistry Of Consciousness is not thrash-by-numbers—the dynamics in tracks like “Acid Fuzz” and “Rat Eater” are deeper than your average two-dimensional nostalgia peddler. Grind’s attention to melody amidst the volleys exploding from his armada of intensity is what makes the album so worthy of repeat spins. From the out-of-phase string-slides that beckon the verse of “Salvation Is Waiting” to the Lemmy-with-a-fistful-of-Black-Bettys assault of “International Conspiracy,” there’s a lot to keep going back for. Not unlike, say the classics in Grind’s first car.

“On the last one, I was trying to push the boundaries with the metal side of things, and this time I’m trying to push the boundaries on the punk side of things,” says Grind. “With Toxic, I’ve always walked the line in between both of those worlds. So, this time I almost wanted to go back to the (2008) Overdose Of Death era without remaking that record, if that makes sense. There was some backlash over the last record (TH’s fourth, Conjure And Command) for the dumbest reasons. For the way it looks, because it’s black and white and has a different logo—no one was talking about the music much, and I was really proud of that record and still am.”

With Chemistry Of Consciousness, Grind expands the TH sound, explodes it with color and textures that seem more vibrant than the none-more-blackness of Conjure. The speed and righteous indignation of artists like Discharge and G.B.H. combine with the massive mixdown and mastering by heavy-music maven and Converge guitarist Kurt Ballou, creating a juggernaut of an album, a record that fires on all cylinders all the time. “Awaken The Serpent,” “Mkultra” and “Out Of The Fire” smack the listener upside the head like the wayward boot of an especially surly crowd surfer.

“I just sort of wanted to do something where the songs were really short (and) really simple,” says Grind, “but pretty catchy and right to the point.”

The thrill is not in watching the melee from the sidelines, but getting right up in the fray, allowing Chemistry to spin-kick you right in the brain, letting it drop-kick you in the chest. Grind writes songs that leave no room for wallowing in misery, no room for self-indulgence, no room for anything but pushing back at society even if that society is an underground music scene. And especially if that music scene is the type to get its collective panties in a wad over something as silly as whether a band has a new logo or opts something other that the four-color cover.

More than anything, Grind is pushing back against himself, pushing the limits of his band beyond the arbitrary lines drawn by music critics, the chattering classes and the comment-section peanut galleries. However those folks felt about Conjure And Command, they aren’t going to be able to rehash whatever horseshit they trotted out last—Chemistry Of Consciousness connects with all of the moments in the TH back catalog that have made the band into the cult figure it is today without ever feeling rehashed, reworked or warmed over. Chemistry is not just a tribute to the thrash canon, but a record that’s worthy of inclusion.

“I never want to make the exact same record over and over again,” says Grind. “I’ve been telling people that this doesn’t mean I don’t want to be throwing a ton of curveballs at people either, but I don’t want to make the exact same record.”

—Sean L. Maloney

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Dead Meadow: Womb Raiders


Dead Meadow revels in the technical ecstasy behind its latest psych/rock odyssey

On new album Warble Womb (Xemu), Dead Meadow continues going its own way with a thick, dense sound that includes traces of folk, metal, ’60s rock, swampy blues and murky psychedelia. Hints of Howlin’ Wolf and Neil Young also go drifting through the mix from time to time.

“We get lumped into a bunch of different genres that don’t necessarily describe what we do,” says guitarist Jason Simon. “When we first came out of D.C. in ’99, we got described as the lighter side of stoner rock. Nowadays, they say we’re the heavier side of psychedelia, but we’ve taken a long, hard road to carve out our own niche. Our fans understand the band for what it is: not stoner, or heavy metal, or psychedelic—just Dead Meadow.”

The long hours the band puts into its music is evident on every track of Warble Womb, an album that took three years to put together. The songs were shaped in Dead Meadow’s home studio and involved experiments with new sounds and recording techniques. The group also recently welcomed back original drummer Mark Laughlin, who added his jazzy feel to the proceedings.

“Mark was a lawyer in New York, but he said he’d had enough of that for the time being,” says Simon. “He moved out to L.A. and rejoined the band a few years ago. He has a great swing to the way he plays, even on the heaviest songs.”

Dead Meadow always starts the recording process by cutting the songs live. “Before you do any layering, it has to feel like a band playing a song together,” says Simon. “After that, we take our time overdubbing different sounds. We want to get a distinct vibe on every track. Since we weren’t in a hurry to get the record out, we had time to go back and spend a few years messing with things, for better or worse—usually for better. Sometimes (a song) doesn’t need anything else; sometimes there’s all kind of things you can do. Every time we put an album out, it opens more doors, so I’m able to go back and look at the old music and see how we’ve progressed. This time, I was aiming for a new vocal sound and more texture. My main guitar is still the Telecaster I’ve been playing since I was 14, but lately I’ve been digging into the Harmony Rocket guitar I just got and a new Tele with a Bigsby (vibrato tailpiece). It’s like a super whammy bar.”

The album has a huge guitar sound, with lots of shadowy textures. Simon created them all, even the most startling ones, by running his guitars through his two favorite amps at top volume. “I’m definitely in favor of turning up loud and saturating the tubes and overrunning the amps,” he says. “The sound is way cooler than using a pedal. I’ve always used a Fender (amp), because it has such clear highs and lows, as well as an Orange (amp) that makes the sound a lot bigger with its dark mid-range. The sitar sound on ‘I’m Cured’ is a solo I recorded on a four-track tape machine. I just flipped the tape over and played it backwards and it fit perfectly. The ‘piano’ on ‘Mr. Chesty’ is just my guitar with a lot of effects on it. I’m a big fan of dub reggae. Some of the studio tricks they use—layers of delay and reverb—find their way into Dead Meadow songs. We’re not going to play a reggae song, but I like their (production) approach. I want to see how far out I can get the songs to sound.

“There is a bit of Farfisa on some of the tracks, too, but it’s hard to hear, almost subliminal,” he says. “I’m going for a sound that your brain can’t really identify. It keeps your mind active and makes you wonder what the hell is going on. I love music with mysterious elements.”

The band’s secretive presentation also applies to Simon’s vocals. “I’m not a big fan of lead vocals,” he says. “I spend time with every aspect of a song and like the words to be an element of the song, not sitting up front. Sometimes they’re way back in the mix, sometimes right in the middle. I try to bring out something unique in every arrangement. The goal is to make records that take you on a journey throughout the whole album. The older bands we listened to growing up, Led Zep and Sabbath, made albums that way.”

Does the cryptic title of the album have any deeper significance? “We just liked the way Warble Womb rolls off the tongue,” says Simon. “We were hanging out and laughing and thinking about album titles, and almost went with Wiggle Room until we came up with this idea. I think it aptly describes the record and what we try to do in general. We want to create an environment that’s dark and inviting, a warm space full of cool vibrations and whatnot. We wanted a name that would catch your attention and have a bit of a weird feel to it.”

Like the last few albums, Warble Womb was produced by bassist Steve Kille, with additional input from Simon and Laughlin. “Everything we do is cooperative, but Steve is the most knowledgeable in terms of recording,” says Simon. “He knows how to set up the mics to get a good drum track. He records other bands as well, so he has a lot of skills in that area. I don’t have his patience. I like to record as fast as I can.”

When Dead Meadow goes on tour to support the new album, the band won’t be attempting to duplicate its sound. “When we play live, we don’t think about the recorded versions,” says Simon. “They’re two separate things. We leave room for experimenting and changing things up. We want to keep the music interesting for ourselves and, hopefully, the audience, too.”

—j. poet

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Midlake: Trials And Reconfigurations


Down one singer/songwriter, the revamped version of Midlake forges ahead beautifully. By Steve Klinge

Spoiler alert! The new Midlake record is not from the band that you grew to love with The Trials Of Van Occupanther. With each successive album, the members of Midlake transformed, foregrounding a different favorite section of their record collections. Their first LP, 2004’s Bamnan And Slivercork, was built on the experimentalism of Grandaddy and the Elephant 6 bands. 2006’s much-loved The Trials Of Van Occupanther turned to soft rock, with traces of Fleetwood Mac (of the Bob Welch era) and Neil Young (of the Harvest era). 2010’s The Courage Of Others shifted yet again, this time looking to the British folk of artists such as Pentangle and Fairport Convention for inspiration. All the while, the Denton, Texas, band favored dense, dark, detailed arrangements: emotional but restrained, brooding but inviting.

Now comes Antiphon (ATO), which announces itself with an opening title track that rocks harder and more insistently than anything in the group’s prior catalog. Midlake again sounds like a new band.

And, this time it is: It’s Midlake’s first since the departure of principal singer/songwriter Tim Smith, its first with guitarist Eric Pulido stepping into those lead roles, its first with former touring members Jesse Chandler (keyboards, flute) and Joey McClellan (guitars) officially joining drummer Mackenzie Smith, multi-instrumentalist Paul Alexander and guitarist Eric Nichelson.

As for an antiphon, it’s a call-and-response hymn in which two groups alternate, and Antiphon is Midlake 2.0, the response to Smith’s departure.

After touring for The Courage Of Others and Queen Of Denmark (the band’s acclaimed collaboration with the Czars’ John Grant that also came out in 2010), Midlake returned to the studio. The results, the group felt, weren’t up to par. Courage had taken nearly two years to record, so Midlake was used to committing to a slow process, but this time, the frustrations and tensions increased. The band tried returning to the studio in Buffalo, Texas, where it had worked on Courage but, according to Pulido, “It didn’t work this time; it didn’t go as well, and we didn’t achieve what we had in the past.” Then Midlake went to L.A., to labelmate Jonathan Wilson’s studio, but the album still refused to come together.

“We still didn’t get that ‘magic’ that we wanted,” says Pulido. “It was through no fault of the studio; it was just that the songs had been beaten up a lot, and they’d become a little bit watered-down. The life had been lost out of some, and you try to resuscitate it, or you write some new songs. It was just this merry-go-round, like, ‘Here we go again.’ Courage Of Others had a little bit of that as well, but we barely got out of the water and had a record. This one seemed like we took a step forward and two steps back. Right when you see a light it was, ‘Nope, that’s not a light.’ Or, ‘It’s not sunlight, it’s a headlight or a train.’”

Although Midlake repeatedly generated new material, the band kept ending up dissatisfied. The perfectionist tendencies that served the group well in the past worked against it.

“It just kept getting longer and longer with each album, in some ways too microscopic,” says Pulido. “I felt that the record we were making had a lot of potential, but we were squandering that potential by the month. We had a whole album and a half of material, but not enough of that was satisfying to Tim or to all of us. There were probably different levels of acceptance of different songs or material or whatnot. At that time, there was a lot of frustration from everybody. But if you would have asked me, ‘Is Tim going to leave?’ I would have said, ‘No, he’s not going to do that, he’s not going to bail. He’s going to stick through, and we’ll at least make this record.’”

But then, in November 2012, Smith quit the band. For Pulido, in some ways it was a shock; in other ways, in retrospect, it wasn’t.

“From the beginning, we were just going to forge ahead,” he stresses. “But at that point, for him, that was lost, there was no more. He didn’t have the desire or the strength anymore. Did I ever see this coming? Yeah, of course. He’s always been a little bit withdrawn or malcontent about where things are at. But he’d usually channel that—and we all did—into, ‘OK, we’re going to work twice as hard and twice as many hours.’”

Pulido’s role in the band had changed over the years, too. Since Smith wasn’t a fan of touring, Pulido had been “doing all the talking” from the stage. He’d also been singing more, sometimes doubling Smith’s lead vocals. The changes were gradual and not deliberate, but they now seem like signs to Pulido. Still, Smith’s sudden resignation was unexpected, and the band was forced to, literally, regroup.

“When he left—I can only speak for myself—it wasn’t what I wanted; it wasn’t the ideal situation,” says Pulido. “And there was a bit of a transition for a second there: What are we going to do? Who’s going to sing? Are we still Midlake? Are we able to use the material we’ve been working on? Do we want to? All these questions were rolling for a 24- or 48-hour period where we felt like we need to figure this out. But it was never a question of would we not keep going. After he left, we got together and went to the studio and got a game plan.”

The split was an amicable divorce, and initially the band negotiated with Smith about expectations and possibilities for the future. Smith wasn’t averse to the band keeping the name (“We felt like at the heart of it, we were and are still that band,” says Pulido), and he agreed to let them use some of the material they had worked on together, but he wanted to protect or separate some of it, too. Ultimately, the remaining members chose to start from scratch, although “Vale,” an instrumental track from the earlier sessions that Smith was not on, became part of Antiphon. Its work backing John Grant and Grandaddy’s Jason Lytle served as unwitting preparation for realigning the band.

“In some ways, we always felt like this workingman’s band because we just love to play,” says Pulido. “Obviously our main thing was and always is Midlake, but it was cool to be able to play in different styles for different artists. Unbeknownst to us at the time, it was kind of a blessing in disguise that we had done that so much.”

Soon after Smith’s departure, the new Midlake got back to work writing and recording, and the band surprised itself at how quickly (at least in Midlake’s terms) everything gelled. Ultimately, the group finished Antiphon in six months. Collectively, Midlake felt confident in the new material and directions, and the process was more truly collaborative than in the past. While the group was working on the record, it was reassured by the response from its longtime label, the London-based Bella Union.

“You lose a little bit of objectivity when you’re trying write and record a record in such a short period of time—six months for us is like overnight, considering we spent two years on a record that never saw the light of day,” says Pulido. “It was sort of fast and furious, but it was great because I think we got closer. It was a great communal effort that had been lost in some ways in the past. I think Tim would agree with that. When Tim left and we started this next one, I felt very passionate about everybody stepping up to the plate. We needed everybody’s heart and soul in this. I didn’t want it to be my record; I wanted it to be our record. Even though I know a large part of the onus was on me for singing and writing the material, everybody’s voice and personality and style is in this record. We’d been playing music together for a long time, and just because it isn’t exactly the same doesn’t mean it isn’t real and honest and something we feel passionate and good about—and ultimately that is still Midlake.”

And since Midlake had always changed gears from album to album, the fact that Antiphon differs from the others is, paradoxically, within the Midlake tradition. Some of that newness is a carry-over from the record it was making with Smith—the swirling, powerful “Vale” suggests that—but Pulido says the band took things like the psychedelic atmosphere, the broader dynamic shifts and the upbeat melodies further. The songs still have carefully orchestrated arrangements, and they ebb and flow, shifting from electric-guitar leads to quieter, flute-driven passages, as in the past. But they are often grander and given to moments of abstraction and dissonances that comes from the band’s love of early Pink Floyd and Genesis (coincidentally, two bands that also regrouped after shifts in leadership).

Pulido’s vocals at times recall Smith’s: They can be thickened with reverb, and he’s fond of long, sustained lines and occasional archaic or biblical phrasing that lend songs a timeless quality. “Onward forth unto a land unknown/Swords were drawn upon their own,” he sings on “Provider.”

“Obviously, Tim had an influence on me, and hopefully we did on him,” says Pulido. “He used a lot of imagery that was very classic, so it didn’t really have a time period.”

Although the war imagery on “Antiphon” and the divorce references on “Aurora Gone” could have double meanings, “Provider” is the only song Pulido wrote overtly in response to the band’s experiences.

“It’s basically, in a loving way, how I describe Tim: as the provider,” says Pulido. “He was The Guy. I was saying, ‘Carry on, far from the golden age.’ It was like this romantic thing that we wanted, and in some ways we had. But at the same time, I love you and respect you and will even defend you. ‘Follow me down a foxhole in the ground.’ Even though I don’t agree, I’ll still defend you, still support you, I love what you’re doing, I’ll always buy your records, and I wish you the best, basically.”

Smith, who has started a project called Harp, feels similarly. “They’re all great guys, and it was sad to lose the closeness we had, but musically we didn’t see things the same way,” he says. “I think my leaving has helped both them and myself. It probably should have been done years ago.”

After exiting the band, Smith moved to Kerrville, Texas, and he’s been steadily working on a new album. For now, it’s a solo work.

“It’s a very slow process,” he says. “My musical standards far exceed my abilities, but the hope is eventually I’ll have enough songs that I’m proud of to release something. I’m not sure when that will be or if it’s meant to be. Some of the material I’m working on I feel is quite strong, and I’m positive that if I can finish, it’ll be a very good album. The sound will, of course, be a continuation of the ‘old’ Midlake sound because that’s inherent with me. The transition into this was fairly smooth because I’m essentially doing what I was doing with Midlake, though trying out ideas alone takes much longer than with an entire band.”

Of course, Antiphon is also a continuation of the old Midlake sound, although fans hoping simply for The Trials Of Van Occupanther, Part II may need to adjust their expectations. That is part of the burden of changing, growing and developing after having created an album that meant so much to some people. Pulido knows that that record became a deep part of some listener’s lives.

“That moves us to no end, and any record that we’ve done that captures that for somebody, we’re grateful for,” he says. “The reality is, that album has afforded us ears to even hear what we’re doing now. If they like ‘Young Bride’ or ‘Roscoe’ or ‘Head Home,’ and they hear that we’re doing a new record, well, then you might get a chance for them to hear the new stuff. They might like it, they might not, but I could never knock the fact that a record that we made together has allowed us to shape a career that we have been able to grow and to expand on.”

Through the growth and expansion—and subtraction—Midlake has retained a sense of serious purpose and thoughtful exploration. Given the personnel changes, Antiphon is its most dramatic shift. But it’s not a total break with the past.

“Hopefully there’s likenesses in any of our past discography,” says Pulido. “It’s the same people, so there’s a common thread there. We just wanted—like we always do—to be honest and be inspired, and create the voice of Midlake.”

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Red Fang: Have A Bite


Red Fang’s latest stoner opus, Whales And Leeches, neither sinks nor sucks

“We’re a pretty dark band—I don’t see this record getting a lot of radio play.”

There’s a warmth in the voice of Bryan Giles, guitarist for Portland, Ore., band Red Fang, that belies his group’s darkness. The band is on the precipice of releasing its third album, Whales And Leeches (Relapse), after a summer raging across the festivals and rock clubs of Europe. Through a series of hilarious viral videos and years of intensely cathartic, energetic shows, the group has earned a reputation as one of heavy music’s premier party bands—whether it wants that title or not.

“I think our videos make us seem like party guys—and I guess this is subjective, but I think we’re on a pretty dark bend,” says Giles. “It’s not depressing, but we mine some pretty dark feelings. If people react by partying, that’s great. [Laughs] I want people to react somehow.”

And react they have. It may be due to the fact that, regardless of Giles’ claims, the band is equal parts fun and dark. While inherently heavy and sonically adventurous, at the heart of every Red Fang album, there are massive hooks and fist-in-the-air choruses that are among the most accessible—and unshakable—in the underground. In a scene fractured into infinite subgenres, each testing the realms of listenability in their own way, Red Fang stakes its territory on universality. It doesn’t matter how “kvlt” you are; if you’ve ever loved heavy music, you’ll get it.

“I don’t describe us as heavy metal,” says Giles. “I try not to describe us at all—we’re a rock ‘n’ roll band … in high school that was the clique, and if you didn’t know all about heavy metal, you weren’t invited, you know what I mean? Just freaking out over something that was so angry—I think that’s a personality type that reacts that way, and they’re our people, these folks going out, throwing beer everywhere. I can relate.”

The darkness and anger of Whales And Leeches is very human, very adult, very real, and it stands in stark contrast to the cartoonish, petulant temper-tantrums of the band’s more extreme peers. Coupled with the sophisticated grooves and domineering riffs on tracks like “Voices Of The Dead,” “Dawn Rising” and “Blood Like Cream,” these grim vibes make for that most rare of beasts: the album that is as mature as it is invigorating, as deep as it is visceral.

“We were all in these real complicated bands for years and years,” says Giles, “and it was fun to play, but I don’t think anybody liked it. [Laughs] And so that’s always been our goal: Write songs that are entertaining as a musician, but write songs that are listenable, that hopefully are songs you want to listen to more than once. I don’t dig through my record collection for things that I can’t remember anymore, you know what I mean? I go back and listen to the stuff that really stuck in my head. Albums like Suicidal Tendencies, their first record. It’s crazy—I won’t listen to that record for years, and I’ll put it on and know every freaking lyric. And it surprises me; I’m like, ‘Where the hell did I store this information?’ I thought I was busy killing brain cells, and yet that’s still floating around in there. That’s the sign of a good record, and that’s the kind of record we want to make.”

But being Red Fang isn’t just about crushing beers and recalling classic hardcore records. As the band’s reputation has grown, so have expectations. Unlike previous efforts, Red Fang now has a large international following and a record label footing the bill, with the Decemberists’ Chris Funk sitting in the producer’s chair and Grammy winner Vance Powell behind the mixing board. The band managed to reunite the team that crafted Red Fang’s breakthrough, but it only had three months in between tours to write and record Whales And Leeches—a challenge after the leisurely pacing of earlier records.

“None of us have ever written a record under pressure before,” says Giles. “Even (sophomore album) Murder The Mountains, we took our time. We had a one-record deal with Sargent House (for the self-titled debut), so there was no one breathing down our necks to put something out. And we recorded that one on our own dime, so there were no time constraints. This time, definitely, everyone was kind of freaking out, myself included. But I tried not to voice my concerns, because what’s the good in that? It’ll just make everyone else more freaked out.”

Red Fang’s writing technique, however, provides a degree of consistency—a degree of confidence—that doesn’t always happen when a band starts from scratch with each new record, allowing for a natural progression and evolution. The group is very self-referential, mining rehearsal tapes for moments that may have not worked in the past—“some of those riffs, like ‘Hank Is Dead’ were completed at least four years before it was recorded,” Giles notes—but make sense now. It creates a sense of continuity that underscores the band’s commitment to quality.

“Some of the songs off that new record, I thought, ‘Well, this is not going to make the record,’ and, ‘I like it, but it’s just too weird,’” says Giles. “Like ‘Voices Of The Dead’—that riff is pretty bizarre. It’s not crazy or anything, it just gets weird; so the structure of the song is a little, uh, different. But that didn’t surprise me, you know—we’re very collaborative, and if someone gets stumped, someone else picks it up and runs. I think it’s important for us to maintain the vibe.”

And in that, Whales And Leeches is a monumental success—a clear line from Red Fang’s earliest recordings to its latest, but it also displays a band that has grown and progressed. Fans who signed on with 2008’s “Prehistoric Dog” are going to find themselves right at home with tracks like the soaring “Crows In Swine,” and new fans drawn in by the hypnotic grooves of “Every Little Twist” and the unmitigated onslaught of “1516” are lucky enough to have two albums to satisfy their inevitable need for another Fang fix. Whether the band revisits its viral successes and conquers the internet a third time remains to be seen, but that’s a secondary concern for artists and label alike.

“It was scary, but as far as hits go, it’s Relapse Records—they go for some of the craziest shit in the world,” says Giles. “I don’t think they would have been bummed if we put out something very esoteric, but that’s not where our heads are.”

—Sean L. Maloney

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Light Heat: Brighter Days Ahead


Star-crossed Quentin Stoltzfus launches Light Heat with a little help from the Walkmen

In 2006, Quentin Stoltzfus was forced to retire Mazarin, the dreamy, strummy Philadelphia-based project he debuted in 1999, due to threats from a litigious Long Island classic-rock band of the same name.

“That destroyed my career, absolutely,” says Stoltzfus. “I lost my name, and I lost my record deal as a result. It basically imploded all the forward momentum that I had going at that point.”

If not for that, the new Light Heat album would be a Mazarin album, and could have come out years ago. After the end of Mazarin, Stoltzfus took some time to recoup and reset (and carefully choose a new band name). He worked for a moving company; he built his own studio and helped others, such as Clap Your Hands Say Yeah’s Alec Ounsworth, build theirs; he produced and engineered records for several Philly bands. But he was always writing songs and making demos. “I am perpetually making a record,” he says.

The catalyst for Light Heat’s debut came from Stoltzfus’ friends and former tourmates the Walkmen. The Walkmen had covered Mazarin’s “Another One Goes By” on 2006’s A Hundred Miles Off, and three of the guys—Paul Maroon, Pete Bauer and Matt Barrick—lived in Philly.

“Paul had been prodding for me years to get off my ass and get in a studio and start working out stuff with them,” says Stoltzfus. “I was into it, but I was like, ‘Well, I’m still making demos, blah blah blah, still doing this, still doing that,’ making excuses. Finally, he said, ‘I’m moving to New Orleans in a month, this window is closing, so let’s do this.’ That kind of put an expiration date on the possibilities.”

The Walkmen, including Walter Martin but minus singer Hamilton Leithauser, back Stoltzfus on the album, although Light Heat itself, like Mazarin, is essentially Stoltzfus and whomever he plays with. They recorded the basic tracks in a few summer days in 2010, and Stoltzfus and Bauer worked on them afterward. The album was finished and mastered by the end of 2011, but then it sat in limbo while Ribbon Music, the Domino Records imprint of Mazarin’s former manager, Morgan Lebus—whose roster also includes Laura Marling, Django Django and Thao & The Get Down Stay Down—readied its release.

“It’s taken a long time,” says Stoltzfus, understating the case. “I would have these moments of frustration, but after it happened, everything seemed very logical, and if I sat down and thought about it, it was something that made sense to me after awhile.”

Light Heat is a clear extension of what Stoltzfus did in Mazarin. It opens with “Dance The Cosmos Light,” a track whose pounding, repetitive chords would bring to mind the Velvet Underground even if “Light Heat” didn’t itself allude to VU’s second album. “Are We Ever Satisfied” and “LIES” build on dark drones, with swirls of electronics and vocals that drift in and out of the mix, whereas “Brain To Recorder” and “A Loyal Subject To The Status Quo” are compact, propulsive guitar rock songs that recall Mazarin favorites such as “Wheats” (and the work of Stoltzfus’ pal Kurt Heasley of the Lilys). “Elevation” and “And The Birds…” will please fans listening for the shimmering guitars and intricately woven keyboards of the Walkmen, too.

Stoltzfus says he has a lot of other music in the queue: songs that “don’t fit the Light Heat mold”; material for a “weird John Fahey-like folk record”; some “strange electronic experiments,” as well.

“I hope to have another Light Heat album out within the next couple years,” he says. “I’ve already been working on it in earnest, really trying to put it together. I’m always, in my mind, making a record, whether real or imaginary.”

—Steve Klinge

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Basia Bulat: Loud As Folk


Toronto folk singer Basia Bulat raises the ante, and the dynamics, on her third album

From London, where she’s been doing promotion for Tall Tall Shadow (Secret City), Basia Bulat sounds the kind of nervous that’s mostly the result of unexpected good fortune. “The response has been kind of overwhelming,” she says a handful of times, as if she’s not quite accustomed to it yet, as if it’s come as kind of a shock.

The reaction to the album, Bulat’s third full-length, has indeed been exceedingly positive, a happy circumstance for a performer who made her thus-far moderate fame on the folk singer/songwriter circuit and is now looking to switch things up. Bulat’s first two albums, adept enough affairs, traded mostly in the light arrangements and soft dynamics of contemporary folk music. If her talents extend beyond many of her peers (notably her staggering facility on a wide range of stringed instruments from the dulcimer to the charango), her aesthetic palette as presented on her first two albums was largely traditional.

Tall Tall Shadow, by contrast, opens with the stomping, gradual crescendo of the title track, an immediate announcement of increasing speed and volume that sustains for the rest of the record. It’s a sonic gamble for Bulat, who for the first time finds herself pushing her aesthetics into more energetic territory. Still, the song structures and modes are of a piece with her previous releases, making Tall Tall Shadow a furtherance rather than a divergence from her previous work.

“I do think (the new album is) a development, as opposed to coming straight out of left field,” she says. “The thing is, now, I wish I’d gone even louder. I was playing around with sounds I’d been a little apprehensive about before, but at a certain point I thought, ‘What am I afraid of?’”

Good question—particularly in the context of the folk-music scene, which can be notoriously unforgiving of volume and speed. For this album, Bulat found herself pushing her comfort zone lyrically as well, writing songs that were much less narratively straightforward than those on her previous two full-lengths. It was an approach that threw her into a writing style that was less cozy, but ultimately more challenging and interesting for her.

“I think you can’t really help when things hit you, and it begins to feel like something’s chasing you down,” she says. “Where you can’t help getting it down on paper or canvas or tape. I used to hear people say about their own writing, ‘I don’t know what that song is about.’ And I’d think, ‘Oh, that’s crazy.’ But I’ve realized that’s actually a very honest admission. Personal songwriting is all I really know how to do right now—that’s what I’m drawn to. And I guess singer/songwriting has always been associated with the personal. But it doesn’t have to be that way. I thought of these songs more like the roman à clef, that kind of approach, where you don’t always know the difference between what’s made up and what’s the truth. And as I went a little more inward lyrically, it seemed like a good idea to go outward, sonically.”

It’s that blend—the increasingly lyrical, sometimes ornate narrative approach and the new directions in arrangement and performance—that makes Tall Tall Shadow a step out of the box for Bulat. It’s less a folk album, even a folk/rock album, than an LP on which folk and rock are the starting points for odd directions and developments.

And when talk turns to her sequencing and arrangement choices, Bulat brings in some surprising but, in retrospect, clearly audible reference points: “You can’t help but be influenced by the things you love,” she says. “And the stuff that I love, the music I listened to when I was a kid, is stuff that frequently showed that kind of attention to sequencing. I love those albums, like those old Bruce Springsteen records, the ones that have those power starts and power finishes, but move around dynamically in the middle.”

To consider the softer side of things, take “It Can’t Be You,” which falls a little short of midway through the record. A skittery, spidery fingerpluck run on the charango propels the song, while the lyrics circle endlessly around an abstract, first-person account of love and betrayal (“I never dreamed that you would be the one/To shoot me down so sweet/No no, no no/It can’t be you/It can’t be you”) without ever coming to a revelation of the specifics, returning again and again to a chorus that’s simply Bulat vocalizing on the closing vowel, so that the “you” morphs into a high lonesome wail skating the string melody. (“It’s a song with a single sound for the chorus,” she says self-deprecatingly. And she’s right, but it’s also chilling, haunting in the best possible way.)

This is the connection the strongest songs on Tall Tall Shadow have with the folk tradition—the belief that the power of a story inheres not in its cold facts, but in the voicing of powerful emotion, even if the words seem cryptic set down in cold type. The words are only the beginning of the story; the moan, the joyful shout, the delivery take us the rest of the way.

What we’re talking about is really a non-quantifiable element, the result of a decision to approach the music in a way that ensures something beyond a simple document of the right notes in the right order. Though there are many paths to that destination, for Bulat the key was immediate collaboration. At one point in the conversation, she recalls watching footage of the recording sessions for Elton John’s Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and being struck by how the musicians gathered in a single space, sometimes around a single microphone, to make that expansive sound happen. It’s an approach she used often on Tall Tall Shadow, notably on “It Can’t Be You,” whose cold, wide echo isn’t a produced effect, but the result of a single instrument playing in a cavernous studio space.

“I’m still drawn to that element—that ‘live’ element,” she says. “I used to listen to a lot of oldies growing up. So much of that stuff was recorded that way, all of the players together. It’s still present when you listen to those songs today. I mean, there has to be a reason people still love Motown, those Stax Studios records, field recordings. You feel like you’re in the room with those people. You feel that urgency.”

Bulat’s journey is one on which she’s kept a lot of friends close—her brother Bobby plays drums on the album (as he did on 2010’s Heart Of My Own), and part of her time in London will be devoted to planning the filming of the title video for Tall Tall Shadow with visual artist Stephanie Comilang, with whom Bulat collaborated on an installation piece for the Art Gallery of Toronto in January. Even the cover art of Bulat’s new album, which cheekily references Joni Mitchell’s Blue (but also, as she rightly points out, Nico’s Chelsea Girls and even Elton John’s self-titled 1970 album) suggests the tradition she’s trying to work in, a long history of artists whose careers have drawn from traditional forms, even as they’ve pushed against the confines of them. And like many of those artists, she’s begun to find that leaving the established territory behind has pushed her into less well-charted, but perhaps more productive terrain.

“I think the reasons for making the record, the reasons I was writing these songs, seemed to reflect a state of mind that changed for me throughout the day,” she says. “I’d find myself powering through things, then needing to stand still for a while. I spent a lot of time sequencing this album—even in lyrical terms, I wanted it to make sense from start to finish. But the things that I really want to say, I can’t really ever say them properly. Maybe there aren’t really many words to say anyway. That’s the funny thing: What you hear in music usually depends on what you’re listening for. Sometimes it’s the only place where I really feel like myself.”

—Eric Waggoner

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Hebronix: The Unreal Life


Ex-Yuck frontman Daniel Blumberg starts over yet again with the restless, yearning Hebronix.

Rolling out of bed after making music until four in the morning, Daniel Blumberg scans his schedule of interviews, finds my name and remembers the important part. “Is it Herbowitz?” he asks somewhere in Denver, where’s he about to record his second album as Hebronix.

“Almost. Berkowitz.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I saw that name, and I was like, ‘I bet he’s going to ask about the Jewishness of Hebronix.’ Because I thought, ‘Oh, God, that’s going to be the first question in every interview, and I’m not going to know how to answer it, and why did I decide on the name?’ But it hasn’t come up, and I’ve been happy it hasn’t come up. Then I saw your name, and I was like, ‘We’re going to have a nice conversation about Judaism.’”

So, we do—well, sort of—in between questions about Unreal (ATP), his first Hebronix album since leaving Yuck, the band he fronted from 2010 to 2012, when he quit “work on other things.” Now that it’s released, we can understand why he left. Produced by Neil Hagerty (Royal Trux, Howling Hex), Unreal isn’t Yuck, and it isn’t supposed to be. The clouds of guitar noise that saturate the album are quieter, moodier, more unsettling; the singing wearier, stretched thin as an old E string; and the songs more introspective, turning inward with lines like, “I’ve got some things to do/Some private things to do” and “I’m thinking about things/I already know.”

It’s dark, swirling, cerebral music that’s inescapably lonely, restless, yearning, adrift in melancholy—in a word: Jewish. But Blumberg—who grew up attending cheder, the Jewish version of Sunday school (where he met Max Bloom), and visiting a kibbutz in Israel (where he met Jonny Rogoff)—says he doesn’t hear the connection, even though the album’s first video shows a group of Hasidic Jews driving a truckload of amplifiers through his neighborhood. “It’s weird, because I made it six months ago … so I’ve lived with it a bit … and I’m trying to remember what I was thinking at the time, but nothing is springing to mind,” he says, pausing to refill his first cup of coffee.

“Going into the studio with Neil, it’s difficult to gauge what the result is going to be. That was the case with the album, especially because the songs are very long, and we were working quite fast, all in two and a half weeks. We didn’t sit down beforehand and say, ‘Today, we’re going to do this.’ A player would start, and maybe the harmony would come first, on saxophone, so I wouldn’t initially recognize it, and then the guitar parts I’d written on the four-track would emerge, and the melody, and I wanted Neil to have the freedom to arrange and be instinctive, to feel like it was his record as well. And it was exciting, not knowing, not being in control.”

By Blumberg’s count, Unreal is his fifth consecutive debut album in the last six years. First, there was Cajun Dance Party’s The Colourful Life (2008), begun while he and Bloom were 15 years old. (“It was absolutely terrible,” says Blumberg. “No, I think I’m just getting past the point of being embarrassed—I think it’s great.”) A year later, as Daniel In The Lion’s Den—an Old Testament reference he thinks is “very Christian”—he completed a self-titled album with members of Lambchop, but couldn’t escape his old recording contract. (“The album didn’t ever come out,” he says. “Well, by the time I managed to get it out in Japan—you know, legally—I just wasn’t interested anymore.”)

Next came 2010’s Yuck, arguably the best indie-rock album of the year. (“We were 19 when we started the band, and I was having lots of fun, you know, living at home, smoking weed, getting high,” he says. “Then I moved out and we started playing lots of shows … and going on tour for a very, very long time … and playing those songs over and over again … and then I came home.”) Between tours, Blumberg started a label, Boiled Egg, to distribute his drawings and musical side projects, including 2011’s piano-driven Forget, backed by his Lambchop friends and credited to Oupa, which is Afrikaans slang for “old man.” By then, after numberless performances of “Get Away” and the boredom that came with them, Blumberg was glad to get away from the band, and it was only a matter of time before Yuck formally announced its return to the studio without him.

“The idea of performing the same thing every night seems strange to me at the moment,” says Blumberg, who’s planning to play only a handful of shows in 2013, with the next one scheduled for November. “It’s a weird thing with music: the performance aspect and the writing aspect, and the fact that most artists play live, just by default. From the business perspective, it’s quite clear—it’s a way for musicians to make money. But I’m not sure I quite understand it as a process at all; it seems a bit bizarre.”

He’d rather record something new, which is why he’s in Denver, staying at the home of Charles Ballas, who plays (uncredited) keyboards on Unreal and has been working on electronics for the upcoming sessions with Hagerty. He’d rather talk about something else, like the video he shot for “Viral” a few days earlier, when he ate “hundreds and hundreds of eggs” and watched Nastassja Kinski’s daughter dance around the director’s house. But mostly, he’d rather draw, which he calls “the most satisfying thing that I do.”

Blumberg draws every day, filling a new notebook every two or three days, when it becomes time to start another. He draws at home, he draws on the road, he draws in the studio; and one of the things he loves about drawing, and why it feels so meditative, is that “it doesn’t involve language. I mean, it is language in a way, but it doesn’t involve words.”

For the cover of Unreal, he’s chosen a drawing of two genderless naked figures, one sitting on a motorcycle, kind of, while the other—which only has half a body—floats in mid-air. Or maybe it has a wheel instead of legs, and there’s a diagram of motorcycle handlebars in between, with arrows leading to the different parts. He wanted “some sort of machinery involved in the cover,” because that’s how the album feels to him, and because he felt the picture somehow fit the name Hebronix.

“I’m not that interested in the process of dissecting … I think it would … well, it’s always felt slightly unnecessary to … footnote the lyrics or the drawings,” says Blumberg, with the sound of birds singing in the background. “It’s weird with names, I’ve been doing this for eight years, since I was 15, and I’ve had quite a few different names. One of the big things for me was that Hebronix worked nicely with my drawings. I had it written next to one of my drawings, which is important to me because I use my drawings for my albums … So, there’s no real serious connection to Judaism. I guess it was a bit of an homage to Silver Jews, though that’s not a very interesting story about the name, unfortunately … It’s not something that I’ve thought about; it’s been more of … an experience, where I’m still learning. It still feels quite new, making records, and the ones I’ve made, I guess I’ve approached them with … curiosity.”

—Kenny Berkowitz

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Elliott Smith: All Things Must Pass

Hard to believe it’s been 10 years since Elliott Smith died. This is from 2005.


Elliott Smith, 34, died on Oct. 21, 2003. He is survived by a private history, his personal demons, questions about his death and some songs that make sense of it all. By Jonathan Valania

Something terrible happened on the night of Oct. 21, 2003, in the cozy, box-like bungalow at 1857 1/2 Lemoyne Street in the Echo Park section of Los Angeles where Elliott Smith lived with girlfriend Jennifer Chiba. In Chiba’s version of events, the couple had an argument that grew so heated she locked herself in the bathroom. At some point, she heard Smith scream and unlocked the door to see him standing with his back to her. When he turned around, there was a knife sticking out of his chest and he was gasping for breath. Panicked, Chiba pulled the knife out of him, and Smith turned and took a few steps before collapsing. Chiba called 911, and an operator talked her through CPR until the paramedics arrived. Smith was rushed to a nearby hospital, where emergency surgery to repair the two stab wounds to the heart couldn’t save his life.

Back at the house, police found a note written on a Post-It:
I’m so sorry.
Love, Elliott
God forgive me.

When the coroner’s report was finally issued in January 2004, the nature of Smith’s death was maddeningly ambiguous. While the circumstances of the case had most of the hallmarks of a suicide, certain factors also pointed to the possibility of a homicide: the absence of hesitation wounds (the nicks and cuts that come from tentative initial attempts to stab yourself), the fact that Smith didn’t remove his shirt before stabbing himself, a pair of cuts on his hand and arm that could’ve been defensive wounds incurred while fighting off an attacker. There’s also Chiba’s removal of the knife and what police characterize as her refusal to cooperate with investigators, all of which leaves the precise nature of Smith’s death in limbo. Chiba has since refuted police reports that she didn’t cooperate, but the case remains officially open and under investigation.

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Quasi: Quality Controllers


Pared back to a duo, the critical-thinker exes of Quasi refuse to accept mediocrity.

“I have to be really careful of what shows I go to anymore. I end up being upset. It’s a problem with the audience. A band needs to be shown by the audience where they’re lacking. It’s not being done anymore.”

Sam Coomes is talking about the impetus behind some lines in “Bedbug Town,” from Quasi’s thrilling new double album Mole City (Kill Rock Stars). It’s one of a handful of songs—this one loping roadhouse blues—that directly addresses the “soul-sucking” state of music today and reaffirms the right to be messy, lo-fi and fiercely independent:

Now you’re back on the scene looking sober and clean/And now I’m the one who seems so dirty and mean/I won’t sing along to that soul-sucking song/No way, no how/I’m going back down to Bedbug Town/You do me one up and I’ll do you one down/I’m so tired of all the fucking around—blood from a stone!

For the past 20 years, Coomes, on analog keyboards and guitars, and Janet Weiss, on drums, have made passionate, raucous music in Quasi. In the beginning, their partnership was marital as well as musical, but it continued past their divorce and concurrent with their work in other bands: Coomes in Heatmiser with Elliott Smith when Quasi began, and later as a guest with Built To Spill; Weiss as a member of Sleater-Kinney, Stephen Malkmus And The Jicks and Wild Flag. Mole City is a culmination of Quasi’s many strengths: its oversaturated and distorted sound, its singsong and shouted melodies, its controlled abandon.

“I call it a rebelliousness,” says Weiss. “Sam and I are both fairly rebellious. We just grew up that way, listening to punk or punk-inspired music. Those do-it-yourself, anti-corporate ideals are very strong for the two of us. That’s partly why this union has worked for this long. You talk about relationships: You need to have the same ideas about money, the same ideas about where you want to live, the same ideas of religion or whatever. These things can make a long-term relationship. It’s easier if at the core your values are the same. With Sam and me, our musical values are still very much the same.”

Those values were present in the process of making Mole City, which the duo recorded on its own in the basement of Coomes’ Portland, Ore., home. It is also present in the lyrics, making Mole City—the title refers to the underground music scene—an existential statement of purpose and a reminder of the power of self-determination coming from a pair of veterans.

Get Coomes and Weiss talking about their ideals, and they tend to become passionate. Here’s Coomes on “Bedbug Town”: “I think there’s an attitude among younger people—there’s good things and bad things about it—but they’re much more accepting of things that were not acceptable to my generation. They have this expression: ‘It’s all good.’ You can get up there and play some mediocre music, and people don’t want to be harsh. They clap and say, ‘Great job.’ They were raised to be appreciative and supportive, which is wonderful, but I don’t think it’s doing anybody a favor in the music scene. Unconditional approval is great from your mom but it’s terrible for music.

“As a fan, I’m sitting at shows, and the band is just terrible. Well, they’re not even terrible—they’re just mediocre. And I notice fans, they don’t seem to be loving it, but after every song, they clap. I’ll talk to somebody afterwards and say, ‘What did you think? It was pretty horrible.’ And they’ll say, ‘No, they’re nice people and they’re trying and it was pretty good, and I liked it.’ I feel like there’s a lack of criticality among people. It tends to drive me a little bit crazy.”

“I feel lucky to have a collaborator who feels as strongly as I do about the co-opting of the human spirit,” says Weiss, laughing a bit at her own lofty language. “It seems like a big deal to me, but a lot of people don’t think it is. It’s something I talk about; it’s something I try to project in my music, in my decisions about whether or not to sell music to certain commercials. It’s an ongoing dialogue for me. I’m not saying I know everything about it, but I’m making decisions for myself and for my own band and trying to stand for something for people who are just starting to make music and are looking for people who don’t really want to be a part of the corporate commercial scene. We’re not making music to be in commercials, and we never will.”

Although Mole City’s 61 minutes fit on a single CD, it’s billed as a double album, and it has the expansiveness, diversions and thematic unity of, say, Hüsker Dü’s Zen Arcade or the Minutemen’s Double Nickels On The Dime. According to Coomes, the goal from the start was “to go big” and to present some new challenges to the duo.

“A lot of my favorite records are where bands were really able to stretch,” he says. “A double album allows a band to do that: You don’t have to edit out stuff that’s cool, but doesn’t necessarily fit in with a smaller group of songs. It allows a lot more creative breadth. We didn’t just want to make a double album that was just long. We wanted to make a double album in the way of Zen Arcade or some of the other classic double albums. Not to say that our work is on par with Physical Graffiti or Exile On Main Street, but that concept is what we were aiming for.”

The album boasts flat-out rock ‘n’ roll in guitar songs like “Blasted,” “Nostalgia Kills” and “Double Deuce”; it offers plenty of Coomes’ trademark Roxichord organ and piano, distorted into overdrive on the honky-tonk-style “Fat Fanny Land” and the rollicking “See You On Mars”; it has its share of oddball snippets and inspired experiments, such as the ominous “Loopy,” the squelchy “Chrome Duck” and the twangy “One & Done.” And it has the loose immediacy that’s always been part of Quasi’s best work—1998’s Featuring “Birds” comes to mind—with some unruly first-take performances.

“We always want to have that sort of liveliness—we want it to feel alive, like there’s actual humans playing it,” says Weiss, and indeed, the DIY creative process was important to the meaning of the work.

“We wanted to come down firmly on our ideals and reiterate in obvious ways what we stand for as a band, how we do things,” says Coomes. “I think a lot of things have changed in recent years. A lot of our ideals about not exactly the type of music we make, but the way we do it and how we try to conduct ourselves in the world as a band are no longer really taken for granted or even understood by a lot of people. So, we wanted to reiterate that in terms of process and kind of get back to that in a way we thought was kind of obvious. It was a musical concept to begin with, and kind of an ideological statement, too.”

When Quasi began sporadic work on Mole City two years ago, Joanna Bolme was still a member of the band, and Coomes had written some songs, later discarded, with the power trio in mind. Bolme plays bass in the Jicks with Weiss and, like Coomes, had played with Elliott Smith. She joined Quasi on the tour for 2003’s When The Going Gets Dark and was an official member for 2010’s American Gong. But the logistics for Quasi were difficult enough given Weiss’s other band commitments and even more so with a third person.

“There’s always problems in a band,” says Coomes. “I think what it came down to is whatever problems we’d had in the past, we’d worked it out from the perspective of two people, a duo, and when it became obvious that the album was going to be a protracted process, it was a lot easier, given that everybody plays in other bands and there’s all kinds of logistical problems getting this band together over an extended period, to pare it down to two and start all over again.”

“There’s no rules to Quasi—there’s not a playbook,” says Weiss. “It’s what we feel is best for the songs at the time. There’s definitely an energy that Sam and I have, just the two of us, that’s pure and unfiltered. When you add people—in any band, not just in Quasi—it detracts from the potency of personalities. You have to start compromising, and factoring in more things, and improvising becomes a bit more difficult because now there’s three parts instead of two parts. Sam and I have a real telepathy that’s sort of effortless when it’s working. So, I feel like at times it was probably difficult for Joanna to feel a part of what was happening with the two of us. I can imagine her feeling on the outside at times. We’ve been together 20 years. It’s an intense relationship, musically. We love playing with Joanna; she’s an amazing bass player. It was just the time for us to work together as just the two of us again.”

“The funny thing about Quasi: It makes its own demands,” says Coomes. “It’s a true band, even though it’s just a duo. It’s not really my band, and it’s not Janet’s band. It’s its own thing. We’ve never been able to reinvent the band. We have struck out in various new directions at different times, but it does tend to come back to just being Quasi. I think it has its own identity and it doesn’t work as well outside certain bounds. Luckily, the bounds are big enough to keep it interesting for us to make it worthwhile.”

Most of the album was recorded at the end of 2012, when Weiss found herself with a block of free time away from her other bands and projects, including the recent Drumgasm collaboration with Pearl Jam’s Matt Cameron and Hella/Death Grips’ Zach Hill. Weiss would go to Coomes’ basement studio everyday for four or five hours while Coomes’ wife was at work and his daughter in school.

“What we had was time; what we didn’t have was money,” says Weiss. “So, we just figured out a way to work with those resources.” Both she and Coomes compare the routine to clocking in at a regular job. It was a luxury, they say, to have the concentrated extended period of time and the freedom to work independently, without the pressures of studio time, even if Coomes’ tiny basement—which is another underground reference behind the album’s title—could become claustrophobic.

What Mole City is about, and what Quasi is about, are the defiant possibilities of independence. The album is filled with existential expressions of acceptance of the meaninglessness of life, of joy in the face of emptiness, of commitment to musical ideals against the realities of small expectations. It’s about forging one’s identity without compromising one’s ideals, even if it’s not a political album like 2001’s Hot Shit.

“I’ve given up on politics. That’s the end of it,” says Coomes, although a recent cover of Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs” might belie that claim. “I realized actually at heart, I’m an anarchist. If people could treat all other people with respect and compassion and treat the earth and other aspects of our environment with respect and compassion, we wouldn’t even need politics. And I was finding that when I started thinking politics and talking politics, it wasn’t possible for me to treat other people with respect and compassion. Even my own dear mother, she’d start talking politics, and I’d get all upset and I’d start being a jerk and I’d think, ‘There’s the problem right there.’ I think it’s just better to treat people with respect and compassion when you can, but politics doesn’t help you do that at all.”

But to treat people with respect and compassion does not mean being complacent and accepting averageness, like the passive, uncritical audience at a rock show. For Quasi, respect includes having high standards for the music itself and for the process of its creation.

“If you accept mediocrity, there’s nothing compassionate about that,” says Coomes. “You’re not helping the person to improve; you’re not enlightening them in any way. They’re not doing the band any favors by being uncritical. Music needs to be good. It’s not personal. You’ve got to weed out the crud.”

And how does Mole City fit into that standard, and into Quasi’s body of work?

“Maybe some of the records are more successful than others,” he says, “but I think over time we’ve maintained a basic level, a basic standard that I feel all right about. I don’t know if we’ve improved, but at least we haven’t declined.”

—Steve Klinge

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Wesley Stace: The Player Retires


Wesley Stace has loved and lost both women and his stage name

It’s difficult to imagine anyone left on the face of the planet (already familiar with the man’s work, that is) who isn’t aware that singer/songwriter John Wesley Harding and critically acclaimed novelist Wesley Stace are one and the same. Henceforth, he has announced that he will record under the name Wesley Stace, and hopefully never again be asked why he assumed the name of a 1967 Bob Dylan album, misspelling and all. “It’s like what happens at the end of a Spider-Man or a Batman movie,” says Stace. “When the superhero reveals his true identity to his girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend” may be the operative word on Stace’s new album, Self-Titled (Yep Roc), in which a 47-year-old man, now comfortably married and living in Philadelphia, reflects back over the loves of his younger life. The first LP to appear under his birth name is a quiet, reflective session, produced by old San Francisco pal Chris Von Sneidern, cut mostly with a string quartet, piano, guitar, bass and drums.

“Although some of my songs had autobiographical moments, I’ve never really done anything like this before,” says Stace. “I wanted the feeling of intimacy, with me whispering secrets, something like those old Colin Blunstone records I’ve always loved. I wanted to sing without having to strain, and these songs are very easy to sing, very few chords.”

Stace has been asked, at various gatherings, to play some of his new material. “I’ve never been very comfortable doing that, just grabbing my guitar and digging in,” he says. “I really don’t think my songs go down in that kind of atmosphere.” He might change his mind if anyone ever requests a rendition of “We Will Always Have New York,” a rousing tale of a different girl in a different time. “We were both falling in love with each other and with New York at the same time,” says Stace. Add a familiar skim-coat of piano and Hammond organ, and it’s something Gary Brooker might have turned into a smash with Procol Harum.

“A Canterbury Kiss” reveals a tender moment with Stace and a young girl sitting in a park in England’s majestic cathedral city. “All I wanted to do was give her a kiss, and all she wanted to do was talk about Jimi Hendrix,” he laughs. A pair of songs from a recent collaboration with Fiery Furnaces’ Eleanor Friedberger (”When I Knew” and “Stare At The Sun”) are distilled by Stace into real break-up downers. “Eleanor’s versions of those two, from her new album, are much more upbeat,” he says.

More dramatic than any of the encounters detailed on the new LP was one that Stace remembers as “a complete disaster,” something that was not memorialized in song. He was standing in the queue outside a Hastings cinema, he recalls, when a girl in a striking, aquamarine mohawk asked him for a cigarette. “I leaned over to give her a light,” he says. “And her entire mohawk caught on fire, and it spread like wildfire. Fortunately, she just laughed it off.”

—Jud Cost

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