Ladyhawk came to my attention in a way that pretty much guaranteed I would investigate their music with the utmost interest: they were recommended by Carrie Brownstein on her NPR blog Monitor Mix. If Carrie Brownstein were to recommend that her readers change their names to Schnarfflepopper and move to an island populated by obnoxious Yorkshire Terriers, I'd probably look into it. Continuing my surrender to modernity's methods of discovering new music, I hopped over to their Myspace page to check out what Ladyhawk had to offer and I was almost immediately won over. "I Don't Always Know What You're Saying" is essentially my definition of a clutch rock song - simple but compelling lyrics, vocals that parallel some stellar guitar bits and lots of heartfelt yelling. I am a sucker for heartfelt yelling. I promptly went out and purchased their album, because despite my visits to blogs and band websites, I'm still of the opinion that when you like a band, you should support them by buying their albums. Somewhat unpredictably, my favorite song on the album is their finale, "Ghost Blues." It isn't often that a nine minute song winds up my heavy rotation queue, but "Ghost Blues" is slow and pretty and sad and although there's not out-and-out yelling, there's enough of a desperate drawl to meet my quota for songs that imply wrenching angst. Shots, their second album, is a much more well-rounded, thought-out album and since it's only their second effort (their self-titled first album has "Drunk Eyes" and "The Dugout" to recommend it, but overall doesn't measure up to Shots) I'm definitely looking forward to any future works from them.
I'm about to make a statement that might shock/disturb/freak out anyone who grew up on a healthy diet of punk rock/hardcore. Some might even consider what I am about to say to be sacrilegious, but I urge you to put down your torches and allow me this much, okay?
There are bands within the construct of punk rock/hardcore that are completely untouchable. Bands that, no matter what anyone says, will always - make up part of some punk's Musical Mount Rushmore, a foundation upon the likes of which all other bands will be judged. This is a natural occurrence, really. We're all guilty of doing this, especially when it comes to our own feelings about artistic things - subjectivity be damned, we all have our Sacred Cows.
It took me a while to get into Black Flag.
As much as I love and appreciate Black Flag now, another band altogether helped me to understand them more back in the day. Black Flag really fucked up my perception of music, most notably Greg Ginn's often grinding and off-kilter guitar murdering and rhythmic beatdowns - the shit was just off-time and caused my internal metronome problems. Lyrically - I was down from the get-go. I grokked what they were on to. But it took a little nudge from some other cats from California to turn the lights on in my head...
The Power Of Expression, released by the mighty BL'AST! in 1986(originally released on Wishingwell Records - SST Records reissued it in 1987 ), might possibly be the most complete and definitive California hardcore album, from the opening note/intro to the closing silence.
The first time I ever heard The Power Of Expression, not only was my mind fucking blown clean, but I finally understood Black Flag. Unfairly tagged as nothing more than "Black Flag Jr.*" - this band just fucking lays waste to everything. I had read about them in Thrasher(partly to blame for the label), and I'm pretty sure my friend Brian Engel had told me he had heard them, and that they were right up my alley.
Sure as shit - he wasn't lying. BL'AST! sounded like a violent car crash - all twisting metal and heaving chunks of machinery. BL'AST! connected the dots immediately, as if they were a hybrid form of early Corrosion of Conformity, Black Flag, & Black Sabbath. The guitar sound was murderous - Mike Neider(great interview with him over at Double Cross Webzine) was using a similar set-up to Greg Ginn's, but instead of single line-style riffs, he was pumping out huge-sounding overdriven chords, which totally spoke to me as a fledgling guitar player.
The guys in my band at the time(Grave Mistake) were bugging out on me, because I totally started aping BL'AST! when we would try and jam on new material. We were just kids, so thinking they would be able to follow along in that vicious, herky-jerky manner ended up being really disappointing for me. The Power Of Expression was totally one of those badass albums that flipped a gang of switches in my musical brain. Even now - 20 years later - when I throw the fucker on, it just juices me up.
STIMULI
BL'AST! - 1987-2001(from a documentary that I have yet to track down or see...)
Look Into Myself - Live @ Fender's, CA 1987
*A claim even Henry Rollins made in his book about his years on the road with Black Flag, Get In The Van.
When I think of bands as a vehicle for something more than just the music, the first band that pops into my head is really the one that matters the most - The MC5.
I wasn't even born yet, but Norman Mailer pretty much encapsulates exactly what hearing The MC5 for the first time felt like for me -
"For one of the next acts it hardly mattered~a young white singer with a cherubic face, perhaps eighteen, maybe twenty-eight, his hair in one huge puff ball teased out six to nine inches from his head, was taking off on an interplanetary , then galactic, flight of song, halfway between the space music of Sun Ra and "The Flight of the Bumblebee," the singer's head shaking at the climb like the blur of a buzzing fly, his sound an electric caterwauling of power corne out of the wall ( or the line in the grass, or the wet plates in the batteries) and the singer not bending it, but whirling it, burning it, flashing it down some arc of consciousness, the sound screaming up to a climax of vibrations like one rocket blasting out of itself, the force of the noise a vertigo in the cauldrons of inner space - it was the roar of the beast in all nihilism, electric bass and drum driving behind out of their own non-stop to the end of mind."
The 5 were not even on the same planet with the other bands of their era. I mean, for sheer visceral magnificence, The Stooges(who also cut their teeth in Detroit, Rock City - playing shows with The 5) were around to help them push the envelope a little. But The 5 had fucking chops, whereas The Stooges would just pummel you over and over again with a riff until your heartbeat synched up with it.
I remember the first time I heard them - I was wearing the shit out of The Damned's Machine Gun Etiquette, which has a smoking cover of "Looking At You" on it. My friend Chris Karch(who was deaf, but knew way more about punk rock than anyone I knew back in 1985 - he would blast his stereo so loud your balls would shake. I finally adjusted all his EQ levels for him once, since he had everything set all throaty and mid-range. Once that bass was set right, he just laid on his floor soaking everything in with a huge fucking grin on his face. It was the least I could do for the guy who introduced me to the glory of so many bands I'll be writing about on this here site.) pulled out this record(Kick Out The Jams) and handed it to me. All he said was "you gotta go to the source, Sean."
I took that record home with me, put it on my turntable, plugged my headphones in, and was immediately and utterly destroyed.
The now-famous opening invocation/testimonial, asking the assembled peoples if they were "gonna be a part of the problem, or a part of the solution" was a sneaky set up for what was about to blast right into the core of my brain. This was the most glorious shot across my musical bow - a band as a musical unit, unified as one being, all limbs flailing, soaring distortion, crazed soul-like harmonies and rhythmic beauty. This record kicked my ass all over the place. I had never heard a live recording where it sounded as if the amps were about to burst into flame before. I had never heard a band pushing through chord changes like they were going to drown. I had never heard anything like The MC5 before.
Obviously, I immediately sought out everything they had every recorded. This was long before the interweb, so I invested a lot of time hitting up every record store, asking stoned clerks in Ramones shirts if they knew where I could get my fix of The 5.
I tried to find books and whatnot, but there was nothing really out there. In 1986, it was as if they were a ghostly thing that nobody wanted to discuss. I was starting to think it was some kind of conspiracy, where all the cool kids were keeping me locked out of the clubhouse until I learned the secret handshake or some shit like that.
Eventually, I found a really warped and fucked-up copy of Back In The USA at a garage sale. The woman was shocked at how elated I was, and gave me the fucker for free. It would barely play on my turntable because it was so fucked-up, but I took in each note like communion.
At this point, I was able to find some shit out about The 5 - they had their own political agenda, The White Panther Party, started by their manager(John Sinclair), which was billed as "a total assault on the culture by any means necessary." These fucking guys were the real deal. Under surveillance by the FBI, harassed and beaten by local police - it didn't matter to The MC5.
They were going to bring the music to the people no matter the cost.
I'm not going to go too much further into their history and their inevitable downfall. There is plenty out there to read up on all that shit. To me, The MC5 were the initial spark, that first flickering of a band on a mission - torchbearers for others to follow, like At The Drive-In, The Nation Of Ulysses, and to an extent Refused. These bands learned the blueprint of what they became from The MC5, even if they were unaware of it - no doubt about it.
My suggestion to you, is that you seek them out for yourselves. If they don't move you, you ain't movable.
Everything you ever wanted to know about The MC5 is over at The Gateway.
STIMULI:
Friar's Club Aylesbury, U.K 2-11-72
Clip from Sonic Revolution(A documentary about The MC5)
This one is brought to you by none other, than my BrotherFromAnotherMother, Rob DeWalt. Roberto hails from the glorious Santa Fe compound of disenfranchised AmeriKKKans. He is an all-around bad mofo, who somehow conned the good people of The New Mexican to let him write subversively under their banner. Enjoy -
It was the summer of 1982. I was a 12-year-old, skinny, shy kid sitting in the back of my grandfather's Chevy Impala. Circumstances beyond my control (divorce, let's be honest) found me on the way to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where I spent the next 5 years living with my father and his new bride — a wealthy artist with deep ties to American political history and the darker side of upper-rank Catholicism.
My brother was already in Santa Fe, stabbing at his own identity in the usual ways young teenage boys tend to: defiance; ignorance; and MUSIC. The hardest thing I had to add to the sibling music repertoire was Joan Jett & the Blackhearts' "I Love Rock 'n Roll" and TOTO's "Rosanna." I went from eating brisket on Sundays after church in a modest brick house, to slurping up tofu burritos in the comfy cradle of New Mexico's creative elite. That first year was an eye-opener, to be sure. I was exposed to a plethora of new music, but one particular album made a lasting impression on my psyche — and my taste in music — for decades to come. And it wasn't even a full-length album. Far from it.
The "Nervous Breakdown" seven-inch EP (SST Records) by Cali punk outfit Black Flag was originally released in 1978, and carries the distinction of being the VERY FIRST release for that ramshackle-cum-revered label. Singer Keith Morris, guitarist (and primary EP financier) Greg Ginn, bassist Chuck Dukowski, and drummer Brian Migdol blew my mind with an explosion of angst and raw instrumental power, with the longest song — the EP's title track — lasting just over two minutes.
Perhaps sliding from a devout-Christian environment to one that encouraged individuality and creative exploration was just what the psychiatrist ordered, but to be sure, after a few years, the punk aesthetic began to wear on the hippie parental units — and hard. But I cherished that record, and thank it for opening my eyes to a DIY movement that sparked a generational surge in "owning one's own shit." I hope that's something the new generation of punkers deems suitable to explore.
My "Nervous Breakdown" EP was stolen from my bedroom in 1984, while I was off at summer camp developing a taste for queer culture and boys in Ocean Pacific corduroy shorts. I was smart enough to take a cassette of "Nervous Breakdown" with me to summer camp that year, and to quote Lance B., a fellow camper who also ended up on the right side of hardcore and e-mailed me in 2006:
"Dude, who knew you could say so much in so little time? I wish my parents had that filter … you know, the one that lets everything through, and doesn't judge? Fuck, to be young again, and knowing that…"
One of the cool things that will eventually pan out for this here site - is that we'd love for people to write guest posts about records that changed their lives. Because that's really what the site is all about - sharing with people the glory of the music we hear buried deep in our heads/hearts. The records that changed our perception of what music is/was/could be. The records that inspired us to unleash whatever we hold inside of us. The records that kill us, even after not hearing them for ten years.
The following is the first in a hopefully long line of guest posts. This one comes courtesy of Adam "The King" King, a dear friend of mine from Phoenix. Enjoy...
Songs About Fucking changed my musical life. Highlights of my (embarrassing) musical awareness leading up to my discovery of the 1988 Big Black masterpiece include: Weird Al Yankovic, MC Hammer, Blink 182, NOFX and the Locust. It was at this Locust-peak that I first came across Songs About Fucking.
There is one record store in the metro Phoenix area that specializes in "abrasive" music. I asked an employee at this store (Eastside Records, in Tempe) to recommend something along the Locust --> Swing Kids path, following that direction. He suggested Steve Albini's output in Rapeman and Big Black.
I bought Songs About Fucking, listened, and Aldous Huxley knocked on my third eye and my doors of perception opened up to a brave new world; one where the walls between (unorganized) noise and music (organized noise) became windows separating the two...
Contrived metaphor and allusion aside, Songs About Fucking is, simply, a brilliant record. From the way everything is distorted on every song (except maybe the kick and toms, maybe) to the way they introduce vocal effects into punk-scene music in '88 to the way the album opens with the (arguably) most "complex" track to the noise-brilliant guitar antics of Albini, there is no arguing that this album changes things for (some) people.
The first time I heard Jawbox, was when Maximum Rock 'n' Roll put out the "They Don't Get Paid, They Don't Get Laid, But Boy Do They Work Hard!" compilation(which was chock-full of amazing goodness that I'm sure I'll riff about at some point). Bullet Park was a great introduction to the sound of a band that would end up being one of the most under-rated and under-appreciated groups of the 1990s.
Immediately following their appearance on that compilation, Dischord Records released their full length debut, Grippe - an amazingly melodic record, full of lyrical self-flagellation and introspection.
I was an instant fan. This shit was right up my alley - smart, discordant yet melodic, challenging guitar parts, a rhythm section that pushed air - way beyond the rest of the post-hardcore stuff I was hearing at the time.
Fast forward to 1993, and the major labels were sniffing the blood on the floor in their post-Nirvana feeding frenzy. Jawbox had been touring nonstop, playing every nook and cranny of North America spreading their angular gospel. They ended up signing with Atlantic Records, to the dismay of the punk rock community - along with label(and tour) mates Shudder To Think.
Figuring they could do with an influx of cash, it seemed at the time to be the right move for Jawbox. The resulting album, For Your Own Special Sweetheart is their masterpiece.
Everything about this album just fucking smokes. The guitar sounds are wiry and clean, with just enough distortion tagged onto them to make every song abrasive. J Robbins' literature-laden lyrics still need a decoder ring(as others have often stated), but it's not too hard to realize the theme of the record is salvation - something that seems so fucking emo, but really is integral to all of us who love music with heart.
The album starts off with the roaring FF=66, and doesn't have a single track that will make you want to stop. They made videos for the singles Savory & Cooling Card, toured nonstop as usual, and probably inspired thousands of kids with guitars to read JG Ballard & William Carlos Williams. They went on to record one more album, and then disbanded. J Robbins is now a producer who has worked with a myriad of your favorite bands, and also played in Burning Airlines & Channels. I suggest you dig in to everything he's ever done - you'll thank me for it.
My favorite cuts: Chicago Piano, Breathe, Jackpot Plus!, Cruel Swing.
Occasionally I will go two or three months without listening to Tuscadero's My Way or the Highway and when I finally return to it for a good, long listen, it's nothing short of rejuvenating.
Tuscadero was only around for a heartbeat in the 1990s, released just two albums, barely toured and they can (not inaccurately, especially in regard to their first album, The Pink Album) be characterized as overly poppy, saccharine and vacuous. But that's only on the first listen. There's something very compelling in the exhausted, inured tone of "Hot Head" and "Temper Temper" is something of an ode to mercurial moments that periodically seem to doom relationships. I didn't realize it at the time, but I doubt that at the age of 15 I could have found more positive lyrical messages than "Paper Dolls" or "freak Magnet." "Mutiny," the closing track, is the real clincher though. Even though it's long and difficult to sing along, it is my favorite break-up song, it is quixotically playful and musing, and I have put it on almost every mix tape/cd for the past ten years. Tuscadero releases my inner flapper, it makes me rebound from things I didn't even realize were bothering me, it keeps me on the lighter side of wistfulness.
