No Respect: Evergreen

Evergreen - S/T

   It could be a stretch to say this album doesn't get any respect. Most people who've listened to it have been impressed, and it'd be a fruitless search to find a bad review of this album. Evergreen wasn't missing appreciation, but wide attention. Call it a case of right place, wrong time. Evergreen was formed in the fruitful Louisville scene of the 90's, a scene that produced both Slint and Will Oldham's many guises. But the album was released in the mid 90's by a small Chicago label during a time when arty post rock was reaching full steam. Also during a time when Chicago noise rock and Wicker Park as the new Seattle weren't punch lines. Although Evergreen played garage rock not too distant from the sound of grimy Chicago at the time (Shellac, Urge Overkill, Jesus Lizard, etc.) and featured Slint's Brit Walford on drums (while the music world was beginning to appreciate Spiderland) Evergreen didn't last past one album. I wasn't around at the time, so I can't begin to speak to how or why. But when I listen to this album in the context of the rest of the 90's midwest underground (a diverse scene and arguably an apex, at least in Chicago) this album doesn't sit well with its peers, even though it bears enough similarities.

   It's also worth mentioning that this album was recorded by James Murphy and Nicolas Vernhes at the Rare Book Room. James Murphy's career need no introduction after the early aughts and Nicholas Vernes has since produced masterpieces with the Silver Jews, Animal Collective, and Deerhunter and his studio is arguably one of the most revered in independent music.

   I mention Murphy because he's arguably why this album was re-released a couple of years ago. Either that or Slint's newfound cultural significance at the time. This is how I heard of Evergreen, through a promotional MP3 of "Plastic Bag," which I should mention, is not a particularly strong track. I knew nothing about this band at the time, just a weird song that creeped along with a bizarre Fall style chorus. It was hard to find more of their stuff on the illegal internet, but I eventually tracked down "New York City" and "Whip Cream Bottle" which were stronger and even stranger. I couldn't place what it was that had me hooked, but once I found out that Walford was the drummer, it was enough track down a physical copy.

   I want to say it was near summer when I finally got the CD. I'd also like think the first time I listened to it the whole way through was driving back to South Bend alone, but this seems implausible. I can say that it's perfect driving music, especially if your driving through a place that's not entirely beautiful. The music is dark, muscular, muddy, and inebriated, some of my favorite qualities in music by far. It's also a bit obtuse and diffused, which is a strange thing to say about a garage band. Some of this is thanks to Murphy and Vernhes production, which here owes a lot to Steve Albini, maybe turned down a little. Every sound lives in physical space, nothing is in the red or right in your face, a risky proposition for such a powerful band. It works, especially when turned up really loud and the band sounds like it's actually in your room, or your car is a small music venue.

   The band has some simple goals here, get drunk, get loud, get weird, rock out. By all accounts they succeed. In the process they also created an album that could be mistaken for the debut of a much greater band. Despite the fuck-all attitude and disinterest in saying anything coherent, Evergreen made a well paced album that has more than enough golden moments, the kind of moments that push a pretty good album into the realm of great albums. It's a stretch to call this a lost great album let alone a forgotten masterpiece. Yet, there are enough signs that this band took it's music seriously, and it's those moments that keep me coming back to this record. One of these moments falls right after the breakdown in "Klark Kent." After a pound your door down beginning, the band falls into tight mid-tempo stomp, guitars wobbling around like they're out of breath and then Sean McLoughlin slurs "We were suckled in the swamplands... Raised on revolution..." This moment of accidental brilliance is like dancing your ass off at a party then bullshitting with your friends until three in the morning, and right as the conversation is winding down, as everyone reaches the end of their raucous laughter, your buddy suddenly says something cryptic and strangely poignant. Half of your friends look at each other like WTF while you wonder drunkenly whether or not you just heard some strange confession or prophecy. It's not elegant or even very poetic, but within the context it's a beautiful moment, a moment where words and music push you back into your messy unconscious where everything is profound and strange.

   From the what-the-fuck-is-that cover art to the plodding synth lines of the instrumental "New York City" Evergreen is perfectly at home confounding any expectation, even to a fault. I suppose they wouldn't have any of this mystique had I been around Kentucky in 1995. But then again, maybe I would have been proud to have such a singular rock act hail from my hometown. Either way, I'm happy to let this album make me believe I'm there: drunk in someones basement deep in the hilly woods of suburban Louisville, listening to the best band no one's ever heard of.

See if it works for you here

Some poeple can't get No Respect: One Time Bells

Introducing the No Respect series, a new project dedicated to praising the unappreciated or overlooked. Well see how long this lasts, but I hope this will pull me away from the pointless ranting (raving) that I've become fond of. Today, I start with early aughts post punk revival also-rans and current d-listers, the French Kick's first album, One Time Bells.

French Kicks - One Time Bells

   First, a little history (skip down a couple paragraphs for the real review if this bores you to tears). I found out about this album while searching amazon.com for similar artists to the Strokes while in Newspaper class. Just sorta killing time while I pissed away the first two class periods of the day. On Amazon there was an ad banner for "Hot New York bands" which advertised both the Walkmen's debut album and this little forgotten gem. Interesting that the ad was not much more than the above words and pictures of said albums. Also interesting that this was all it took to convince me that I desperately needed both albums immediately, a distant time of nievete for both the internet and myself. Also, who knew the tiny Startime label had such a marketing budget? The hunt had begun. I listened closely to 30 second clips of all the songs and thought, oh boy, this is like the Strokes but a bit more distant and cold, more rough around the edges, more believably a real underground band. I had to have it.
   A few weeks later I was in Chicago for a youth group midwinter formal. Like prom for frustrated christian kids set in Chicago featuring shopping at Watertower, a night at the Holiday Inn, dinner at fuck if I can remember, and classical music brought to you by the Moody Bible Institute's symphony orchestra. Honestly not the worst evening I've ever spent in Chicago. I snuck off to the poolroom that night to stare at the skyline and dream of urban fantasies. The next day while shopping, I made my way to Borders on Michigan determined to buy this album to soundtrack said fantasies. I asked the clerk for the album and she said she'd hadn't heard of it (YES!! I WIN!) but was able to track it down. $14 dollars later I cradled the digipak in my hands and basked in the glow of a perfect find. I was at this point, surely the coolest kid in my youth group, and not too secretly breaking away from the pack.
   I didn't get to listen to the album until I got home due to a draconian no headphones rule in the church van. At this point, I think I was about to kill someone as I watched the skyline disappear as we made our way back to the permagrey of northwestern Indiana.
   When I finally got home, CD on deck, headphones in and pushed play, I can't say I was blown to pieces. But my ears were perked. Something about the angular warbly guitars, the never totally on key singing, and the incredibly dry production almost put me off. But the songs were good, and most had one or two oh-shit moments. It wasn't much like anything else I'd heard. Eventually those quirks would be what made this album so unlike some of my other favorites at that time. I can tell now that the rough aesthetic is a choice, but it isn't put overtop the music, it worked within the dynamics of the songs. It gives the album a hungry almost amateur quality. The use of space in the production is disjointed and boxy, some sounds sounding stuffed in a corner, some right in your face, usually in the reverse order you expect. It all could just be amateur recording techniques, but it works very well for the album.
   And the songs. Again, they're not gonna change your life (although, at a certain age, they could), but they are solid and original. Built from a little hardcore, some garage rock, some modish power pop, and a little falsetto, the tracks sounded familiar enough to be uncanny, and they just barely seem to work. Honestly, there are moments that grate (the falsetto on Close to Modern) that risk making the rest of the work feel tenuous. But the Kicks keep it up and deliver assuredly. So much so that they pull off some tricks that in the hands of a lesser band would sound like total shit. The vocals for instance are lazy and a little sardonic, the tender spots almost bordering on parody. Add the fact that none of their voices are instantly memorable, I start to wonder how they even pulled this off. And yet, there's something unassuming about the album that stands in stark relief to everything that came out of New York at this time (since for that matter). Funny that the understated quality is what I find so comforting and lasting about this album, when it's not really what I was looking for at the time, and that this trait has arguably been a hindrance for the band. Much like the Walkmen, the songs make me pine for a time that never existed.* That really is an interesting emotion and rare quality, one that has to be hard to pull off.
   Unfortunately, the Kicks' career has been short of illustrious. Every once in a (great) while I'll read an apologetic review of a new French Kicks release, the long and short of which are always "these guys are alright, I feel bad for them though." As much as I love their debut, their proceeding albums have tended toward slick pop and are (from what I've heard) kinda boring. Which is something you could say about One Time Bells, but you'd be missing on the perfect pop gems like "When you heard you" or "1985" and a propulsive if obtuse line up of songs that have amazingly only gotten better with age.

*This I have to credit to Andy X

Women (Bottom Lounge 3/17/09)

The hitherto mysterious group of Canadians who turned in one of my surprise favorite albums of last year dropped by last night to deliver a show that ranks as one of the best I've seen in a long time. These guys ("four obvious douchebags") tore through their set, delivering their washed out blurry sound with well honed precision and intensity. I expected their carefully crafted aesthetic to suffer in a live setting, but it only benefited. This band is a tight unit. Despite their affable shyness and jokes about being unprofessional, they play like they've been touring their whole lives. "Black Rice" was light and airy, prompting members of the audience to sing along with their eyes closed. "Shaking Hand" was every bit the thrill ride it was on the record, and when the barnstorming breakdown hit, I heard a small chorus of 'wow' and 'yesss' and at least one 'don't stop.'

That breakdown is without a doubt one of the most undeniably awesome moments in music history. But what impresses me about it is not that the band pulled it off (and pulls it off live no sweat), it's that it's only one great moment in a record of many great moments. In their set, Women hit on Sonic Youth style dissonant noise fury, blissful MBV feedback crescendos, intricate rhythmic workouts ala Fugazi, and fragile C86 bedroom pop. And never once did it feel disjointed or scattered. And the new songs sound fucking sweet.

Chicago band Thin Hymns was another sweet surprise. I'm at a moment's loss for words to describe them. Really good? Does that work? Some soaring guitar sounds, some fucking incredible drumming, good harmonies. They played a refreshingly varied set, avoiding the common pitfall of opening acts: all your songs sound the same. Thin Hymns played at a level I did not expect, and they should have had a higher slot on the billing. I'll have to see them again.

Modding guitar pedals and otherwise fixing things that aren't broken

I just finished modifying two guitar pedals in my possession, giving them both new life and better functionality. And, without trying to pat myself on the back (although I am quite impressed with them), I realized how gratifying it is to take something apart and make it better.

Not only have I learned basic electronics, but also sharpened my ability to research, to learn new systems and develop new skills with almost no instruction. It's not like I just fucked around until I got lucky (a lil maybe). I feel like this is another merit badge for my list of Skills For Surviving a Post Apocalyptic Future.

Andrew and I had brainstormed about this very issue. He's seen a biker with a weedwacker sized engine attached to his bike frame. As he buzzed down the road, Andrew declared that the Apocalypse has befallen us, but news hadn't spread yet. This guy must have gotten the memo though, and was already on top of it. Mind you, this is before the financial meltdown. So like William Gibson says, the future is here, it's just not widely distributed yet.

I'm hoping that what I'm learning now fucking around with second hand distortion pedals, could some day help me build wind turbines to power my own pirate radio station of the apocalypse. Or at least power a sweet soundsystem for those end of the world dance parties. Or maybe, I should just be buying lotsa guns.

All of this seems much more feasible than me EVER using ANY of the "SKILLS" learned in dramatic writing. Besides, in an oral culture (and you can bet that's what we'll be for the most part), narrative will be a more important art anyway. Or maybe, there will be post-civilization "happenings" or new forms of performance. But let me tell how fucking useless the dramatic form will be in a world where food is scarce and there is no government to protect you. That will be almost as useless as the degree I'm spending 3000 extra dollars just to get.

Of course, all debts will vanish. So, maybe I don't have an excuse not to show up on Tuesday.

Bros

A response to Leigh's eloquent post about her girlfriends...


During Christmas, my roommates and I had sent a series of emails checking in and wishing each other well. Each one of us had admitted (sometimes begrudgingly) that we were all important to each other, and that we were all thankful for such good friends. Now, you can blame Christmas cheer or cabin fever for this, but it was kind of a big deal for me.


This shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who knows us well. We’ve lived with each other or known each other for years now. We’re the official Lost Boys, the Princes of Pilsen, those assholes, or whatever you want to call us. Jokes aside, I have to admit that I wouldn’t know what to do if I didn’t have these guys.

I’ve had so many close friends in my life, and I’ve tried to tell most of these friends how important they are to me. But looking back, I haven’t had a group of guys were I felt so much a part of. I played sports, I had a band, I’ve had plenty of good male friends. But I haven’t known many guys who I consider my bros. My brother and my dad, sure, we were tight. We were the boys, and I have healthy relationships with them both. But as far as friends, I’ve rarely felt that I could let my guard down amongst other guys. In high school, my friends were petty and competitive. There was a lot of drama, a lot of bitching and cruel backstabbing. The guy I probably had the most healthy relationship with was my bandmate Andrew, but I talked shit about him behind his back out of pure jealousy.


I don’t know if people always realize how cruel men can be to each other. There’s this idea that guys are always out-front with each other, that they get into fist fights and beat each other to a pulp, but afterwards are cool with each other. And yes, that does actually happen. But there are just as many guys who can pull some real mean girl style bullshit and appear totally masculine uncomplicated when they do it.

So when I finally fell in with these guys, I felt a huge sense of relief. We can be masculine and stupid with each other. We can get drunk and disorderly and make cruel fun of each other. But I feel like we all have each other’s backs. And we can be disarmingly honest with each other. That’s the defense I have against the Lost Boys tag. We’re not just dicking around and avoiding responsibility. We’re all very concerned with growing up, becoming good men, good people. And no one is more critical of us than each other.


I know I’m lucky, and I know this won’t last forever. We will all grow up, move out, possibly marry, have families of our own. But I hope we never grow too distant. I would love for our children to be friends, to feel like cousins. That may seem like a pipe dream, but it’s not totally unrealistic. Working with MPAACT, I see old college friends working together, in community with each other, their children playing together like cousins.

I hope we haven’t alienated ourselves from our other friends. This winter has been isolating, and I know, this is what we get for moving so far away. But I hope our friends feel like our doors are open to them anytime. I also hope that the 'boys only club' feeling isn't too strong, that we haven't alienated our female friends. I know that we have, and I'm sorry. It's a pity that it often took breakups or frustration with girls to bring us together. But it's not what holds us together. Besides, as Weezy says, "[we've] been hated by the seasons, so fuck y'all whos hate'n fo no reason"


ahhh


Stay critical or die,

Nigel

The Liars+No Age=Ear Ringing Bliss

Wow. Some shows are jaw-dropping, eye-watering, ear bleeding good. This is one of those shows. First, Aleks and the Drummer was a total surprise, I'm glad to have bands this good in Chicago. I hope to see them again soon.
No Age ripped through their set and I was again blown away that just two people could put on such a great show. I had very high expectations for them, and they blew me away. From the first song, I just lost my shit like I was fifteen at my friends basement show.
And the Liars are the Liars, back injuries or not. They were almost as unstoppable as their performance at pitchfork fest two years ago. By far one of the best shows I've ever seen.

While waiting at the Metro I struck up a conversation with two new friends about the Chicago music scene, and the experience we've had at shows in the city. I'd been to the Metro at least a dozen times since moving here for school. It's a fantastic venue with a long impressive history and probably the best sound for a venue its size.
However, the staff is notoriously awful and even as a 21 year old, they never fail to make me feel like criminals. And at this show, a Tuesday night where everyone there had slushed through sleet and hail to get there, I don't think they were going to have a problem with any of us.

We all agreed that crowds there have a tendency to be stiff and inanimate. Admittedly, I've stood there with my arms crossed when I first moved to the city and thought that was the appropriate thing to do. But when a band like No Age plays an incredible set, there doesn't seem anything else to do but freak out and enjoy. C'mon kids, be hospitable. Show them Chicago isn't full of boring fucktards and aspiring hipster statues.

Also, Randy was showing some love for Corey Rusk and Touch and Go, and the crowd didn't seem to know what he was talking about. Which is pretty ridiculous considering this is CHICAGO and T&G isn't some obscure fetish label. It'd be like playing a show in Olympia and asking about Kill Rock Stars or Bikini Kill and getting blank stares. This happened when Broken Social Scene played the Metro and Kevin was talking about Tortoise and Shellac to no response. He replied "What, you people don't buy records?"

Well for those of us that do, thank you for the props. We're proud of our bands as well. +2 to Aleks and the Drummer for holding there own in an excellent bill.