The Secret South

The Secret South

By Hunter Gatherer

I - What you already know about Country

       There is a common statement that grates my nerves like no other. The tired, old "I listen to everything but Country." It's such a tragic statement because, while I can completely understand what the purveyor is referring to, it's the pinnacle of misguided understanding. It of course stems from this:

"She thinks my tractor's sexy, it really turns her on! She's always starin' at me while I'm chugging along!"

Now, these lyrics may either cause you to vomit a little in your mouth (and I am sorry), or raise your hillbilly fist in the air with pride and dignity (in that case, I am very sorry). Either way, Kenny Chesney illustrates a very important point with his song "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy," and that is to say that Country music is no longer Country music. It has become nothing more than an enormous parody of itself; one that people enjoy and live by but a parody nevertheless. It has managed to shed every trace of worldly influence that made it America's culturally richest and most rewarding genre of music at one time.
       The primary ingredient that has made Country such a vital part of my life is the theme of communal salvation and fellowship through hardship. It is a concept that has endured through every stage of Country's evolution. By its founding principles it is simply music by the people, for the people. No matter how severe the travesty, there is a song out there that will meet you with mutuality. "It's real music [and it's] very easy to relate to a lot of the stories told in the songs," Stephen Gebhardt gushed when asked why Country was so important to him. "I want honest emotion. Country has a lot of that. Strong narratives too, a lot of the time. And great musicianship," added Karma Wangchuck. "It's all about superb musicians playing very simple listenable stuff with amazing precision," added Paul Fonfara of The Painted Saints.
       So where do we stand now? Nashville holds the reigns as the capital of all that America knows as Country music and we have behemoths like Toby Keith, The Zac Brown Band and Taylor Swift (whom Stephen and Karma held mutual disdain for) being pumped through the radio; manufactured, groomed, and polished to make millions and they make no bones about it. It's known as The Nashville Sound. Just in "2009 Country music was the most listened to rush hour radio genre during the evening commute, and second most popular in the morning commute," (1). It's an unstoppable force that America has made its bed with and what's more, it has become the plaque of lower-to-middle American culture that corporations want to get chummy with. "These companies want Middle America on their side, and country is the route to reach that population; where their down-home heart beats in line with their toe-tapping on their front porch," (2). We've all heard Hank Williams Jr.'s Monday Night Football theme and who can deny the affinity between NASCAR and Country? Those are two lower-to-middle American staples inscribed by major corporate America. Tim McGraw's "Something Like That" became a calling card for Clorox (3). Artists have no qualms prostituting their songs for profit―The Song; that, which is meant to express the deepest elements of our humanity and imagination has been reduced to nothing more than a multi-million dollar contract. It's a business now, not even remotely affected by the bleeding soul of what made Country the people's music in the three-hundred years of its growing.

II - A Brief History of Country Music

The point in Country music as we refer to it, was that it once had no name or specific sound. It made no difference whether the songs were Southern bred or brought to America and played by Romanian immigrants, the focus was the same; joy, sorrow, anger, tragedy, love, triumph, and mythology―every aspect of what it was to be alive. I believe the off-putting aspect of Country is the hillbilly caricature it's adopted since its inception, but it's only a by-product of the region it blossomed in. Since the birth of America, settlers from the old world flocked to the Southern territories with their most prized possessions often being instruments and their songs of hardship, pride and humanity. This brought together a jambalaya of sound that knew no bounds. Complicating this musical palette, European and African settlers moving further west began interacting with the Mexicans and Native Americans, creating what we know today as cowboy & trail songs. The Country-Blues also blossomed much in this same way.
       With the invention of public radio in the 1920's, America became infatuated with what we know as old-time music. There was a time when 80% of Americans were dedicated radio listeners, and the music most of them absorbed was the old-time music that encompassed everything from traditional Irish and Scottish folk tunes to Appalachian string bands. There came the advent of the record label as a way to focus and inspire the workers in the big city with their "hillbilly" music, and we were given legends like Fiddlin' John Carson and The Carter Family, both of whom recorded much of what has become the thematic framework for Country as a genre. The spirituality, folklore and mythology of the South, still present today as it ever has been, can be heard in their songs and anything inspired by as such.       It was during the Great Depression that the radio became especially important. It was the household guest that livened a glum existence with empathetic stories or long tales of heroism and villainy in the wild west. In time, the demand for music grew so drastically that the famous Grand Ole Opry became a holy institution. It has remained the longest running Nashville stage in history and popularized Country through an hour long barn dance style broadcast. It was all the rage and it brought any ol' cotton picker or coal miner up to the stage to share their songs. This is where the heads of Country and Folk music met on a massive scale and the true cross-pollination began; artists traveled long and hard so their songs and instruments could be heard and it made way for a nationally endeared phenomenon.       The music continued right on evolving and expanding straight through the booming 1950's. American originals like Bluegrass, Honky Tonk and Western Swing became all the rage in the Opry and solo female artists were on a steady rise. Who can help but be whisked away by Patsy Cline and her infinitely beautiful "Crazy?" However, where the 50's broke the greatest ground was the biggest musical sensation in history thus far, Rock & Roll.       Here came the leather clad boys of war with their slicked back hair, polished boots and electric guitars. Needless to say this changed the musical landscape, not just for America, but the world over. Country got a razor sharp makeover and while much of its fan base stayed true to the sound and spirit of its tried and true origins, there were motleys of new eager listeners that colligated Rock & Roll as Country's dangerous new brother-in-law and never looked back. The similarities can't be all that apparent now to the casual listener and sometimes the Blues get more credit as defining Rock n' Roll, but without Country, you wouldn't have the swagger. One could not exist without the other. Country charged full steam ahead into the 1960's and 70's where Nashville slowly became the multi-million dollar capital and base of operations for all things concerning.       With that we saw the rise of Folk & Country Rock, almost completely interchangeable with Rock's versatility. Given to us were songs that will stand out in history as symbols of social injustice and positive change; "For What It's Worth" by Buffalo Springfield, "Fortunate Son" by Creedence Clearwater Revival and who can forget "Ohio" by Crosby, Stills and Nash? These are artists that took the spirit of Country and helped define a nation with the potency of the music's original purpose. Another aspect of down home Country Rock was The Byrds. They joined forces with Gram Parsons and created what can be thought of as Psychedelic Country. For a slice of true down home fireplace, rocking chair, and whiskey-on-the-rocks brand Country, Neil Young gave us his beautiful solo album Harvest, which single handedly shot him to the throne of Country & Folk Rock.       The same two decades saw the rise of Outlaw Country, sort of the last bastion of true, honest and hard edged country in the eyes of many before it fled down forgotten pastures. These were the rebels of the Country industry; Johnny Paycheck, Kris Kristofferson, Merle Haggard, Bobby Bare, Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, David Allan Coe, and of course The Man in Black,  Johnny Cash. While the Outlaw movement made for some unforgettable new stars and revived some old ones it didn't leave much of an imprint and the Countrypolitan Nashville sound muffled what little was left of their rebel yells.As the 1980's reared its ugly head, the essential genetics of Country were altered so horribly that those who remained true to its original down home purpose were seen as heretical if they didn't comply and quickly faded. Taking their place in sold out coliseums were downright disgraceful pop stars sporting costumes that caricatured and mocked their very existence. This is the Country that we have come to know today. Introduced by acts such as Kenny Rogers, Eddie Rabbitt, Alabama, and even some crossover acts like Dolly Parton and Dottie West; they all cashed in on this incredibly anserine business without looking back for a second.       And when it seemed that Country music couldn't lose its grip with itself any more than it already had, there came the 1990's and the larger-than-life behemoths of Pop Country emerged, invading our radios, televisions, billboards; every single corner of American life. It became impossible to ignore with its in-your-face "we're hillbilly proud" affectation and therefore it imposed a profound sense of disgrace and contempt in those who couldn't stand the likes of Garth Brooks, Billy Ray Cyrus, Reba McEntire, Faith Hill, The Dixie Chicks, Clint Black, Travis Tritt, and so on. The Country Music Television channel only cemented the firm stranglehold these mediocre hacks had on the genre, offering surprisingly strong competition with MTV, which as we all know has also fallen from grace long ago.
       Onward, into the new millennium Pop Country has continued its steady rise in popularity; with that, "I listen to anything but Country music" has understandably become very common phrase. In a world of so much variety, I ask that you allow me to open up your eardrums to the infinite potential that lies before you.

III - Where Do We Go From Here?

       The question stands: where does one go today to find Country music with the principles it upheld over a hundred years ago? Or, what exciting new sounds have ripened within the past forty years with the interbreeding of so many vast genres in America? The surprising answer lingers between the extremely versatile lines of old-time music and Rock & Roll. It's now largely referred to as simply Alternative-Country, but the boundaries are far reaching and a great deal of it you would hardly know to classify as "Country" at all!       Let Beachwood Sparks be our first example. They pick up the twangy soft-spoken spark that The Byrds put down with the death of Gram Parsons and the parting of Roger McGuinn. Their album, "Once We Were Trees" is near perfection when it comes to Country music, much more to the point, Psychedelic Country music. The album is like a dream, driven by a sweet and charming indifference towards the harshness of life.       Tyler Jakes, a world-traveled musician I spoke with is afraid to admit his love for Country because of the reputation it's earned and believes the genre needs to be renamed as a whole because it's simply not representative anymore.

Real country will rape, pillage, and plunder just like Rock 'n' Roll...whereas, fake or "false" country will put the daughter to sleep, just like pop music.

There are still visionaries that have maintained their sharpened teeth; Scott H. Biram, Th' Legendary Shack Shakers, Meat Puppets, and The Gun Club are fine examples of artists that have kept the most important sensibilities strong, consistent and alive. They aren't slack jawed southerners with a mile long drawl―they are musicians that know how to play their instruments and can express themselves passionately through music while minding, yet not caging themselves within their respective roots.       Jim White crafted a strange, daring, and beautiful album in 1997 called Wrong-Eyed Jesus (The Mysterious Tale of How I Shouted). It captured the mythological grandeur of American Country as we used to know. The album was so well received that a documentary was filmed, capturing the inspiration and motivation that pushed Jim White to render such a beautiful work. The premise was simple enough; Jim White barters with an acquaintance for a reliable car that will take him through the Bible Belt of the South, exploring and meditating on the hardship, mythology, and the undeniable presence of The Holy Ghost present in each kindred soul he meets along the way. He encounters numerous like minded artists that flesh out the importance song and lore play in everyday life. Once viewed, your outlook on the South and Country will forever be changed. Taylor Swift can't speak for the humbled souls that stir in the deep South, not by a thousand miles.       David Greenald, a folk-oriented mystic, wandering spirit and musical connoisseur currently residing in the UK provided an outsider's perspective through the looking glass on what "Country" means to him:

I've never really thought of music in terms of genre. I either like the way a piece of music sounds or I don't...I have doubtless[ly] been influenced by many beautiful Country songs without knowing that they were Country songs!...I'm not sure where the limits of the Country genre (or any other) lie. However I do like Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, Waylon Jennings, Leonard Cohen…I think they probably all fit somewhere in the spectrum of Country music. I also love a lot of Bluegrass and stuff like Dan Tyminski's take on "Man of Constant Sorrow." Is that still Country? You tell me!

As you have read through this article, you know now that David's tastes in Bluegrass and the folk-staple "Man of Constant Sorrow" is very much Country by true definition. His uncertainty further proves my point.

I'm in the UK so it's not the home of Country music and I'm influenced more by interesting stuff from around the globe than I am by English Folk music, although that might creep up on me as my years advance! I love the Desert Blues music of Mali and thereabouts, but equally I love the music of the Taraf Da Haidouks (Romanian Gypsies), not to mention the piano works of Chopin and Beethoven, the genius guitar playing of Jimi Hendrix, and even Bowie and Bolan (although I won't be imitating the glam antics anytime soon―it's not the 70s anymore). I guess all things change and evolve. How long anything lasts is sometimes down to the laws of natural selection. Country music will be around as long as folks like to play it and like to hear it! If we want to increase its popularity, we should probably try to make it illegal! That usually does the job!

Greenald's words just go to show how cultural influence will completely defy genre, yet still pertain to a general idea, such as "Country," which is to say the music of the people.

I've never really subscribed to the idea that a particular kind of music is the rightful property of any particular geographical region. Purists sometimes have a problem with this view, but I have always felt completely happy fitting in and out of genres and hovering [between] the gaps as best I can! And while the purists might regard these activities as inauthentic from the strict genre standpoint, I tend to be more concerned about whether my music is authentic as in true to something that I feel. It's just that my feelings vary wildly I guess, but isn't that true for most of us?

It's very much true of any musician worth their salt. Nothing is ever set in concrete. The world is too vast and varied to impose limitations on one's self. To adhere to restriction is to bankrupt one's self of their full potential. Tyler Jakes and David Greenald no doubt know this and demolish the regulations set before them each waking moment of their life. No easy task, to be sure. It takes a bold mind and courageous heart to challenge the extremes on a daily basis.       If you're intrigued by a darker, more adventurous side of Country you might find some eerie comfort in the Denver Sound. A little known, short lived group known as The Denver Gentlemen hatched their seed in the early nineties and every single member has since gone off to create diabolically menacing groups that revel in story and gospel by way of gypsy-klezmer-cabaret laden, gospel charged landscapes with a spaghetti-western flare. The true genre-definer of these groups was 16 Horsepower. Fronted by David Eugene Edwards, this outfit of bible-thumping hellraisers gave Country a makeover that was decades overdue. No untruth will ever go spoken in the mad preacher gospel of Edwards. He lives the music he plays and loves the God he praises unabashedly, serving up integrity that has long been absent. Along with 16 Horsepower, there came the eccentric and unpredictable Slim Cessna's Autoclub, Jay Munly & The Lee Lewis Harlots, Lilium, and Woven Hand, which is Edwards' solo project. Your eardrums will be ignited with strange and wonderful sounds you'd never think to expect from the genre of Country, much less American music at all.       In a strange and wonderful twist, Country has found a charm in the ears of the twisted and depraved just as well as the wholesome and it offers an extremely unique facet of Country music and a very unlikely fan base-metal heads! We will call it Gothic Americana since there are innumerable cross-genres involved. Metal aficionado and prestigious leader of The Proud and The Damned: Jim Strange helped shed some light on the fascinatingly alluring iniquities in this fecundation of genres:

The first Country artists I got into were Johnny Cash and Marty Robbins. . . .it reminded me of story-based Heavy Metal like Mercyful Fate, but with cowboys instead of the supernatural. The narratives in their songs were very strong, it was like having a picture painted in my head, something completely lacking in the music popular during my youth.

Equally as fascinating to Jim and Gothic Americaners alike is the concept behind gospel and the "mean-spiritedness" behind it:

"You don't believe in what I do? Cool, you're going to Hell forever." We have a million      love songs, but what are the stakes of a love song? Whatever they are, I don't think they can compete with eternal-damnation. I don't think it matters whether the listener believes in damnation or not as long as the singer does. . . .It's amazing [that] someone can sing a song like this, completely straight-faced, and not be labeled a misanthrope and enemy to all mankind.

A bifocal perspective for a time-honored genre of music! Johnny Cash should be smirking in his grave. It's fascinating what sort of spin an artist can put on a genre of music when you consider its intent more than a hundred years ago.            Local favorite, The Builders and The Butchers, have been rocking Portland, Oregon stages with their unique brand of Gothic Western Country for years now. Their lead man, Ryan Sollee offered me his insight into the state of Country music as it stands today:

I really think [it's] alive and well, just mislabeled. Country Radio and Country music culture seems more like Pop for conservative red state Americans. That kind of Country music has become a soundtrack for a lifestyle and a certain set of values. There will always be Punk kids learning guitar and playing Johnny Cash songs, and as long as that is the case, Country music will be just fine. It's America as whole that I worry about.

Ryan's promising outlook is entirely valid. There is no point salting our wounds with false hope by praying that the radio will someday rise above its mediocrity when there is clearly a vast array of alternative. Just take one of the artists I've mentioned, go to Pandora.com and click play! There is more undiscovered music than you can possibly imagine, just waiting to whoop Brad Paisley's "Accidental Racist" ass.            Paul Fonfara, the multi-instrumentalist leadman of The Painted Saints let me in on his fascinations and inspirational sources with the genre:

Country is sort of to invent yourself in a more interesting mythology. That's what makes the spaghetti western films so appealing. I know a ton of people who perform today in what we think of as oddball [Alternative]-Country, who invented their characters. Life can be damn boring these days especially in an America filled with strip malls, video games etc., so people love a mythology about an idealized America and danger. Johnny Cash singing about shooting a man in Reno [just] to watch him die is all fiction, but really beautiful. I think good Country music contains fiction about the every day, and also some theater to it....kind of like Flannery O'Connor.

Fonfara's band, The Painted Saints ooze mythology and dreamlike texture by way of a more old-timey klezmer induced stringed theatre production and takes the listener on a ride through time with its beautiful variations in instrument. The mythologies are in the setting; dark rooms with low, dim lights and flickering candles; characters of low moral character and the ill-fated virtuous.       For those who still yearn for the sweet old-timey Country stylings of Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Ramblin' Jack Elliot, and George Jones, fear not! The spear has been picked up and sharpened for future generations by Hank III, the gnarled chip off the old Williams block. He offers up what is lacking in everything Country with a pioneer's vision; albums steeped in murky Louisianan Cajun voodoo, fierce Cow Metal pitted within a hellscape of atmospheric Godless animosity, and of course, good old-fashioned songs about our everyday struggles and what it means to be still kicking against the pricks in today's world of shit music. Following his lead; Those Poor Bastards, Giant Sand, Mark Lanegan, Sun Volt, and many others have stepped up to offer vastly different takes on what Country means to them and it is all incredibly unique.

            IV - And So...

            What can be said of Country today? It most certainly shouldn't be taken at face value, for one. It reaches so much further than the grueling love song routine or backyard barbecue anthem, it's almost criminal that it remains as unacknowledged and misunderstood as it is. Paul Fonfara was well spoken when he said that

The best guitar players on earth are all in Nashville and it always amuses me to hear a newer song with the worst cliche, lowest common denominator lyrics with 16 bars of a perfect guitar solo. Most of what you hear out of Nashville today is god awful, and honestly I don't even know who is who in that world.

            Whether Country is just the sheet of background noise to your drive to work, or your religion outside of church, I implore you, reader, to expand your mind. Let's destroy this  monopoly that Nashville has on America's concept of Country and give it new life. My hope is that I've given you more to consider when you hear it said "I listen to everything but Country" because it truly is a terrible blanket statement. As Tyler Jakes said, "it's all about the roots, where it all comes from―the earth, the ground―deep down in the belly of the beast!"

Works Cited

Piazza, Jo. “Going Country Means Big Bucks For Pop Stars.” WWW.PopEater.Com.             03/30/2011. Web. 03/03/2012 http://www.popeater.com/2011/03/30/gaga-bieber-country-
       crossover/Ward, Jaime. “Corporate Sponsors’ Cash Sings to Country Music Industry.”                     http://www.musicnewsnashville.com. 07/13/2010. Web. 03/05/2012             http://www.musicnewsnashville.com/corporate-sponsors-cash-sings-to-country-music-    
       industry

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - The Specter at the Feast

The Riddle of the Specter at the Feast

 The fifteen year life span of the Psychedelic, Shoegaze Garage Rock collective, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (BRMC) has been fraught with trials and tribulations that would spell certain doom for nearly any modern group of musicians. Despite all of this, Robert Been, bassist and dual vocalist opposite Peter Hayes, guitarist and equal handed mastermind of the group have delivered consistently impressive albums that have earned them a dedicated fan base across the globe and in doing so, have developed an entire realm of genre bending sounds that keep us guessing with each new release. The rebel duo were out a drummer after nearly ten years of discord with Nick Jago who was distracted with personal difficulties. The beautiful and talented Leah Shapiro has taken up the leather in his stead and her feral drumming instincts bring new ferocity and life to the trio, born anew.
It was during touring for their fifth full length release, Beat The Devil's Tattoo, that irreparable tragedy had struck the band. Robert lost his father, Michael Been of the 1980's New Wave Rock group The Call, to a heart attack after a Belgian music festival. He was the acting sound engineer, source of wisdom, inspiration, and more or less a parent figure to Peter who practically grew up beneath the same roof. It was a heavy blow struck to the ribcage of a band that had just picked themselves up off the dirty floor. A three year hiatus ensued.
Luckily for the music world, there is nary an earth shattering tragedy that can break the brother-like bond of the two core members. Their pitch rebel spirits colligated stronger than ever before and with their new drummer present to sear their agitated nerves with a mind for constructive ventilation, the trio embarked upon what would manifest as their utmost seasoned, cimmerian and at times savage efforts to date. This operose undertaking would bring to question all of their previous accomplishments, as well as their future aspirations and what, if anything, it would mean to continue on with their music at all. For three years it was a shapeless apparition that refused to take any form, but lingered at their table―ever taunting with questions that couldn't be answered. The album was thusly titled Specter at the Feast.

The first track "Fire Walker" is a moody slow burner that simmers with long-steeped agitation as if wandering cautiously through a house of mirrors. Robert's words are wincing and clinched as if biting the insides of his cheeks until he can taste blood. This sort of bitter dramatic bravura is little-known in BRMC's albums. They've played around with ambience and mantra-esque segues in their self-titled debut album B.R.M.C. and one of my favorites off Baby 81, "666 Conducer," but it wasn't of this ilk. It serves as a very appropriate post-script to their hiatus and a mood-setter for the album.
This leads us into their single and all-too-appropriate cover of The Call's hit single of the eighties, "Let The Day Begin" with its manic introductory drumbeat and a sharp dressed nineties British Rock makeover. Been doesn't try for a moment to channel his father's David Byrne-esque vocal style but instead makes the song his own. This leads us into softer, more remote territory with "Returning" and "Lullaby," both markedly toned down for the casual BRMC fan, yet still bearing their unmistakable skull-and-crossbones branding.
The beauty of BRMC is that it's like a conjoined twin hood of music. Some may call it imbalanced, others may think of it as bipolar musicianship―I dare say it's simply satisfying all taste buds. The first portion of the album is composed and coordinated largely by Robert. By this point, many faithful are no doubt questioning the album's direction and whether or not they can accept this shadow of the BRMC they once knew, and that is when Peter pours on the gasoline with "Hate The Taste," and in fine, full bannered Rock & Roll form! This is where barn burners come raping and pillaging our eardrums with the grinding Blues-laced barbarism of BRMC-past and not a moment too soon.

The album continues much in the same way. They maintain a balance between hair-raising, riff and whammy infused Fuzz Rock―some of which may even spark hazy memories of Grunge and the unkempt angst that made it so attractive, and then somber works like "Some Kind of Ghost," which will invoke visions of robed congregations slowly wading through murky swamp waters in search of the salvation only sweet southern Gospel can provide. Truly, I cannot think of a solitary band principally attached to the Psychedelic Rock & Roll scene with such a wide scope of sound. This is precisely why music is supposed to be an exciting frontier without cages or limits. Not at all a signed contract standardized by record labels who have the final say in what can and cannot be tolerated.
It can't be said that this is their most seamless work to date, but it is an irrefutable shotgun blast into the air announcing that they're intent on sticking around and I couldn't be happier about that. The specter, that which has lingered not just with the passing of Robert's father, but within the shadow of much of the afflictions they've endured for so long, seems to have been cast away at long last. I just sincerely hope we aren't left waiting another three years to see what comes next

Siddhartha - A Trip to Innerself

Siddhartha - A Trip to Inner Self (Trail Records, 2009)

Siddhartha have created something special for us. They’ve forged the true psychedelic pill that Neil Young attempted in 2012, meant in all purports to transpose us from this chaotic world to the domain of our subconscious mind and whatever transcendental enchantment or terror that may lie within it. It’s a truly bold and bronzy experience—a symphonious expedition that I felt a pinch of hesitancy to dive into. It takes a strong stomach and able mind to endure an album like this from front to back, there can be no denying that, but the end result is very rewarding and you’ll wish you’d have taken the ride a lot sooner. And your first ride will never be your last.
For those unfamiliar, Siddhartha was an influential book written in 1922, published within America in 1951 and is the inspiration for many Buddhist philosophizers in reckoning of transcendence and renunciation (1). It is obvious the artistic intent of this album then; to transport us from one living world to the next. They achieve that with musician’s virtuosity and progressive rock’s paint brush; dabbling in many colors that coat sprawling, mile-long corridors and assembling numerous soundscapes that are minimalistic and maximal, hushed and deafening with a six band member base, not to mention the upward towards five on-and-off guest musicians. The tracks flow seamlessly together in large Rock-orchestral movements, creating a solid sense of cohesion in the journey with minimal interruption or time to reflect until the entire trip has slowed to a halt. The infrequent silences that do fall are curious; hardly ever at track's end, but falling within the lifespan of a ten minute opus and setting a new musical direction. The entire experience encourages one to slow down and (forgive the clichéd expression) smell the roses, for this is a truly unique treat from a band that has very sadly dissolved as of 2001.
Turkey has, to my surprise, been the source of a great score of skilled psychedelic groups throughout the years, but none so coordinated and focused in their intent as what Siddhartha have put on display here. Their album has been greeted with top honors as the "4th edition of Prog Awards album of the year in 2009.” A Trip to Inner Self has been re-issued in a limited collector’s edition as of 2012 (2 ). My advice is to pick it up while it lasts because nothing this good ever lasts for very long.

1 - Hesse, Hermann. Siddhartha; [New York]: New Directions, 1951. Print.

2 - "Trip to Innerself [Import]." Amazon.com: Trip to Innerself: Siddhartha: Music. Amazon, n.d. Web. 07 Mar. 2013. .


Review written by Hunter Gatherer
© HTTP://WWW.PSYCHEDELICBABY.BLOGSPOT.COM

The Psychic Ills, live @ The Doug Fir Lounge March 2nd

The Psychic Ills, supported by Föllakzoid and Kinski

March 2nd, 2013

The Psychic Ills have given us One Track Mind in 2013, an album that can be considered fairly more accessible than much of their previous work. That isn't a negative attribute in the least. In fact, on the contrary. I believe this album sheds light on the well rounded adaptablity that the entire band harnesses. There is restraint exercised that sharpens the psychedelic-pointed ambition of their music; it truly must be experienced live to really feel the chilling impact of these new songs they have constructed. That is testament received first hand by yours truly because my first run through One Track Mind was very forgettable at best. The very same day I saw them perform most of the songs ten feet before me and I felt an immediate urgency to return to the album so that the flame their performance sparked would be re-ignited. Now there is no turning back. I listen to it at least once a day in order to preserve my sanity.

Before I divulge too much, allow me to set the stage for that March 2nd evening. There were two opening acts of some renown; Föllakzoid from Chile and Kinski from Seattle, Washington. Two bands with two drastically different approaches and ideas in the vast world of Psychedelic Rock and Roll. Föllakzoid was interstellar, galaxy hopping break-out-the-joints Rock and Roll to the furthest degree that can be defined, while Kinski played a very primordial, brutish, breakneck set that got the crowd worked up more than The Doug Fir Lounge is probably used to with the malaise of their usual soft hearted Indie Rock fare.

Both bands were prime appetizers, but it's always a thrill to watch a lead act take the stage knowing they harness everything you're craving but with seasoned variety, expertise, and the headliner's allotted time to let their music quake their fans' hearts and souls. Their set was a very appropriate blend of their earlier droned out experimentations in sound and the melodically attainable newer works, much of the time passing in and out through one another seamlessly. They pleased old fans and forged new ones, such as the out-of-town Seattle couple my wife met, whom were celebrating their 30th year anniversary with a trip to Portland and a spontaneous show featuring a completely unfamiliar band. Judging by their dancing and the elated faces around the venue it was quite a successful evening. This reviewer approves of any future Psychic Ills endeavor as long as they keep their heads in the right place. Keep on keepin' on!

Clann Zú

Clann Zú

It's rare that an EP can convey so much experience and depth within a band's potential, but Clann Zú, a collaboration of Australian and Irish musicians steeped in roots of Classical, Punk, Electronica, and very much Progressive Rock, achieved something spectacular with their self-titled EP. Self-released in 2000, the four-piece collective divulged five tracks that exist as organically unique from one another as could be imagined. 

The first track, "Of Course It Is" unfolds gently with deeply colorful guitar that washes over you in an oceanic blue haze. It swirls around your ear cavities and blooms with eventually subtle accompaniment from percussion and a whirring violin in a complete three-sixty radius, building in gloriously atmospheric intensity until the crescendo makes your hairs stand on end and you melt into euphory. Nothing is rushed. Everything is allowed to unfold in its own sweet, precious time.

The plethora of instrumentation is key to the epic full bodied nature of this work. The strings are a loving ode to the power and majesty of man's symphonic tradition, which verily has an absolutely necessary role in today's music as is demonstrated. The vocals are multilingual, which lends a mystical, free roaming spirit to the work as if they refuse the boundaries that our powers-that-be have set before us. They are strong and reach Olympian, spine tingling heights, yet maintain a honey coated lacquer that make each verse, every refrain a sugary treat for the ears.

There are nods to numerous walks of worldly influence, Jazz scented percussive bursts, electronic samplings lending a varied facet to their harder leanings that nearly shout Rage Against The Machine, but fueled by Irish injustice and years of bottled angst. The work closes with a call to arms and the sampling of an activist making her denouncement known to the world: "the richest people in the world; there are less than two thousand people that control six billion...This planet belongs to all of us."

As I stated originally, I haven't been moved by five solitary tracks in this way for quite a spell of time. Clann Zú have very sadly disbanded in 2004, but we were left with this, and two full length works. Will they match up? This work was so thoroughly good, I'm actually afraid to find out.

Tyler Jakes - Evil

"Music resembles poetry; in each are numerous graces which no methods teach, and which a master hand alone can reach." So said Alexander Pope and no truer words could be spoken.

Music is indeed a great deal like poetry. Cast with the utmost consideration for potency in language, just as the song is as carefully arranged in expressing what burrows deepest within man's complex and convoluted soul. It is a form of expression that has been celebrated, praised, and exercised by the greatest minds in history―an art form that can bear no price.

I happened upon an artist approximately eight years ago―an experience that changed me forever as a fan of music. I wasn't looking for anything different. In fact, I was comfortably nesting in a rut of Classic Rock―I couldn't believe that good music existed outside the glory days of the sixties and seventies. I was raised on Classic Rock―it was Rock and Roll's golden age with its perfectly memorable hooks, attitude and age defining oldies that will forever sit in the back of our collective minds as "that one song"

I can't say I liked Tyler Jakes’ music right away, because he didn't simply emulate the Classic Rock genetics I sought. Jakes absorbed music, vast in difference of time, place, and culture. With a flair for dramatic production he presented the world as he saw it―or perhaps as he wished to see it―with a thick Rock & Roll glaze. Within my first few listens I felt a gnawing conflict in my gut. His music presented sounds that were fresh, raw, new and above all, dangerous to me. It was almost like being a teenager in the late sixties; Tyler Jakes was the secret Black Sabbath record I hid from my Catholic parents. My guilty pleasure.

Tyler Jakes hails from Minneapolis, Minnesota where he had flirted with numerous Rock bands, all of which couldn't be bothered to take the music seriously."I was frustrated," he says, "I really wanted to get somewhere, but none of the bands I was in were taking it very seriously. I felt like I was wasting my time, so I quit." Frustrated, Tyler found a gnawing urgency to escape and take a plunge. "I packed my bags and moved to Europe. I didn't want to be in a band anymore, I just wanted to get away from it all and clear my head."

So he ventured off for what was supposed to be a six week trip. Unbeknownst to Jakes, the surreal charm of life in Europe would ensnare him completely. "I fell in love with it," he recalls, "the people, the pace of life, the music, the food...everything. I mainly lived and traveled between the Czech Republic and Bulgaria. Eastern Europe has become a second home." He would remain there on and off for three years, ever observant and embracive. "The musicians that influenced me when I was there were the gypsies and the 'non-professional' musicians of the villages. Every place I went, someone had a guitar or an accordion or something and we would all start jamming, singing, and dancing."

During this time, he wasted no time writing poetry, lyrics, notes, scraps―what have you. "I was writing purely for the sake of writing. I had no intentions of putting an album out, but I did want to learn to record. So I picked up a cheap used 4-track and a mic at a swap meet and I spent a year experimenting with sound. I had no idea what I was doing, but I think it turned out better that way." After returning to the U.S., he had a working demo, "Lie Awake" that came together with his experimentation. A friend from Minneapolis sent it into a local station and it received a great deal of attention. Within a couple weeks, Jakes received a request from the local record store to stock an album.

When I got my hands on what would become that first official album, Lo-Fi Matter, I was presented with a collection of eleven songs that spanned beloved homegrown American genres like dark, swampy Blues, wayfaring outlaw Folk-Country, Cow Punk, all woven together with European allusions that interjected modern and timelessly old fashioned roots. The kickoff is "Lie Awake," which will take you on a bruising Rock & Roll chainsaw ride, giving a taste of Jakes’ clever tongue and the devilish smirking lyrics that are ever-steeped in hysteria and neurosis. His voice alone has been likened to Tom Waits, Marilyn Manson, Peter Murphy, and even Axl Rose; able to cross from a smoky, gravel-pit vibrato to a banshee's scream in a matter of seconds.

The tracks continue, each standing alone individually as a completely unique work. The album is so diverse that there is no solitary demographic to which it can be presented. It could very well find a home on ten unique radio stations. The mantelpiece of the entire album is no doubt "If I Ever Make It Home" with its rambling bindlestiff spirit. There are works that invoke memories of eighties-Jesus & Mary Chain noise rock, the fond days of Grunge in its prime, experimental spoken word No-Wave Punk numbers that, no doubt, take cues from the agitated beat generation of the seventies and eighties, rambling Gypsy and Spanish Folk-Punk, and heavy sliding Delta Blues in the masterful "Mentholated Blues" with its schizo-paranoid lyrics:

 I cleanse my memories with a moist towelette,

Then I smoke a GPC mentholated cigarette.

I stole some ideas from a third world war,

But now the police officer’s at my door.

The wordplay continues with absolutely striking classic Blues constitution, but slowed down to an absolutely sinister degree. The crowning achievement of this entire album has to be its grand finale, "Bring Me Down" with its outlaw Blues decor, the unforgettable guitar line, and Jakes’ scathing lyrics:

Well I'm a pendulum swinger on the midnight train.

In the codeine garden I'm a child of the rain.

I'm the voice of another; you don't have to pretend,

'Cause I ain't your brother, and I ain't your friend.

I leave it all up to the judge and jury,

'Cause some get lost and some get found.

I'm going up top without a worry.

There ain't nobody gonna bring me down.

Well everybody get together, you got to love someone,

Like birds of a feather flying into the sun.       

That gun wasn't loaded, I tried to explain.

It must have just exploded down memory lane.

The instrumental second half erupts into your ears, summarizing the entire album and every single one of its influences in a hellfire of guitar fury and finally, tender Latin strings mark the glorious exit. He proudly proclaimed later that "this song was recorded with a Radio Shack microphone and an analog Tascam 4-track. After I was done recording it, I ate some chicken and mashed potatoes." It's amazing what can be done with so little. This was the very first track I heard and it set the stage for everything to come.

His goal was a simple one; stay true to himself, his trials and life experiences, no matter what. The music would thence come together effortlessly. When Lo-Fi Matter  was officially released in late 2005, Pulse of the Twin Cities drew comparisons as broad as Bob Dylan and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, remarking that Tyler "is intent on laying down some truly dirty Rock and Roll here...Lo-Fi Matter is a great starting point." Rift Magazine reported that Jakes "displays great range and talent as a song writer. . . . Somebody get this man some more canvas!" Later, "Lie Awake", was featured in the short film "Under The N", with Tyler also performing the film's score.

Still bitten by the travel bug, Jakes packed his bags and headed west for Northern California's beautiful coastline and the eccentricity of San Francisco. It was here that he forged his Bootleggers, a band that was completely on board with his creative think tank. Here, he could rely on able musicians to bring about his vision of music for a crowd and in fact, expand on his sound. They set out to record a new album with harder Rock & Roll leanings, creating anthemic staples like "Rise," "Off The Track," and the epic "I Can't Take Anymore." The album is littered with as much diverse inspiration as Lo-Fi Matter, offering up tints of sweet Country-Blue brine with "114th Street Devil Woman" and "Pretty Up Our Love," while keeping a hefty Punk influence in the abrasive and unforgiving "Ballad in Plain F" and "Death Valley Surf Safari."

In 2008, Tyler Jakes released the full length LP Rocking Hoarse Calypso to ecstatic live crowds and delighted critics. Vernon Reid of the Grammy-award winning Living Colour described Jakes songwriting as being "gritty and witty." With two well received albums in his repertoire, Tyler Jakes and his Bootleggers commenced upon an expansive tour of the West Coast during 2008 and 2009.

Soon after his promotional tour, Jakes felt the urgency to once again purge. He set forth upon his follow up; the prodigious, ambitiously realized Burning Down The Underground, which in this listener's opinion, was his crowning achievement up to that point. Bursting at the seams with genre-defying achievements in lyric and style, it serves as a glimmering demonstration in the universal potential of music with a mind for originality and ambition. There isn't a single track that can be skipped without feeling its absence in the listening experience. Jakes’ mastery in recording had also come full circle, offering truly dynamic grit and crunch to his sound.

The diversity between tracks like "Topaz Satellite," a Molotov cocktail of Rock, and "Color It A Mystery" with its slow bindle-over-the-shoulder Country shuffle give the album a sense of epic proportion. "Unleash" gets the party started off right with a Stonesy blues harp and grungy grind, followed up with the equally as slovenly "Vibrator." One of the true highlights, "South of Northern California Girl" is a brilliantly conceived, trumpet-laced acoustic tale that could have easily found a place in any rambling gypsy's songbook. The song's facetious conclusion is worth the price of the entire album alone. It's a thing of beauty and pure joy to witness such clever workmanship in songwriting. Jakes’ most somber work to date rests in "Nothing To Hide," a Mark Lanegan-league ballad that is gutturally crushing. The final tracks, "Lazy Daze" and "Goodnight, Sweet Lady" give the album a sort of grandiose conclusion in the same vein as The Beatles' White Album; entirely well suited for a work that covers so much territory. Overall, it's an ode to fine musicianship and ambition. The album was very well received, picking up airplay on over 150 stations across the U.S. and Canada, charting multiple times in the Top 20.

Tyler is now promoting his latest effort, Evil, set for release on March 5th, 2013. He has already begun making waves in the top 20 of Alternative and Rock stations, finding company with the likes of Pulp, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Alice in Chains, and even Jimi Hendrix's back-from-the-grave chart topper. His first single, "Out Of It" is a supercharged highway rocker that'll get the blood boiling with its bone crunching Queens of the Stone Age dulcorate and Foo Fighters-esque big chorus. Connections with musicians go a long way and Tyler has plenty of help here; "This Is A Robbery," features the trumpet of Jason Marks (of Malamanya), blazing like the Pixies scoring a spaghetti western soundtrack. Minneapolis virtuoso Steve Clarke lends his bari-sax to a Gogol Bordello meets Morphine surf-punk tune called, "The Wolf." The true fist-clutchers must rest between "Deathtrain To Amarillo," "Blood Money," and "Fifth Fang"; full of sinister vocals and dark grooves; sickly twisted tales of being strung out on the road, and associating with unsavory characters. The finale, "Lucid Dream Epilogue" plays like a bittersweet memory that pays tender homage to some terrible pain. On its dissolution the guitar trickles out, licking its chops before its final savage attack, and then bam! Guitar ferocity that leaves no Rock and Roll junky without their fix.

Twelve songs deep, Evil covers a whole lot of territory; seamlessly blending garage rock, heavy blues/punk, and a tinge of dark gypsy folk that has no doubt come from Jakes’ time spent in Eastern Europe. It is as delectably varied an album as any of his releases and yet, it stands as his most cohesive work to date. He does not limit himself what so ever. There are nods to nearly every artist in the back of Jakes’ constantly gyrating mind with a flowing lucidity that weaves it all together seamlessly. In addition to the release of Evil, Jakes has worked tirelessly to bring his uncompromised sound to vinyl for the very first time. There is no finer reason to invest in a turntable and sound system than right now. The needle will never feel quite as savaged and brutalized as when it grinds to the fruit of Jakes' ruthless labor.

With so much to offer and engines running on all cylinders, the question no doubt still remains: "So what? Why isn't Jakes involved with a record label by now? Isn't that the first step in producing music? Why should I give him an ounce of my time?" The answer is quite simply put―maintaining artistic freedom and integrity. Record labels have much to offer, and yet over time they can only serve as an anchor that will prevent unchecked expedition. Tyler Jakes' music is a completely self-operated entity, which is a massive feat unto its own. After Rocking Hoarse Calypso, he gave this entity a label. Skulltrax Records is now your source for all things Tyler Jakes, as well as the beginnings for a collective force of likeminded musicians that are brave enough to take the same plunge. Great things have very small beginnings.

As Jakes has proven, the craft of song is far more delicate than is given credit. He does not forsake a moment's fleeting thought if he thinks it might manifest into something rich. This is precisely why his songs are so impulsive. They are crafted with utmost care and attention with a burning drive to experience and depict, just as the greatest artists, poets, and essayists know; days are not to be spent in vain, but experienced, shared and portrayed with the tools afforded us. Jakes’ experiences portrayed through his music broadened my horizons to an infinite degree. His music instilled a hunger for experience, knowledge, and appreciation. There are few scholars left in the world that are truly worth their salt. Tyler Jakes is definitely one of them.

Tyler Jakes' music can all be purchased here. Don't forget to pre-order Evil! 

A brief word

For the past couple of weeks, I've been an incredible wreck juggling steroids, chemo injection, and a ridiculous cold that seems to have been run out of my system finally. But meanwhile, I have been working on a very lengthy piece for my good friend and musician, Tyler Jakes. I hope to get it out there for the world to see and get him some more listening ears with it. So stay tuned!

Here's a couple videos to wet your palette!

CAN - The Lost Tapes

CAN - The Lost Tapes

CAN has given us a very rare sort of treat that, as the years stack on, is less and less likely to crop up in the world of music. Their innovative minds elevate this to a cause for celebration, for CAN changed a great deal in the landscape of music in the seventies. They created entire genres of music with single tracks—all of which, were almost entirely composed on impulse and edited down to their signatured complexity and chaotic perfection.

The Lost Tapes are boiled down to thirty tracks spread across three discs, and they showcase every aspect and stage in the evolution of our beloved CAN. From the very first track, "Millionenspiel," and its slow onset of layered sound that erupts into an unconventionally engrossing groove complimented by flute, it is immediately apparent that these aren't just garbled, bootleg quality tracks that sat in a damp basement collecting mold for four decades. We are talking prime studio quality material. This is history. Or rather, a history lesson in the evolution of Rock & Roll. All of their most prominent influences come through, each track standing completely on its own as an example of their heritage. The "Evening All Day" examplifies their fondness for von Beil-esque compositions as far back as 1969, while "True Story" gives the impression that the boys had paid a visit to New York, and sat in on some beat poetry sessions—the electronic drone gives a sense of horror to the whole scenery. The scatter-brained, off the hinges "Deadly Doris" can only suggest that The Beatles' White Album was a fleeting precursor, "Sexy Sadie" being repeated along with the schizophrenic, mantra-like "Deadly, deadly, deadly, deadly, deadly Doris."

Their powers of brilliant impulse shred sixteen minutes into the hypnotic and multi-faceted "Graublau"; when it's through, time is empty and you'll have lost all concept of it. Strange and beautiful tracks like "Dead Pigeon Suite" will give you a feel for their embrace of music from around the world; ethnically diverse instrumentation and sensual, exotic rhythm, but hardly without a ninety-degree shift in tone to keep you on your toes as a responsible listener. As the collection progresses, those familiar with CAN's music will immediately recognize fragments of CAN staples in what were otherwise discarded tracks, offering insight into their creative process. The live tracks included are by no means filler. They showcase classic CAN tracks, given the expansive, time and space defying treatment that vinyl simply couldn't allow them.

The thrill of listening to these lost tapes is, and I cannot stress this enough, the knowledge that you are listening to a group of musicians that are in the budding of their professional career, and every track is an innovation unto itself. It is history. No band dared tread where CAN boisterously frollicked. They were the Nikola Teslas of experimental music; brilliant pioneers, but in the grand scheme they have been criminally outshined by their students.

Manic Street Preachers - The Holy Bible

Manic Street Preachers

The Holy Bible

Rock & Roll has been riddled with odd, peculiar, and disturbing stories in its 60 year lifespan. I can think of a few that deserve mentioning, especially the story of Iron Butterfly’s bassist, Philip Taylor Kramer, whom after departing the band had obtained a degree in aerospace engineering, and was working under the United States department of defense as well as computer engineering until he disappeared under very mysterious and suspicious circumstances. However, that shall be saved for another article. One of my favorite stories of the past 20 years is the creation of the album The Holy Bible.

Initially a quartet, Richey Edwards was the face of The Manic Street Preachers, and their Clash-esque brand of Punk. After two albums, the onslaught of attention went to Richey's head and drove him over a cliff; spiraling downward into a pit of self-destruction, despair, and nihilistic delusion. It was in his very unstable state of mind that he commenced upon his dark magnum opus in the form of diary entries made song. Richey held nothing back in his lyrics—this was his confessional to the world. He had lost all hope and so therefore, he had nothing to fear, and could not be bothered to exude anything but his pent-up angst and forlorn fury. The album was completed and released to critical acclaim, but their performance on Top of the Pops—Richey in particular, clad in a 'terrorist-style' balaclava—garnered the show their most complaints ever. Manic Street Preachers disappeared from the charts very quickly.

Two months after the release of the album, Richey simply vanished. Oddball sightings were noted but nobody could say where in the world he had gone to. Furthermore, for a solid two weeks the exact amount of $200 dollars was withdrawn from his bank account every single day. It eerily correlated with the lyrics of his song "Yes" regarding prostitution; "for $200 anyone can conceive a God on video." Finally his car was found abandoned without any clues. The band had set aside a percentage of royalties since his disappearance, but it wasn't until 2008 that his family had him declared dead. Richey was eccentric and mentally frayed enough that a disappearance would not entirely discount a miraculously unexplained reappearance, but sadly, suicide is the most likely explanation considering his mental state. Anonymous tips regarding his whereabouts still roll in to this day.

All in all, The Holy Bible is a masterwork of bleakness and a destitute look at the state of our society.  It serves as a lesson to those who step into the darker realm of humanity; one must possess a wholesome spirit to avoid the path toward corruption when investigating these borders. It is, regardless, a very fine work in raw Punk musicianship, even with its morbidly frank, hopeless and stoic nature.