"Exit Only," the first
single off of Deerhoof's upcoming 13th album La Isla Bonita, is
remarkably "tame" for a band that's been known to "shock
and awe." Produced by Nick Sylvester of the deceased lo-fi outfit Mr. Dream,
it's a surging piece of bubblegum punk that wouldn't have been out of place on
the Scott Pilgrim vs.
the World soundtrack.Unsung
guitar hero John Dieterich's main garage riff has the crunch of stepping on
dead leaves on the dirty ground. His brief segments of noodling flap about
like the tentacles of a sugar-addled octopus. To keep up drummer Greg Saunier
locks into a machine gun rat-a-tat-tat that would leave crater-sized bullet
holes in anyone that stepped in front of his kit. There's noerraticism in
the band’s approach; instead of scratching your head you bang along with pure
joy.
The questions
start to come though with vocalist Satomi Matsuzaki's sung/snapped vocals.
There's zero consistency. She leapfrogs from cordoned off threats "I won't
let you," to open arm greetings "bienvenido," with little
concern for logic. At one point she coolly sings "too many choice to order
breakfast" like a snotty hotel clerk on acid. And then after 2 minutes and
45 seconds of enigmatic "rambling," she stops on point to thank you
for coming and orders you to "get out now." What starts as
straightforward ends in the unknown.
Monday on the blog while
discussing "Big
Dusty," the noirish new single from Pro
Era leader Joey Bada$$, I used the phrase "old soul" to describe
how the 19-year-old sounds on wax. His rasp, combined with an affinity for
sunny mid-90s boom bap, puts him out of sync with the current hip hop world.
But no matter how misplaced he is in the musical landscape of 2014, I wish I
had saved the phrase "old soul" for Chicago garage rock quartet Twin
Peaks. Everything about the band and their euphoric sophomore LP Wild Onion
makes me want to start checking IDs. I know musical appreciation can transcend
age, my own birthday is nearly 30 years removed from the release of the
Ronettes' "I
Wonder," but Twin Peaks are a step beyond "appreciation."
You don't land on an album cover like that unless you've spent hours staring at
the record jackets for 60s acts like the Seeds or the Plastic Cloud. One
spin of the Rolling Stone's Sticky Fingers doesn't birth "Brown
Sugar"'s jangly fraternal twin "I Found a New
Way." Hell even the title brings to mind Ognir and the Nite People's
never-ran 1965 song "I
Found a New Love." In a recent profile
for Stereogum lead singer/guitarist
Cadien Lake James told the site, "People are still digging back and
finding the good s*** on their computers." From the aesthetic of Wild
Onion James is almost certainly one of those nostalgic obsessives; clicking
through countless hyperlinks of Nuggets rejects until he finds the one
that hits his ear just right.
That's the only way I can
explain early album standout "Mirror of Time." I'd bet my meager inheritance
that I've heard those same guitars lightly chiming over the same slop bucket
drums at least once. James' lysergic whine, "when I look at the tears from
your eyes don't regret a single word that I've told her," has wafted into
my ears before. Granted I would likely remember such a beautifully simplistic
confession, which is what keeps me from screaming "COPYCAT!" James
said in the aforementioned profile "I'm always going for the Beach Boys
sounds even though it probably doesn’t come across much," and he's 1000%
right. I don't hear one of Brian Wilson's "teenage
symphonies to God" when I play "Mirror of Time." James’ talk
of distance is more closely aligned with the frigid world of Raspberries precursors the Choir. In fact
"Sloop Jay D," the band's tip of the hat to Pet Sounds track "Sloop
John B," doesn't even faintly recall the Beach Boys' effort. It's too
reverberated, too tossed off and far too snotty, "don’t be a p**** that’s
what she f***ing told me," goes one lyric. Whatever familiar notes are
ringing in the band's heads come out sounding very different.
Twin Peaks claim reverence for
past acts, but there's a youthful flippancy on Wild Onion that keeps
them from being a straightforward bar band. The blistering "Fade
Away" could "walk in a straight line" across the Ramones' "Rockaway Beach"
if not for the brief mid-song solo sending it off course. "Strange World"'s dreamy crawl is perfect for a "songs to relax to"
playlist though it's over before you can even lay your head down. Aided by Connor
Brodner's pattering drums and Clay Frankel's dew drenched guitar "Ordinary
People" could be slotted on the Clientele's lush 2000 record Suburban Light
without raising alarm; at least until the indeterminably eerie chattering
starts. One way to describe Wild Onion is a mixtape someone's given you
that they've re-winded or fast-forwarded too many times.
And like a 20-year-old cassette,
Wild Onion has its defects. "Stranger World" is an unnecessary
instrumental sequel bogged down by bleating horns and meandering guitar lines.
Cadien Lake James vocal take on "Strawberry Smoothie" attempts the
trick of sounding insecurely "powerful," a routine Big Star's "Feel" mastered
in 1972. Jack Dolan's bass work at times is plagued by the same silent disease
as many 60s garage rock songs. Several of James and Frankel's riffs feel like
castoffs from the Exile on the Main Street, another big rock album the
band rhapsodizes about. Oddly enough though, those slight failures to live up
to the standards set by Twin Peaks’ heroes are what make Wild Onion so enjoyable. Not many kids are out there carving new
work from the statues of legends.
(Welcome
to "Track Attack," where each Tuesday a "new" song will be
reviewed. Anything is fair-game for this feature, from meticulously
lush 70s folk to blown-out
2000s R&B. Today's track is a brief, but brilliant piece of 80s indie
pop. Arguably the pinnacle of sadness for a band who had an affinity for the
sad.)
Discussions of sad sack
miserablism start and end with the Smiths. Other bands lay claim to melancholy
(Mazzy Star) or hold
the championship belt in outright depression (Joy Division), but the
Manchester quartet retains ownership of immutable sadness. It's the reason "This Charming Charlie"
is so incredibly funny. Lauren LoPrete
was able to find the one pop culture figure capable of matching the Morrissey
fronted group in the head-hanging department. Charlie Brown was by all accounts
"a good man" and the world conspired against him anyway. So it was
with Morrissey in the Smiths. When he wanted a place to call home, he
was kicked out. "Miserable
Lie" wouldn't let him experience the thrill of a first time without
reminding he and his lover, "There's something against us." Even with
his steadfast commitment in "Girlfriend in a
Coma" he's left to shakily beg, "I'd hate anything to happen to
her," atop sawing strings and Andy Rourke's gulping bass. Where melancholy
can be a torturous invention of the mind, the sadness Morrissey was
experiencing was all too real. His brain wasn't inventing reasons to be glum.
He'd been dealt shit hands and was reacting the way a lot of us would, by
rocking back and forth in a ball of woe.
Though the band would write
better songs (I still rank "I
Know It's Over" as their best), no effort in their catalog can match
1984's "Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want" in terms of
sorrow. Appearing as the B-side to their fifth single "William It Was Really
Nothing," it's everything the chart placing track isn't. Despite the
song's 1:50 run time, the tempo moves at a glacial pace. Gone are Mike Joyce's
booming drums, Rourke's rolling bass, and Johnny Marr's spidery guitar. In fact
Joyce and Rourke don't even appear on "Please, Please, Please...,"
giving a sliver of credence to the foolish assertion that they were
replaceable. Even Morrissey, one of rock music's greatest vocalists, has
seemingly "checked out" here. He doesn't use any of the sliding
vocals that closed out "William It Was Really Nothing" or let out
falsetto cries. Instead it’s one exasperated sigh. The figure on the bed of the
cover may as well be Morrissey, whispering "haven't had a dream in a long
time," as he brushes back his jet black quiff. Like Marr's acoustic guitar
playing and background soloing, he's lifelessly still.
Never getting your way will
cultivate that kind of defeatism. Hopefully we all understand that 100% of our
wishes can't be granted, life doesn't allow for such fulfillment. But how often
do we consider the idea of rarely, if ever, having a prayer answered? I'd like
to think I could handle it, that I'd maintain a stiff upper lip, but that's a
lie. Endless rejection of every kind would be suffocating. It wouldn't be long
before I'd be like Morrissey pleading "Please please please, let me, let
me, let me, let me get what I want, this time," just so I could breathe
fresh air again.
Perhaps the better question is
what would happen when such a loser finally wins? Would they run off jumping
and praising a higher power like the crippled man of
the Book of Acts? Or would the celebration be marked by another sigh, one
of relief? In the case of "Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I
Want," the "victory parade" is signaled by Johnny Marr's
shimmering mandolin. I've somewhat joked before that you can hear heaven in his
outro, but I'm largely serious when I say it. As mechanically rhythmic and
reverberated as it is, his part is exceptionally humane. A tiny stream of
comfort washes over me when I hear Marr's picking. I know the same is true of
Morrissey who has broken
down in tears as those familiar notes ring out. For once in his life though
it's not woeful sorrow he's experiencing, but joyful sadness. Lord knows it
would be the first time.
If you have suggestions for songs you want to see featured
in future editions of Track Attack, feel free to leave them in the comments
section.
