Beasts from Australia

In 1987, at the tender age of 16, I saw the Rowland S. Howard led “Australian supergroup” THESE IMMORTAL SOULS open for THE GUN CLUB at London’s Town & Country Club. It blew my everlovin’ sock off, and stuck with me for years after. This week, at the grizzled age of 36, I saw the Tex Perkins led “Australian supergroup” BEASTS OF BOURBON at Camden Underworld. They, too, burrowed deep in my head/ear/spine but goooood.

I’ll just STICK TO THE FACTS:

- The Underworld is always comfortable with it’s basement feel and not-bad sound, but that night every goddamn accent there was AUSTRALIAN. It was like the Redback Tavern in Acton on a Saturday night! OK yeah, I suppose this kinda makes sense, but fuck, man: proper Londoners oughta have at least a few, vague recollections of these guys’ collective accomplishments, right? WRONG.

- Too many people were filming/snapping pics, hence missing out on THE ROCK unfolding all around them. Sure: TV babies we all are, but this kinda HEAVY MEDIATION is gonna be the death of all of us. Mark my words.

- Singer Tex Perkins was the perfect frontman/circus barker for these aging BEASTS. He looked a bit like David Johanson of THE NEW YORK DOLLS – albeit one who didn’t pretend to be gay, and who’d chose instead to scream drug/hate/trucker anthems at full volume. It was not unlike the eventual persona Henry Rollins unfurled in BLACK FLAG – all big ugly mouth and in-your-face ego – and like Henry, intentionally OTT. Tex was so broad with his jestures you could easily forget (as alot of folks there seemed to) that IT’S A PERFORMANCE, YOU IDIOT – and hence, overlook the fact that he seemed pretty damn smart/savvy with what he was referencing.

Me, I’ve no problem with big-ego front men. UP FRONT IS WHERE THEY BELONG, FR CHRIST’S SAKE.

- Bassist Brian Hooper was actually the fella I was most looking forward to see, as he’d played on Rowland S. Howard’s amazing solo CD Teenage Snuff Film earlier in the millenium. He looked good, grooved hard, and sounded tight back in the shadows – but he had a pained expression on his face for much of the evening and had a hard time moving his right leg. No doubt, lingering effects from breaking his back 3 years ago. It was great to see him standing/playing – but ya hadda feel for the guy.

- Rhythm-gtrist Spencer P. Jones has that Al Perry-in-rehab (read: halfway-to-Shane McGowan) look that speaks of too many years chasing the dragon. So it was great to hear he was capable of stepping up with a couple of amazing solos that sounded equal parts no-wave AND corn-fed chickenscratch. He’s a real character on stage too. He wrote some of the best tunes off their new album and still has the R’N'R goods to offer up to the gods when demanded. AND WE DEMANDED.

- My new hero: lead-gtrist Charlie Owen. I know him primarily from his great late-80’s recordings with THE NEW CHRISTS – but there’s clearly tons more for me to explore soon. This guy is one soulful, string-bending motherfucker – when he’s not rippin’ his fretboard apart like it was a shit-stained copy of THE DAILY MAIL, that is. No offense to Mr. Perkins, but it was Charlie that I was eyeballing most over the course of their set. I loved watching him make little decisions to colour a song with gtr run/figure, or better still – decide to lay back and ABSTAIN from playing at key moments. I ain’t no musician but watching him helped me understand how subtle/intuitive/ongoing that whole process is. He’s a goddamn great player.

- I got so caught up it HOW GREAT IT ALL WAS that I left without a clear impression of the talents/abilities of drummer Tony Pola. Sorry, Tony . . .

- And the new record, Little Animals, is a towering example of just how relevant naturalistic, blues-based hard rock still can be – in the hands of A FEW GOOD AUSTRALIAN MEN – in 2007. Check em out here, go buy it, and then see em tear it up at a dive bar near you soon . . .

Thanks to Skeleton Boy the photo

Austin’s Texas Instruments

Seeing Roky Erikson play recently got me thinking back on the two and half years I spent living in Austin, Texas (‘93 – ‘95). I did ok there, when not badtrippin’ on magic mushrooms. It never ever felt like my town, you know. But hey that was fine: I finally finished my BA, met some really good people, and did a heck of alot of naked hill-country swimming while out there. Not to sound softheaded, but it was a simplier period in my life. I’ll always remember it fondly.

I also saw a buttload of bands during that time. It was fucking easy: just catch a bus up South Congress to 6th Street, and walk from there. Or easier still, just amble off the UT campus and slide in to The Hole In The Wall most any evening of the week. You really couldn’t go wrong. I saw some pretty heavy shit: Holy Mountain-era SLEEP (they had the gall to hit me up for pot), HELIOS “during any given chord, at least half of my 30 gtr pedals will malfunction” CREED, a pre-Cobain-murder EARTH, Nik Turner’s SPACE RITUAL(!), the godlike MOTÖRHEAD. I also caught 90’s alt. biggies MAZZY STAR and URGE OVERKILL, as well as lost 80’s nutters HALF JAPANESE and DUMPTRUCK. Oh: and don’t forget THE STEVE LACY SEXTET and THE WILLEM BREUKER KOLLEKTIEF! Yeah I used to sit still (barely) for some jazz, too.

I met a great guy named Pat going to those shows, who’d become a gig-going pal during my last few months there. He was older/wiser – he’d been around for the Armadillo World HQ daze in the 70’s. He’d let me in on little secrets, like what an amazing gtrist TOMMY BOLIN was, or how great WISHBONE ASH were live with that bitchen twin gtr attack of theirs – actually far better than a QUICKSILVER MS had been on their early 70’s decline. I picked up alot from that guy.

The band I saw most (other than maybe GIANT SAND) was Austin’s very own TEXAS INSTRUMENTS. Musta seen em a half dozen times at least, and the fact that Pat knew a bunch of other regulars there made those evenings feel extra cozy. TI were so perfect in that relaxed set/setting – the endless beers, the overblown amps, the layered vocals, the cutting Dylan/Boon lyricisms, the folkrockin’ GNARL & TWANG of it all. They’d started in the 80’s with a more tangled-up and off-kilter MEAT PUPPETS/MINUTEMEN sound, only to even out nicely by the time I got there to become nothing short of a goddamn natural wonder. It was as close to a native Austin sound as you might find at the time – anybody who saw em then knows what I’m talking about.

And the rest of you? Well, there’s a few CDs/LPs out there (early ones on the Rabid Cat label; later ones on Doctor Dream Records) but I’d recommend a time machine if you wanna really find out what you missed. Pat, if you’re out there and still rockin’, this one’s for you.

Texas Instruments – “The King of Nothing” (from Speed of Sound, Doctor Dream Records, 1995)

Here’s a video for their tune “One From the Other” from the same record:

15/10/07 edit: OH! And a ‘93 live clip has finally made it to YouTube! Do check it out, it does em justice:

Tricky Dick Wagner

Holy shit! I’ve got a new hero!

His name is DICK WAGNER. If he’s to be believed, DICK is a singularly bitter individual hailing from from KEARNEY, NEBRASKA (with no relation to the the rock ‘n’ roll animal).

All I’ve gleaned about him comes from the eleven acerbic reviews he’s penned for AMAZON.COM. Every damn one is worth shouting out loud in the face of the balding boomer teacher in your shitty Thurs. night community-college music apprec class. Mother of god, does he ever write with VENOM. A distant relative of BOYD RICE, perhaps? Whatever else you wanna say about him, DICK is a man who is CLUED UP.

Let’s start with his take on THE BEATLES’ Abbey Road:

By the late 1960’s, the Beatles were nothing but a self-indulgent gaggle of rich and drug-demented poseurs. But this didn’t stop them, those wild and wacky British buffoons, from trying to lecture the rest of us about how to live our lives. The result is nothing less than a spectacular and cruel example of the idle prattle of arrogant youth. A patch-work of bubble-gum philosophy and ghoulish narcissism. If only it would go away!!!

Oh fuck yeah!!! But you actually think Sgt. Pepper’s was some kinda great shakes? DICK will correct you on that:

The Beatles always exemplified everything we despise about celebrities. They were a bunch of rich beautiful people who woke-up one day and suddenly believed that their “deep thoughts” were going to save the world. Well, the verdict is in, and this syrupy confection of teen-aged rubbish didn’t save anything. In fact, it signified nothing more than the beginning of the end of the biggest waste of psychic energy in modern pop culture history. The 1960’s have mercifully ended. Now let’s add this tourtuous waste of time to the dung heap of trivial cultural slime that needs to be forgotten forever. Where’s the “Brady Bunch” when you really need them? Thank you for your time.

The truth about REM has long been surpressed:

Here, in all their glory, is REM: the undisputed Pied Pipers of the bedwetters. While Michael Stipe’s nasal delivery evoked all the comfort of a German Stuka dive-bomber, the whimpering and ludicrous lyrical content became a beacon-call to legions of self-absorbed suburban cry-babies everywhere. In REM, we had a calculating and maudlin brood of cynical mountebanks who lounged in opulence while tormenting their naive minions with a decades-long barrage of unrestrained nonsense and pessimistic doomsaying. The embarrassing spectacle probably hit its painful peak in 1992, but it obviously has left a cultural skid mark that will take years to eradicate. This album is a one star stinker that might serve well as a gag gift.

Here! Here! (Cultural skid mark – this guy kills me).

And you think the DEAD are some kinda anti-establishment heroes? Sometimes so do, uh, I. But DICK? Well . . .

The Grateful Dead started out as a nice little San Francisco band with something to say; that their sophomoric rantings had no bearing in reality was beside the point. Then, somewhere along the “trip”, they became the McDonald’s of rock-n-roll. Rather than continue to churn out their brand of pleasant, country-tinged, folk rock ditties, the Greatful Dead inexplicably decided to conquer the world of bumper stickers, T-shirts, and Wal Mart ties. Before long, their bleating flocks of true-blue “Dead Heads” became infiltrated with armies of clueless debutantes and trust fund bedwetters, and the dream became a nightmare. Rock-n-roll’s most passionate visionaries for change became nothing more than another cog in the massive wheel of mass-marketed drivel. Pony-tailed poseurs and K-mart tie-dies could never right the ship, and the Greatful Dead now find themselves somewhere between “90210″ and Justin Timberlake in the dining hall of generic pop cuisine.

or howbout

the Greatful Dead were nothing but an infantile gang of cackling tramps. While they fecklessly hawked their cheap ties to K-Mart, they relentlessly puked hour upon hour of gelatinized nonsense onto their pony-tailed legions of unemployed, mind-altered drones.

Yes I might just haveta return that GD baby romper I ordered for my brother-in-law’s kid. Maybe.

And what of the almightly JEFFERSON AIRPLANE? Well, DICK identifies a new use for them:

It’s 2006, and I can’t sleep. To whom do I turn? How about our old friends the Jefferson Aeroplane! Who would have thought that five wimps and one tambourine-shaking dingbat could still cure insomnia after all these years? And you don’t even need a prescription!

Apparently, only 3 of 62 Amazon readers have found this review helpful. Though I’ll go out on a limb here and say these JA fans might be not be coming at DICK with the appropriate mindset. From the right angle – HATE can look oh so very, very SWEET.

But of course, Mr. Wagner has taste buds as well, and that tongue on which they lie has licked the BEE GEES but good:

Five stars to the Brothers Gibb. The Bee-Gee’s of history proved that you don’t have to be some pretty boy, or a corporate goon, to make it to the top. They added equal parts crooner, bull-fighter, and groovemaster to produce some of mankinds most cherished monster hits, and they did it their way. No tricks. No pureed drivel. Just three men with a lot of guts and class. They may not be Bismarckian in the true sense of the word, but make no mistake: they wielded their own unique brand of “blood and iron” to secure that proverbial “place in the sun” for their mighty empire of fantastic ditties. An A+ for the awesome Aussie trio!!!

We at PIG STATE RECON applaude. Uproariously.

NeareSST Relatives, Part II

I did promise to eventually finish what I started with my very first post, didn’t I. Yes, I admit it is not hard to get me blabbering about the great and wonderful SST RECORDS. So I’ve done it again – written about what all my favorite SST heroes have been up to since jumping Greg Ginn’s ship, that is. But as this whole conceit is actually pretty damn arbitrary, I thought I’d get myself focused for this one. This time – to keep it simple: I’m only discussing post-SST tangents that have come out in the last decade. Off we go!

1. THE UNKNOWN INSTRUCTORS – “At The Center” (from The Master’s Voice, Smog Veil Records, 2006) A conscious attempt by poet Dan McGuire to recreate that SST spoken word/jamnation trip of yore, using the very cats (Mike Watt, George Hurley, Joe Baiza etc.) that created said SST jams in the first place. Such a proposition could be dicy, but forget that – since the 2 CDs they’ve put out so far are compelling, meaty examples of just how improvised rock + the right words can combust in totally sublime, meaningful ways. The new one, The Master’s Voice, feels stronger, tougher, even more confident than the first, and hence has my pick between the two. The beautiful Pettibon cover artwork (plus his disassociative lead patter on one particularly mindbending track) had me captivated from spin one. The rest – Baiza’s slithering/scrambling leads, Watt’s powerful, widemouth basslines, Hurley’s rockgroover drumming, and McGuire’s ominous incantations – settled in nicely after a few days. What took longer to get accustomed to was the presence of Mr. David Thomas of PERE UBU – on birdcalls, yodels, and non sequiturs, what else! Clearly, this man still posesses the innate power to wedge himself uncomfortably high up into yr asscrack with remarkable ease. But hey, I didn’t bitch. I just took a couple of deep breaths, and relaxed into it all. Now, the whole thing fits real fine. REAL fine.

2. THE CHUCK DUKOWSKI SEXTET – “Night of the Hunter” (from Eat My Life, Nice & Friendly Records, 2006) Just be happy Chuck’s back. I, for one, can overlook a singer who makes me feel a bit queasy. Shit, every one of Chuck’s bands (WURM, SWA, even FLAG) had difficult singers; it’s what I’ve come to expect from the man. Here, the tunes are good, and playing inspired, and the mix warm and bassy. So what if I don’t dig the vocals? And this probably sounds way better live, but I ain’t anywhere near Venice, CA no more (where Chuck’s living these days). This CD’ll haveta make do til they TURN UP THOSE GTRS and release another.

3. TEN EAST – “Expanding Darkness” (from their Extraterrestrial Highway CD, Alone Records, 2006) Just amazing recent instumental work by gtrists Gary Arce & Mario Lalli plus bassist Brant Bjork and drummer Bill Stinson – all of whom (Brant excluded) played on various SST releases during the 90’s. Clearly, the best rock album EVER to listen to while hauling an 18-wheeler up and over the Grapevine at 3:00 am on an early Tuesday morning. And I ain’t gonna go into how important ALL these men have been in the continual development of hard ‘n’ heavy rock over the past decade. Just go now and grab the first record you see with ANY of these guys names on it, and find out for yourself. Or better still, go order a meal and a beer at Mario’s Sierra Madre restaurant, Cafe 322, and ask him to throw on the last FATSO JETSON CD. There’s no way you won’t be leaving a really, really big tip.

4. PUTTANESCA – “Shiny Red Box” (from their Puttanesca CD, Catasonic Records, 2006) It’s Joe Baiza’s MECOLODIACS + singer Weba Garretson (ex-PEARLS, Eastside Sinfonietta, etc.), and to these ears it’s a total mismatch. I mean, here’s Joe and co. tearing at strings & skins in really inspired, JAMES BLOOD ULMER goes south-of-the-border fashion, and then: Weba swoops in from the winebar with her NPR jazz croonerisms and basically kills any possibility of attaining nirvana. She seems so caught up with getting the changes right and sounding sultry that what’s lost is the fact that the boys are groovin’ on a whole looser, more intuitive plane altogether. Maybe Joe will consider issuing a vocal-less remix of this? I’d recommend that version, fr sure.

5. JOE & MIKE – “Everywhere” (From Joe & Mike, private press, 2003, available from THE LAST website) Largely-acoustic CD-R by the Nolte brothers revisiting lost tunes never waxed by THE LAST proper. And it’s as great as any legit LAST record you might wanna point to. I realize these guys’ strident vocal harmonies have always been a bit of an acquired sound, especially to shaggy 60’s folkrock heads who want their vocalists to sound all soft, mellow n furry ala RAIN PARADE’s David Roback. But I can name 3 dozen great sixties pop/rock acts who had singers who didn’t sound particularly soft – think Arthur Lee in early LOVE, or Sal Valentino in THE BEAU BRUMMELS, or even Rob Grill of THE GRASS ROOTS – and THE LAST have always swam a similiar course. Don’t ignore the significance of these men! They practically began the entire South Bay independent music scene in mid/late 70’s, they were a huge influence on a PANIC-era Greg Ginn when he was first scheming to putting out his own records, and they jumpstarted THE DESCENDENTS (in whose early songs I can identify dozens of little LASTisms). These guys still ring true, 30 fucking years on.

6. THE NEW ROB ROBBIES – “Pot au Feu” (from Pure Whore, Owned & Operated Records, 1999) Aggro, fullfrontal rock from Chicago, IL by-way-of Bowling Green, OH, and produced by Joe Carducci and ALL/DESCENDENTS drummer Bill Stevenson. At times it reminds me of an amped up version of a “Neil Armstrong”-era ANGST – but that’s probably because singer/songwriter Paul Johnson’s lyrics stick in similarly warm places within my head, glued as the are to really inspired playing and post-punk folkrockin’ songstuff. There’s this rambling webpage with tons of obscure tunage by Paul, charting his progression from the REPLACEMENTSish (but totally listenable) college rock of his earlier SHEEPISH GRIN project, to the more firebreathing attack of THE NEW ROBS. Though this is a bit older now, it still gets loaded onto my I-Pod fairly frequently, and sounded totally fresh and pipin’ hot on my earbuds earlier today in fact. Go find a cheap cutout of this and you, too, will find yourself wondering how many other great bands like this one you missed out on the first time around.

7. TOM WATSON – “Future History” (from Country & Watson, Leiterwagen/ Theologian Records, 2000) One could go on and on about guys with post-SST solo careers (Rollins, Watt, Mould, Mascis etc.), and one day I promise to provide you with an EZ listener’s guide to safely navigating the hairy world of Greg Ginn’s post-FLAG projects! But today, all I’m gonna talk about is Tom. Tom’s from the Manhattan/Hermosa Beach area, and came up playing first with TOXIC SHOCK (who donated the standout track to the Keats Rides a Harley comp. from ‘81), then SLOVENLY PETER/SLOVENLY (who had a gaggle of monumental recs on SST/New Alliance), and eventually OVERPASS (2 records, the second being a classic). You can read a bit about his early days here; currently he’s playing with Mike Watt in THE MISSINGMEN, opening for dorks like THE RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS all across Europe. This record was initially only available in Europe until Mark Theodore at Theologian (a long-time fan of all that jammy/jazzy late 80’s SST stuff) sought fit to put it out stateside. Great call, Mark. It’s a quiet, homemade record full of sweet melodies, nice gtr playing and a whole lotta oddball, creaking and croaking sound-debris that places it squarely in Tom’s sonic lineage.

Bonus: an ex-roommate, once highschool gal-pal of mine plays my old bass gtr on one live cut on this CD! 7 years later, and I’m still jealous that wasn’t me.