Several years before British producer Joe Meek and the Tornados scored an international super-hit with "Telstar," Meek had composed and recorded his adventurous masterpiece, I Hear a New World, an imaginative musical take at life on the moon.
In 1960, the moon remained very much a mystery . . .
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Saturday night, at Pianos in NYC, Aquarium Drunkard presents Roadside Graves EP release show. The band released You Won't Be Happy With Me, on Autumn Tone, last month right after SXSW, so if you're in the city come out and hear the new tunes live . . .
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The mystery that surrounded Dum Dum Girls is no longer an issue as Dee Dee Penny, who the U.S. Census bureau know as Kristin Gundred, and her three black-clad beauties have recently made their way onto stages across the U.S. and the U.K. Complete with drummer Frankie Rose (ex-Vivian Girls/Crystal Stilts), a Silvertone-branded arsenal of guitars and outfits that only accentuate the sexual, almost-dangerous appeal of the quartet’s sound, Dee . . .
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(Diversions, a recurring feature on Aquarium Drunkard, catches up with our favorite artists as they wax on subjects other than recording and performing. Today we catch up Roadside Graves' John Gleason whose EP You Won't Be Happy With Me came out last week.)
A few months back I was driving to work and heard Shearwater’s single “Castaways” on the radio. I may be alone on this, but my first thought was John Denver. The song sounds reminiscent of John Denver’s "Calypso" (a 1975 tribute to Jacques Cousteau). Which then begged the question, Would Shearwater consider that a compliment? I hope to hell yes. Shearwater succeeds by crafting dramatic and honest songs in a pool of new music that seems lazily bent on cruising along on sunglasses indoors, surfing metaphors, and the hip of being bored.
John Denver was born Henry John Deutschendorf Jr. in Roswell, New Mexico. Reread that sentence and you can begin to imagine the inner torment and public agony teenage Denver must have endured while moving continually with his military father. Triumphantly Denver stole his father’s car and fled to California to visit friends and begin his music career. Only a short time later his father flew to California and brought young John back to Fort Worth, Texas to finish high school. Mirroring what we all must feel when younger that there is somewhere better for us to be than where we are. If only we knew where it was, I suspect California is still high on the list of possibilities. New Jersey possibly dead last.
After spending time in folk groups like the Chad Mitchell Trio (he took over for Chad) Denver began recording on his own after Peter, Paul, and Mary recorded his song, “Leaving on a Jet Plane”. Denver’s early records were scattered with originals and folk/country covers by songwriters like Kris Kristofferson, John Prine, and Steve Godman. Then for about four years John Denver released a string of records (Poems, Prayers, and Promises/Rocky Mountain High/Back Home Again…) that forever cast his public image to some as a sincere and thoughtful man with an unmistakable voice and to others a man singing with puppets undeserved of critical acclaim. I’m comfortable with and appreciate both sides.
I was born into John Denver as I was Neil Diamond and ABBA. Sure, I wish my mother played Captain Beefheart that would have been so much easier. I can re-imagine my entire four years in high school screwing around with the art girls. But, my childhood was fairly standard. I would walk home from Catholic School, eat two Oreos with milk, help my mother fold the laundry while watching General Hospital and then most times listen to John Denver before dinner. I’d jump on the sofa and wish I was in Colorado.
It’s easy to dismiss John Denver as a guilty pleasure. I define a musical guilty pleasure as a song you thoroughly enjoy regardless of what others may think but as soon as you turn the volume up in your car you are also closing the window. Or simply a song you would not play on your first date. If a hot young girl walks by with a vintage John Denver shirt she is most likely being ironic. People will generally give you disapproving looks or smile and wait for you to admit you are only joking. Take comfort in his uncool. It’s actually refreshing to not give a shit once in while. He is an artist that you will have to defend.
His smile, glasses and broad optimism are deceiving. Denver was like most of us, shit full of heartache and failures. He suffered from failed relationships, alcohol abuse, and public and critical ostracism (rejected from We are the World!). He was an awkward and sincere artist who probably only felt comfortable when he was on stage.
The Eagle and the Hawk: This is the best example of John Denver as man with arms around nature, before we all drank water out of plastic bottles, and then worried about it. His vocals are unmatched here, I’d love to have heard Roy Orbison sing this one. It is a song where music, words, and vocal match the subject precisely. Originally on his record Aerie, which was unavailable until recently on CD. “All that we can be is not what we are”
MP3: Bonnie "Prince" Billy :: The Eagle and the Hawk (cover)
MP3: John Denver :: The Eagle And the Hawk
I'm Sorry: I was slightly shocked when I first heard this song. It shreds the TV friendly face and hopeful sincerity. It’s simply depressing, you can hear the guilt dripping, I mean he’s so overcome with guilt that he apologizes for the “way things are in China”. But he puts on a good face, as I imagine he must have throughout his career, and tells his friends and family everything is fine despite the fact the relationship in the song is clearly over. “They all know I’m dying down deep inside.” Listen to Red House Painters take on “I’m Sorry” if the John Denver 70’s production is too distracting.
MP3: Red House Painters :: I’m Sorry (cover)
MP3: John Denver :: I’m Sorry
Prisoners: Alienated characters. Folk Rock. This is about as badass as John Denver allowed himself to be. “It’s a hard life living when you’re lonely”
Leaving on a Jet Plane: Good folk songs seem unwritten, to this day I can’t believe Bob Dylan wrote “Blowin’ in the Wind”, it seems impossible. It should be mysterious like Aesop fables, was he one man or many? How the hell did Jerry Jeff Walker write “Mr. Bojangles”? I guess it’s hard to believe because it seems like no one in modern music is capable of writing these songs anymore. Who is going to sing “Poker Face” to their children twenty years from now?
MP3: John Denver :: Leaving on a Jet Plane
John Denver is worthy of your time and consideration. Recycle. Shut the shade. Lock the door. Skip some songs, they’re not all great. Sing along. Garden. Reuse. Adopt an animal from the local shelter. Call your mother. Visit Colorado. Jump on your bed. Reconsider Denver with these records: John Denver — Farewell Andromeda, John Denver — Rocky Mountain High, John Denver - Aerie, Take Me Home: A Tribute to John Denver (w/ Red House Painters, LOW, and Bonnie Prince Billy), Shearwater - The Golden Archipelago words/ John gleason (Roadside Graves)
Related: Diversions :: Roadside Graves on Kris Kristoffereson
Related: Diversions :: Roadside Graves on Roger Miller
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Our erratic SXSW coverage continues....below, a chat with Austin Fisher of the Brooklyn based Suckers. A relatively new outfit, whose debut LP, Wild Smile, is set to drop June 8th on French Kiss Records, Suckers are presently gearing up for a two-month national tour with Local Natives. Words/MP3 after the jump...
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Sometime last Fall, when the leaves were barely hanging on to the branches of the trees back East, my old friend Jeff Thrope (who now helms the excellent blog Cold Splinters out of Brooklyn) hipped me to Family Band's Miller Path LP using brevity: he simply stated I needed this music in my life. Indeed. Ethereal, bare-boned and primal, Family Band's Miller Path is now available for pre-order -- a limited edition
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Aquarium Drunkard caught up with Lissie, the best pipes at SXSW, before her set at Mess With Texas in the midst of her whirlwind week in Austin. The following discussion veers from Throat Coat tea to Hulu faves...with a little music talk thrown in for the hell of it. Lissie is set to embark on a European tour this Spring. Don't miss her live.
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AD: You’ve played five shows already, you’re about to play to five more — how are you saving your voice?
Lissie: Well, the first night, Wednesday, we played two shows and around the second one I was beginning to feel a strain so afterwards I went back to the house we’re renting, drank a bunch of Throat-Coat Tea with honey and lemon, watched some Hulu, got in my pajamas and stayed in, even though I wanted to go out and see bands. I came here to work, not to party. So Wednesday night I took it easy, went to bed early. I played two shows yesterday and surprisingly, my voice didn’t feel that good talking but once I started singing it was fine. And this morning, I was surprised again, I feel hoarse, but once I started singing it was doing what I wanted it to do. I smoke and I drink too much — the best things for my voice are sleep, tea and just being able to rest it — but I haven’t had the luxury to rest it. I’m just crossing my fingers and hoping for the best — I should probably get some tea in a bit here. I don’t know when we’re playing, our shows been pushed back, so I might go back to the house and make some tea and clean my contacts cause they hurt my eyes, change my clothes — just get comfortable. I warm up and I warm down, I’m just hoping I make it through the next two days. I just did this radio thing where I had to sing, I’m talking a lot doing interviews, doing filming.
There was one time when I was in London when I had to sing on the radio after five days of doing show, show, show, show show. I woke up and I couldn’t talk - opened my mouth and nothing came out. I ended up getting injected with cortisone — it felt illegal. It felt self-serving, to have a doctor show up in your hotel and take this big needle and inject you in the butt. “Give me your butt!” and he gave me a cortisone shot and a B-12 shot which was supposed to give me energy. It was amazing how quickly my voice came back and how good it sounded. But, it also makes you fat and I don’t want to get fat. I also had to take Prednisone, cause I get allergy induced asthma…
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Barn-folk-revival. A 'real' genre? Well no, but that's what comes to mind whenever Melanie's "Lay Down (Candles In The Rain)" pops up on an old mixtape of the same name. Aided by The Edwin Hawkins Singers, "Lay Down" adds a muscular oomph to Melanie's gruff trademark purr. Highly recc'd.
MP3: Melanie & The Edwin Hawkins Singers :: Lay Down (Candles In The Rain . . .
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Welcome to the third installment of an irregular series in which I highlight some of my favorite voices online and beyond. Today we catch up with DJ Turquoise Wisdom. Wisdom (Zach Cowie) has worked in the record business his entire adult life-- at labels (Touch & Go, Sub Pop, Drag City, Rhino), as a tour manager (Devendra Banhart, Joanna Newsom, Vetiver, Vashti Bunyan, etc), and as a touring DJ. He's currently living in LA and trying his hand at music supervision/consultation for . . .
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In the span of 48 hours I managed to catch five Futurebirds shows during SXSW: the band's official showcase, several day parties and a crazed, impromptu, house party somewhere off South Congress. These guys are, in a word, the truth. As I mentioned last Fall, Futurebirds inhabit a space somewhere in between Tennessee Fire era MMJ, a cornbread-fed Spiritualized and Goose Creek Symphony. And as for the lo-fi aesthetic of the EP? It did nothing to prepare me for the live show.
After the jump, AD catches up with Futurebirds' Daniel Womack, Thomas Johnson, Dennis Love, Brannen Miles, Payton Bradford and Carter King just prior to the band's performance at the 40 Watt day party.
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To say that Have One On Me, Joanna Newsom’s new two-hour triple-disc, is a challenging listen is an understatement. It’s a well-wrought record to be sure, and Newsom’s songwriting–both lyrically and structurally–are more ambitious than ever, and she’s inched just close enough to the borders of indie-folk to keep the untrained listener happy. But it’s these same leaps forward that keep the listener at bay: the sprawling songs, intricately . . .
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Our weekly two hour show on SIRIUS/XMU, channel 26 (SIRIUS), and channel 43 (XM), can now be heard twice, every Friday - Noon EST with an encore broadcast at Midnight EST.
SIRIUS 134: Jean Michel Bernard - Generique Stephane ++ Robert Pollard - Waved Out ++ Turbo Fruits - Trouble! ++ Surfer Blood - Catholic Pagans ++ Twin Sister - Ginger ++ Ganglians - Blood On The Sand ++ Moon Duo - Stumbling 22nd St ++ PoPo - Knife Iz Young ++ Deerhunter - Fluorescent Grey ++ Lotus Plaza - What Grows ++ The Sandwitches - Back To The . . .
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(We brought Aquarium Drunkard's J. Crosby with us to Austin last week---his first sojourn into the four-day romp that is SXSW. We traveled by car from L.A. to Austin. I asked Joe to keep a loose diary of events. Below are his notes. An homage to HST. Loosely based on facts, soaked in Lone Star and salsa, covered in tex-mex and BBQ. - AD)
After speeding across the desert from L.A. we had crashed in El Paso, a wretched border hive evolved into faux-society after generations of midnight crossings, dusty trade post quarreling and unapologetic inbreeding. We drank piss-warm beer till 5 a.m., speculating on the days to come. The next eve, seventeen hours of wandering and 600 miles later, two of our cohort--myself and a mustachioed "businessman"--were dropped at a roadside watering hole in Austin, bags in tow. "Sleep be damned," the businessman said, and I cringed at the thought of excess. We walked inside. There, we met an albino Venezuelan woman and a tall, elastically built man who rambled about ghost sightings, corporate America and prostitutes. The four of us delighted in innocent revelry, telling stories, laughing and patting each other on the back when a certain anecdote saw fit to it. This interpersonal play had all the ostensible makeup of normalcy, despite the players.
The following morning looked more like an afternoon, and indeed it was. My eyes felt like stones, their lids tufts of unrefined cotton. My mouth was as parched as the cracks in my hands, but I otherwise felt fine. And in any case, I had business to do, so I gathered myself and prepared to make a few calls.
The businessman--a loose description, I'd soon find out--meanwhile headed toward the Convention Center, which for all intents and purposes is a bland structure of massive proportions serving bland appointments of benign futility. But on this day it would be the last jumping off point of the River Styx, where you pick up your registration accoutrements.
At the 11th hour, the businessman had arranged for me to receive a wristband. In most stretches of the world, wristbands are reserved for hopeless, swollen and jaundiced hospital patients roaming moribund halogen halls. Here in Austin, the wristband is a badge of honor, an access key, your mark flashed cooly at gatekeepers to gain entrance into the orgy of music, industry networking and Lone Star, into the darkest corners of South by Southwest. As though there were any difference.
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Of all the records that are considered "ahead of their time," this may be the most en vogue contender. There are thousands of albums from the sixties that didn't jive with the times, and many that are still too ahead of their time (what happens in the evolution of music since then ultimately ends up determining what we consider to be the most influential). In terms of popular electronic music, nothing really touches what the Silver Apples started up in '68.
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Consider the following mush the requisite/obligatory, by-the-numbers, opening paragraph concerning the level of recent Robert Pollard ouput: A gnbhjn ghm kskeh a hgjj hfgrgs. Mg ghjed xffjj hknk wfjhbasd kedkcn kckjnz kjnd kjbkjsdc qcdbuha nhjn sc ibjk? A fe kqwlkxd yrn aiebjc kbjsdc. Eneuhc kjb oijba yrun kjbds. bjedcoijb. A hberc, ibsdc hbowbv dje qyrbj jsdcb ohrt ashreidh kjb ntrugh! Nufgh kecsd. Prolific.
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