The Morphizm Mash-Up: August 2003

Frank Black, Show Me Your Tears
I think it's pretty obvious by now that Frank Black has mastered classic rock convention as quickly as he rewrote Ramones pop punk with the Pixies. The structures, of course, are simpler, and there's a premium put on the eternal lonesome, that troubled state of mind -- and heart -- that has informed everything from Lou Reed's revisionist Rock 'N' Roll Animal to the Stones' Exile on Main Street to Neil Young and Crazy Horse's Tonight's the Night.

But there's no mistaking the plaintive vocals about "witchy" women ("Nadine") and depression ("Horrible Day"), or the bar blues progressions ("Jaina Blues", "New House of the Pope") and standard rock structures ("Goodbye Lorraine" and onward). Which is not to say that you've heard all of this before.

In fact, Frank Black's continuing innovations on the genre usually involve his unorthodox content, whether you're talking esoteric wine history (The wines of Chateauneuf du Pape, favored by the Avignon popes, provide -- perhaps -- the contextual backdrop for the Tom Waits-ish "New House of the Pope"), philosophy (upholding the beliefs of Jaina, an Indian religious movement similar to Buddhism that promotes nonviolence and vegetarianism, is what makes life "so hard" for Black in "Jaina Blues") or geography (the idyllic mountain range called Massif Centrale that forms the background for Black's song of same name is both an escape and metaphor for isolation).

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And this could be reading into things a bit too much, but that's what always made his music so much fun to listen to. Such scrutiny also distracts you from the been-there-done-that standardization of his tunes; much of what he's done musically on Show Me Your Tears has been done better on his earlier work, especially the amazing Devil's Workshop.

But a ride with Frank Black is always worth taking, because you know there will always be food, drink (there are too many wine allusions to count on this album) and the suggestive open road.

Enjoy the ride. -- Scott Thill

The Thermals, More Parts Per Million
"Hardly art, hardly starving." This lyrically sums up the Thermals debut, More Parts Per Million. Although this might seem like a diss, it's really one of the highest compliments around -- especially in this world of over-produced, genre suffocating musical offerings. The Thermals don't create "art" in the stuffy, heady sense. And, although their no-fi production sets the multimedia craze back a decade or so, their sound is hardly starving. The music doesn't try to be anything other than what it is: distorted, lo-fi punk with an indie twist. Their brand of frenzied punk rock, combined with their infectious, indie melodies and intelligent, fun lyrics, definitely aren't starving for a lack of anything: depth, wit or sound.

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With a sound reminiscent of the Mummies' "fuck CDs"-style, the Thermals sound as scratchy and wonderful as your dusty collection of 7-inches. Think early Guided By Voices, but for the new generation. The album was recorded on a 4-track in singer Hutch Harris' basement and was mixed by Chris Walla (Death Cab for Cutie). The result is DIY cool, raw and real. Distorted vocals are backed by distorted guitar, distorted bass and simple, pop-punk drumming. And, it's hard not to smile at the thoughtful lyrics and happy noise.

The Thermals are appropriately named considering the cool, overcast climate of the band's hometown, Portland, OR; they really do warm up their listeners. The group consists of a local, superstar hodgepodge: Hutch Harris and Kathy Foster (Hutch & Kathy), Jordan Hudson (Operacycle) and Ben Barnett (Kind of Like Spitting). They originally intended to simply rock it on the side for fun. But, little did they know that having friends in high places -- Ben Gibbard (Death Cab for Cutie, Postal Service) was one of their first fans -- would land them a three-record deal with Sub Pop Records with only a made-for-$60 demo record in their back pocket. Throw away your long johns kids. -- Nancy Hunter

Kenna, New Sacred Cow
Chad Hugo of The Neptunes has a lot of practice making pop records at this point, but 'New Sacred Cow,' produced for friend and fellow Virginian Kenna, had to be more of a challenge than sequencing tracks for Justin or Xtina--fake plastic beats for fake plastic stars with fake plastic lyrics. Artists like Kenna don't usually go the purely electronic route, and Kenna's obviously U2-inspired songwriting wouldn't seem to lend itself to straightforward electronic beats. Nobody told him that he was supposed to use a band.

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The subject matter is simple and the same as most popular music (love, relationships, life), but that's where the common ground with Britney and the Backstreet Boys ends. Instead Kenna seems more from a time when MTV was still cool and normal people listened to pop, not just the most culturally shallow, vapid and short-attention-spanned of us. He feels that the torch of that music has been passed to him, making music that has nothing to do with any pretense of "lone artistic genius." This is music that was inspired by music--to say that it sounds like Talking Heads or Depeche Mode would be taken as a compliment.

'Freetime' the album's lead track is already a hit, aided by an equally good video. Like the song, the video seems to be 10 or 15 years old, from when videos were conceptual and clever. And 'New Sacred Cow' is something that only the most jaded music snobs won't like and the radio will love. It's very radio-friendly stuff, but with an enthusiasm that's been missing for almost a decade now.

Kenna is a little bit of everything that's good about the last 20 years of popular music. It's almost "pop" as a concept--pop for music nerds. -- Todd Heasley

The Kills, Live at the Troubadour
Walking into the Troubadour was no easy feat. The sidewalk was filled with Cyndi Lauper look-alikes. Seriously, are the '80s back so soon? You’d think Blondie was about to play. Inside, the place was packed. The Kills were about to play a sold-out show. I got there at the end of the second opening band’s set. They were called Starlight Desperation, and though we only had heard their last song, it was a long song, and we wished we had arrived earlier.

The Kills formed less than a year ago. Word has it that the male half of the duo, Hotel (a.k.a. Jamie Hince) had mailed demo tapes from London over to VV (a.k.a Alison Mosshart, former frontwoman of the Florida punk band, Discount) in the States. She added her vocals and sent them back, and there you have it. A pair of post-punk performers.

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It’s not everyday you see a band like The Kills setting up their own equipment before performing. Normally, they have people that do that for them. But Hotel stepped out on stage and set up everything while VV smoked cigarettes like someone was going to take her lungs away. They started their set with “Superstition”, a song composed of Hotel’s powerful, blues riffs, prerecorded drums, and VV’s don’t-fuck-with-me vocals -- to which the PJ Harvey comparisons are inevitable and appropriate. This was a great song to begin with. As VV started jerking and gyrating and screaming, the crowd seemingly disappeared -- it was clear that this was between the two of them. The audience was an unacknowledged witness to the intense chemistry between two rockers. VV broke the fourth wall only to flip everyone off with both hands at the beginning of their fourth song, appropriately titled “Fuck the People.”

One of the best songs played was “Fried My Little Brains”, a thumping garage rocker that repetitively beats you in the head. “Cat’s Claw” was a dirty, sexy, just plain good rock song that would have reinvented the strip tease if anyone was getting naked, which they weren’t. But they were kissing.

After the set, the crowd was screaming for more. So VV came out by herself and picked up a guitar and played “Gypsy Death and You”, a soft pretty song that implies these rockers still check their Bob Dylan every so often (as does “Wait”, which they played earlier). Then Hotel joined her for the last song of the night, “Hitched”. With enough junkie-dancing and kissing over the microphone to send everyone home horny, The Kills seemed to leave a very pleased crowd at the Troubadour. Though they might not have realized it -- Jeff Pearce

20 August 03

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