Cults Bands of the “80’s-90’s”
The other day I was debating who might be the “most influential bands of the 90’s,” which is a more polite way of saying “whose fault are the 00’s (uh-oh’s),” which is awfully unfair to a host of excellent bands. It’s not their fault that popular music fractured into a multitude of sub-genres, or that mass media melted down into niches like blogs and podcasts. It’s certainly not their fault that rock and roll is a highly derivative art form, for they did not choose their followers.
Easily, one of the most influential bands of the 90’s was Pavement. Slackers, shoegazers, ironic smartasses – it’s almost as if they bothered to draw up the blueprints for modern indie sensibilities. But they were too busy getting stoned and covering “School House Rock” songs. A lot of misguided critics and fans expected Pavement to do something Important ten years ago. Following a series of overdubbed home recordings and lo-fi e.p.s in the early 90’s, then band released two excellent long players, which offered increasingly competent musicianship and mysterious, occasionally cheeky, lyrics that hinted at greater depth and empathy. Real voice of a generation shit.
But 1995’s “Wowee Zowee” was a rambling, shambolic mess. Anything resembling a message was lost in the cacophony of genre pastiches and rubbish lyrics. The critics howled in disgust, the casual listeners dropped away and Pavement settled into the comfortable niche of cult artists. Ten years on, “Wowee Zowee” sounds like the band’s greatest artistic statement – precisely by not saying much of anything. It’s just a lot of jamming on good grooves, and occasionally throwing out an interesting turn of phrase. Matador Records continues to reissue Pavement’s albums in deluxe editions that include b-sides, demos and outtakes. The “Sordid Sentinels” edition of “Wowee Zowee” finally places the excellent single “Painted Soldiers” (which was promoted with a funny video of Spiral Stairs firing the other members of the band) on a proper Pavement album. Other highlights include an Australian radio set puts Malkmus on lead vocals for a strangely Lou Reed-ish “My Best Friend’s Arm” in which one can finally make out the lyrics (“Mt. Holyoke is my favorite friend and a college?”) and an acoustic demo of “Fight This Generation” that sounds more sinister than sarcastic.
It should not have come as a surprise that Pavement would settle for cult status. A formative influence on Stephen Malkmus was the ultimate cult band, the Fall. A first wave punk band from Manchester, centered around the prickly personality of Mark E. Smith and his mostly paid associates, the Fall are the kind of cult that brainwashes. The typical Fall song drones on repetitively around a catchy groove while Smith growls and howls something incomprehensible and (if you’re lucky) Brix Smith coos a beautiful harmony. The new(ish) double-disc collection, “50,000 Fall Fans Can’t Can’t Be Wrong” provides the easiest indoctrination into the cult of Mark E. Smith.
This Is His Testimony: Jon Langford of the Mekons
This is his testimony. In 1991, Jon Langford and his mates from Leeds, the Mekons, had just missed their opportunity as rock-n-roll’s latest last best hope. After almost 15 years of lineup changes, a bunch of classic albums with lousy distribution, countless raucous alcohol-soaked tours and stylistic shifts from punk to country, dance and back, the Mekons were on the verge of saving rock music from big hair and empty heads when fights with A&M Records left their newest record without an outlet in the U.S., just as Nirvana opened up the radio to so-called “alternative rock.” They called that record “The Curse of the Mekons,” but their contract problems and bad luck didn’t piss them off as much as the fall of the Soviet Union and the media’s declaration of the “death of socialism.” “How can something really be dead when it hasn’t even happened,” long-time lefty Langford demands in the album’s highlight, “Funeral,” which concludes, “This funeral is for the wrong corpse!”
Last year marked the Mekons’ 25th anniversary, and Jon Langford has continued to be busier than ever. His Pine Valley Cosmonauts assembled an impressive line-up of underground country artists – including Neko Case and Steve Earle – released a well-received anti-death penalty benefit album, “The Executioner’s Last Songs,” early last year, and later in the year, he brought back many of the same artists to record, “The Bottle Let Me Down,” a tongue-in-cheek children’s album that parents could stomach. His alt.country band, the Waco Brothers, just wrapped up a tour on which Langford pulled double duty, playing in support of the Waco’s sixth disc, “New Deal,” as well as playing with tour openers the Sadies, with whom he just released a collaboration titled, “The Mayors of the Moon.” And, last fall, the Mekons marked their silver jubilee not with a compilation looking back on their career, but with an album of new material, “Out of Our Heads,” and a world club tour.
The Mekons Story
Langford spoke with The Socialist from his home in Chicago, on the eve of the Mekons’ tour. The Mekons, he says, were formed in punk’s first wave, with the idea that, “Your favorite band didn’t have to be people you never meet.” Indeed, the band got its start when schoolmates Langford, Tom Greenhaigh and Kevin Lycett borrowed their favorite band’s (and good friends), the Gang of Four’s, instruments to practice and record their new songs. The art school punk scene in Leeds, centered on the Mekons and Gang of Four, was more political, more intellectual and more danceable than London’s.
In the early days, Langford, Greenhaigh and Lycett released a string of 7″ singles, recorded on simple two track equipment, using borrowed instruments and whatever friends they could rope into the session to fill out the band. Their first single, “Never Been in a Riot,” was a piss-take on the Clash’s “White Riot.” Langford says he has always disliked the romantic outsider stance of punk and some of its thoughtless rhetoric. “When you say ‘smash the system,'” he asks, “what the fuck are you talking about? The national health system?” He found the same problem in parts of the organized left. “I was in the Socialist Workers Party for about half an hour,” quips Langford, who describes himself as a Welsh socialist and an “unaffiliated lefty.”
The Mekons’ early singles attracted the attention of Virgin Records, which released their first album in 1979. Its title, “The Quality of Mercy is Not Strnen,” a reference to that old axiom about a thousand monkeys, a thousand typewriters and a work of Shakespeare, was also a commentary on the band’s limited aptitude and everybody-pick-an-instrument-and-play style. Another album followed, but the band fizzled as England’s gig scene grew violent and they became financially dependent on a record label that didn’t know what to do with them. They broke up in 1982, and moved on to new projects. Langford even sold his drums to the goth band Sisters of Mercy, who painted them black.
However, “even when the band thought we split up,” says Langford, “we hadn’t.” The band members continued to hang out and work on art projects together. They even did a few live shows as the Mekons to benefit the striking miners. In 1985, the Mekons made a startling comeback as a country band. They added talented new members, such as Steve Goulding on drums, Susie Honeymoon on fiddle, and singer Sally Timms and released “Fear and Whiskey” on their own independent record label. The album was Hank Williams distilled through punk rock. “Country music struck quite a few chords at that point in our lives,” he says, as a string of broken relationships and too much hard drinking resulted in songs that were stark and personal, but also warm – not to mention musically accomplished.
Two more country albums followed, with better distribution in America, as did other sounds and influences. “Once we got past the first Year Zero days of punk,” he says, “we started to get into the idea of folk music, dance music, reggae.” Along with the new sounds came new members, who seemed to come and go at a rate that could populate several new bands a year, although Langford bristles at the idea that there have been that many personnel changes. “It’s kind of an open door policy, but there’s a core of people,” he says, although he likes the idea of adding younger members and having the band go on. “Here’s the Mekons,” he jokes, “with no one from the Mekons.”
The Curse of the Mekons
Their work in the 80’s made the Mekons critical darlings with a cult-like fan following, and brought them to A&M records. Their first album for A&M should have made them stars. “Destroy your safe and happy lives,” they demanded on the opening track of “The Mekons’ Rock and Roll.” The album was packed full of super-charged rock and rave-ups, but, ever the intellectuals, the band deconstructed their chosen art form throughout the album. One track offers a prostitution analogy for rock-n-roll; others use imperialism and consumerism. “The battles we fought were long and hard, just not to be consumed by rock and roll,” goes one refrain. Unfortunately, their second experience on a corporate record label proved to be more frustrating than the Virgin days. The album’s cover art, which incorporated a licensed image of Elvis Presley, tied the album up in lawsuits and delayed its release. When it finally hit record stores, it was poorly promoted.
More battles with A&M followed. The band wanted to release more albums. The label wanted fewer. Of course, the label also wanted more commercial material. A&M declined to release “Curse of the Mekons,” and it was available in America only as an import for a decade. The Mekons’ curse continued when they moved from A&M to Loud Records, a short-lived subsidiary of Warner Brothers, which tied them up in red tape for two years and never released a single note of music recorded by the band. When the Mekons were finally released from their contract, they immediately released the superb “I (Heart) Mekons” on the independent Touch and Go Records label and never looked back.
“I don’t work for major labels anymore,” Langford says today. Despite his own problems with the major labels over the years, he says he’s mostly uninvolved with the recent artists’ rebellion at the major labels. “There’s such a disparity between musicians,” he says, “that I don’t quite feel a part of that Don Henley struggle.” Still, he’s incredulous at the way the system is set up. “Somebody gives you some money,” he explains, “which you then owe them, to make something which they then own. I can understand why someone who sells three million records gets pissed off.”
Langford manages to eke out a living for himself through his art. “My wife will kill me if I do any more work for no money. For my next benefit album I have to do,” he jokes, “I promised her I’d embezzle all the money.” Working for indie labels, he says that he receives modest royalty checks about six months after a record is released, but that he would have to record about four or five records a year in order for that money to translate into a living wage. His biggest source of money recently was the use of two Waco Brothers songs in episodes of the HBO series “Sex and the City,” which, after repeats and DVD releases, translated in a “sizeable” royalty check.
Heaven and Back
These days, Langford, like the rest of the Mekons, no longer lives in Leeds. He moved to Chicago in 1992 to be with his then-girlfriend, Helen, who is now his wife. The couple has two children, 5-year-old Jimmy and newborn Tommy. He says that it’s because of his children that he finally became involved in U.S. political issues, most notably the campaign to end the death penalty. “I felt like it’s time I should step up,” he says, describing it as a “winnable fight.” On “The Executioner’s Last Songs,” Langford assembled over a dozen Chicago-area alternative country artists, along Nashville’s Steve Earle among others, to cover classic songs about murder and mayhem, with the proceeds benefiting the Illinois Coalition Against the Death Penalty. Langford speaks very warmly of the Chicago music scene, which he feels has even more of a sense of community than the old punk days in Leeds.
“I’m a socialist because I believe in a sense of community,” he says. “I think a community needs to look after people, rather than rip them off. It’s as simple as that.” His sense of community is underscored by his strong identification with the three places he has called home over the years. “I feel like Chicago’s the only place I could live in America,” he says. Ten years in, Chicago (and America) are as much a part of his identity as Leeds and Wales, whose working class identity and “people got to work, people got to eat” ethos he credits for his socialist politics.
Jon Langford will continue to be an activist in the U.S. on his own terms, and despite his own ambivalence about the organized left. “A lot of people on the left seem to fear musicians and artists, for some reason, as being free spirits, or kinda sneer at them for not being intellectually rigorous,” he says. “Music reflects social change,” he explains. “I don’t think it instigates social change, but you can be a morale builder.”
This article was originally published in the March-April 2003 issue of “The Socialist.”
New (To Me) Record Round-Up
“Enemies Like This.” Radio 4. I root for Radio 4 like I root for the Mets. They’re the home team (if you can call Williamsburg anyone’s home) and they deserve to win. I’m not sure that this is the record that will make them stars, however. The propulsive poly-percussion and Gang of Four-style slashing guitars are still there, but after the first four tracks it all starts to lose steam.
“Big Star, Small World.” Various. I’m utterly perplexed that power pop never conquered the world. Infectious pop sensibilities, crunchy guitars: something for everyone, no? Instead, it’s a weird little niche for freaks like me. The grand-daddy of all power pop groups, Big Star, were feted with a tribute record from the little pups who worship them. Released in 2006, goodness knows how long these tapes were sitting on the shelf, as half the bands on “Big Star, Small World” (the Gin Blossoms, Afghan Whigs, Whiskeytown and Posies) have since broken up, and two of them (the Posies and the Gin Blossoms) found time to reunite, too.
Unfortunately, all the bands here are too faithful to the source material, and thereby pale in comparison to Big Star’s slender, seminal work. The Posies eke slightly more desperation out of “What’s Going Ahn” and Wilco manages to find even more tender nuance in “Thirteen.” Otherwise, there’s nothing here that doesn’t make you want to spin your copy of “#1 Record/Radio City,” instead. The reunited “Big Star” (basically, Alex Chilton and drummer Jody Stephens, augmented by various Posies) contribute a weak track, “Hot Thing,” that sounds like an outtake from one of Chilton’s anemic solo R&B records. Stick with the classics.
“One Day It Will Please Us To Remember Even This.” New York Dolls.A reunion that doesn’t disappoint, the living Dolls (all two of them) might have put out the best rock-n-roll record of 2006. It’s all snarling guitars, sneering attitude and horny come-ons. The delightful “Runnin’ Around” starts off as an ode to feet before delving into more freakiness and something about flesh-colored panties. Elsewhere, David Johansen declares that happiness is “Fishnets & Cigarettes” and goes shopping in the red-light district in “Rainbow Store.”
Since the Dolls imploded in the 70’s, Johansen found success as a comic actor, and the influence shows. Not so much singing as growling off-key, for most of the record, Johansen employs a hoary Noo Yawk accent that Archie Bunker couldn’t get away with. “Exorcise yer demons with that monkey grin,” he sings on the witty Christian Fundy-tweaking “Dance Like a Monkey,” “Cuz we gonny inherit the wind!” Gonny? That’s probably his ballsiest move on this ballsy record.
“The Believer.” Rhett Miller. On his second solo record, Rhett Miller disappointingly displays little of the songwriting wit and rock bravado of his band Old 97’s. Either temporarily out of ideas or else in need of good collaborators, two of the three good tracks on this record are retreads of earlier Old 97’s tracks. “Question,” which was no more than Rhett and his guitar on the 97’s excellent “Satellite Rides,” is somehow schmaltzier here, which means that this is the version of the song that we are all doomed to here at every wedding we ever attend until the day we die. “Singular Girl,” previously an outtake from the same record, suffers from the lack of ragged edges that the band gave it.
The saving grace of “The Believer” is a duet with Rachel Yamagata on “Fireflies.” Miller’s songwriting prowess is in full force here, audaciously referencing lines from at least three of his most beloved songs and tying an awkward comparison of his lost love to his mother and the so-bad-it’s-good analogy “In a jar / Fireflies / Only last for one night” into a slow-burning song of heartbreak and regret. This is why I buy this guy’s records, and why I can’t wait until the next proper Old 97’s record.
Catching Up With Old Friends
I’ve discovered how old men are born. We get time demanding jobs, go to professional school, are subsumed by the demands of life. Our backs ache, our paychecks go to pay off the mortgage. We stop going to three concerts a week and buying a couple of new records every Tuesday. When we do buy a new record or go to a concert, it’s to catch up with an old friend, who’s, arguably (and you’d be arguing with us, comrade!) long past their prime. They don’t make rock-n-roll records like they used to. They never did.
I’m spending this evening with two old friends. Morrissey’s solo career turns off many. The solo careers of famous lead singer-songwriters (like Lou Reed and Paul Westerberg) are a fascinating part of the overall narrative of their lives. In Morrissey’s case, musically, this means pursuing his unique brand of classical rock which would have buried Johnny Marr’s guitars in violins and singing children, and, lyrically, a more literal exploration of his personal demons.
My friend and carpool comrade, Alan Amalgamated, insists that Morrissey’s lyrics have always been explicitly queer, while I believe that they were meant to be more ambiguous. A trusted former girlfriend once explained “Hand In Glove” as being a snide satire of self-absorbed lovers engaging in wretched PDA’s. Perhaps I put too much stock in her Masters degree in Literature, but it’s easy to hear sarcasm in a line like “And everything depends upon how near you stand to me.” Amalgamated finds a sense of daring and apprehension in the act of two men walking hand-in-hand, risking a bashing.
In any event, there’s less ambiguity now that Morrissey has dropped the pronouns. He just wants to see the boy happy. Is that too much to ask? That freedom, apparently, makes him so happy that the Moz is no longer wishing for a nuclear war to destroy him and the seaside town in which he resides. Instead, he’ll gladly sacrifice Pittsburgh for the chance to see the future when all’s well.
“Ringleader of the Tormenters” zips by with nary a clunker. Most songs are up-tempo, vaguely majestic with the usual pithy zingers. Even the repeated use of the children singers feels right.
Robert Zimmerman has a new record, too. Can three records released four and five years apart properly be considered a trilogy? “Modern Times” feels vastly less important than “Time Out of Mind,” which is to its credit. With his crack touring band behind him, Dylan seems determined to just have a good time.
He’s been thinking about Alicia Keys, which shows he is even more of an old man than me. I haven’t thought about Alicia Keys for at least two years. But I certainly feel that lyric, “This woman so crazy, I swear I ain’t gonna touch another one for years.” The spare ten songs stretch out comfortably over an hour etched on modified petroleum product. I’m sure there’s some deeper meaning to it all, but an old-fashioned record from an old-timer is a good time for me.
I’m almost encouraged enough to buy the new Paul Westerberg children’s movie soundtrack. That ‘un makes me nervous.