Just a selection of records that’ve been on the stereo lately.
Deerhoof – Milk Man LP: I saw them the other week and they were never as good as this record. They eventually evolved a little bit to blend sweetness and chaos – the two are still separated on this album, and that’s great.
Pantera – Far Beyond Driven LP: Me and Hesh used to rock this shit hard in ’94 at 714. Somehow over the years I lost it, but the other day Dave sold it back. Thanks, Dave. Some albums kind of gently work under your skin, or slowly hit your consciousness. This is one that goes straight to your blood.
Kraftwerk – S/T 2LP: Every once in a while I nerd out on some German crapola like Neu! or Peter Brotzmann. This is early stuff, before Kraftwerk had “songs.” It’s a lot of glitchy noise, which matches the sounds in my head, from time to time.
Ruby Braff – Braff! LP: A great trumpet player who unfortunately often sounds like the cliche of ‘jazz trumpet player’ much like Coleman Hawkins sometimes sounds like the cliche of ‘jazz saxophone player.’ Too bad; following his solos is like talking to a really funny, witty person.
The Cribs – Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever LP: My favorite record of 2007. It made me guiltlessly happy every single time I listened to it. It still does.
Curtis Mayfield – Live 2LP: The smallest band, the biggest heart. Does he really play a Carpenters song and make it sound like the most sincere thing ever? Yes, he does. An exercise in minimalist soul.
David Murray – 3D Family 2LP: Goddamn eyes rolling into the back of his head, goddamn horn falling apart under the weight of his lungs. I saw him last year in NYC with my dad. Indescribable.
Spank Rock – Yoyoyoyoyoyo 2LP: Sleazy, juicy, do-me, sweaty, sticky, bring it on, dance-even-if-you-can’t-dance album. It grows on you in a pretty harsh way. Production sounds like the dance music from a strip club on Mars.
Pinhead Gunpowder – Carry The Banner 10″: “What a shitty version of a Diana Ross song,” I thought when I first bought this. Then, a couple weeks ago at Gilman, they finished their set with it and it was the GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD. Why is life so unpredictable and why do I love that so much?
The Watery Graves – Caracas LP: If Bill Evans were alive in 2008 and worked at La Sirenita in NE Portland, he’d make music like this.
Celia Cruz – Canta LP: Good old Cuban music. A little goes a long way, but it’s always good for at least Side A or Side B while cleaning up the house.
Bobby Short – S/T LP: None more expressive, down to the tiniest fraction of a syllable. An amazing interpreter and filled with such gayness. In that, yes, gay, and yes, hella vivacious and exuberant. I bought this on the last night Village Music was open, at about 11:45 pm, along with an autographed Atlantic Starr record.
Can – Ege Bamyasi LP: After all these years of working at a record store and I managed to resist the Can thing for almost the entire run. It finally hit me this year.
Mary Lou Williams – Zoning LP: Jazz with a lot of open space in which to think about God and a lot of recurring grooves to pull you back to reality. I never understood why everyone was so crazy about her until I heard this.
Moggs – The White Belt is Not Enough LP: A great Petaluma band. Those words are rarely if ever typed together, I know, but it’s true. Heavy, fucked-up, Sonic Youth art school sort of stuff. Some parts just get repeated forever and ever and it’s so satisfying.
Headlights – Kill Them With Kindness LP: Swirly beautiful pop music with boy-girl harmonies, keyboards, well-crafted songwriting. . . sounds like a rocket taking off. Never gets old. They’ve got a new one that just came out last week and I’m dying to hear it.
More than any other band right now, Deerhoof represents the refined embodiment of music’s endless possibilities. They’re playing at the Phoenix Theater in Petaluma this Saturday, and I swear you won’t ever see another band like them. At all.
For my Bohemian article, I spoke with Deerhoof drummer Greg Saunier about John Cage, the creative process, Harry Smith, childrens’ music, touring with Radiohead, and shutting down haters. There was no way to fit it all into just 700 words—he’s not one to speak in prefabricated soundbites, that’s for sure. City Sound Inertia to the rescue: read the extended 3,000-word interview here, and don’t say I didn’t warn you. Our conversation starts after the jump.
I intentionally parked about a half-mile away from the Boogie Room last night so I could walk the long narrow road in rural Santa Rosa under the moonlight, surrounded by farmland, alone. It’s something I used to do plenty often, before I had a driver’s license—and before most of Santa Rosa’s empty fields were turned into tract homes. It was serene, and I think, since the Boogie Room is located pretty much in the blissful middle of nowhere, that I’ll make a tradition of it.
I don’t want to say too much about the Boogie Room, because in the guerilla tradition of the last couple years, it’s an under-the-radar venue and probably prefers to stay that way. Think of it as a Studio E for the younger set; a homey place to see friends, play fetch with the house dog, sit by the campfire, and watch terrific bands in a cozy barn in the middle of a field. House concerts, as it were, with an edge.
I was given a tour of the sprawling grounds by Bryce, who’s something of a navigator for this amazing, multi-tiered ship. He enthusiastically showed me around the large greenhouse and huge garden; the collection of barns full of old cars and owls; and the many, many improvements that he and other residents have made since they moved in about a year ago. Sliding open the door to one leaning barn, he blankly explained that it was where the previous tenant, who had been running a chop-shop for stolen cars and a methamphetamine lab, had hung himself.
In the music room, the junkyard classicism of the Highlands—a cellist, a violinist, a possessed guitarist and two drummers—was filling the place up. After a truncated set by Battlehooch, who manhandled a Theremin, a Sony Watchman and multiple vocal effects before submitting to technical difficulties, it was time for the Iditarod, who were as epic and majestic as their name implies. Medieval synthesizer solos, heralding trumpets, three-part-harmony battle cries, absolutely strange guitar playing and hyperactive drum beats. Shit, as they say, was goin’ off.
I’d never seen Xbxrx before, but I could tell that the guys standing by the side of the stage had to be the band members. They looked bored and annoyed, like they couldn’t wait to play and get the whole thing over with, and sure enough, as soon as the Iditarod were finished, it took exactly 40 seconds for them to start hurriedly setting up their equipment on the stage. So I wasn’t expecting much; after all, they’ve been a band for ten years, they’ve toured with Sonic Youth and Deerhoof, their last few shows were in Berlin, London, and Amsterdam—why would they possibly care about Santa Rosa?
But a total transformation occurred when they plugged in and started playing; it was like they’d become lightning rods for all the Earth’s energy for miles around. They leapt, flailed, ran, fell down, writhed, spun, and shook wildly. . . and that’s just in the first two minutes. I’ve seen a lot of goddamn hardcore mayhem, but this was up there. Way up there.
In matching baby-blue outfits, the guys in Xbxrx didn’t perform so much as they blurred their way around the entire barn, as far as their guitar cables would allow, unpredictably crashing around while playing blast after blast of insane noise. They climbed the walls, they banged their heads on the ground, they shoved their bodies behind the couch and they did haphazard flips into the crowd. Antagonizing, sure, but even though I stood just a couple feet from the guitarist’s amplifier and mic stand the whole time, I amazingly never once got hit.
At the end of the set, one of the guitarists crawled underneath the stage with his guitar and just laid there in a fetal position. He didn’t move. It made sense, in a way. So I left before Batman vs. Predator with my ears ringing, and walked the half-mile back to my car in the quiet foggy midnight air.