Sebadoh are a little foreign to most. Casually known as Dinosaur Jr. bassist Lou Barlow’s ‘other band’, many relegate the band to a footnote in the annals of nineties indie rock amidst contemporaries such as Pavement and Nirvana. After fifteen years and yet another change in drummers, Jason Loewenstein and Lou made it out to Australia to honour/promote their recently re-released 1994 album Bakesale. Not going to pass up such a rare opportunity to make the most of a good situation, I scheduled an interview with them. My first interview.

The September 18^th show at the Corner Hotel sold out completely, the only date on their Australian tour to do so. Following the warm reception of frontman Lou Barlow’s Missing Link live cassette (see Lot’s Wife Edition 5/6), its not surprising to see such a crowd of Aussie Sebadoh fans turn out for this scarce occasion.

Not wishing to miss my interview time, we turned up two hours early and sat around in the bar. The venue… what can I say? It’s the Corner. It was my first time there, but it was easy to settle in and is obviously as much a part of Melbourne’s musical culture as that other bastion of Rock, the Espy. Perhaps a little tidier than the Espy though, but still comfortable surrounds. I was driving that night, so didn’t take note of the drink prices.

After some negotiations with the front-of-house and tour managers, we’re in. Wandering into the band room when there’s no crowd to speak of is a little disconcerting – everything fully lit, surly roadies lurching across the floor, and the band members casually walking around the stage. Finally, we greet Lou, welcomes us into the band’s tiny ‘dressing room’ and offers me a can of Solo. Read the results of that interview [elsewhere in this issue].

After leaving the live room post-interview, we make our way back to the bar. There is a sign above stating that the headline act will not appear until ten o’clock – so much for arriving at six. The doors soon open and we’re in the arena, opener Laura Imbruglia and her band on the b-stage. I like her music, her grungy looks, her lack of affectation and the fact that she always looks very nervous but sings confidently nonetheless. Her music could be described as power-pop. She enjoys a warm reception.

After some considerable delay, second opener Adarm Harding & Friends takes to the main stage. If the barrage of guitar noise and feedback doesn’t get your attention, the strobe lights and the lead singer suspended from the ceiling in a straitjacket will. I’ve seen one reviewer describe their set as ‘sludge… grunge without the songs’. While this may be a little harsh, I tired of their pieces quickly despite their careful use of feedback – even a little pop hook would have been nice. Plus, even Sebadoh at their noisiest (Dino J even?) had some semblance of melody. It’s all in the family though – Lou is good friends with Adam, and their friendship is likely a useful antipodean/Sebadoh connection.

One more set from Laura et al and we’re onto the real deal. No hanging strait jackets, just the band fumbling around on stage. A band renowned for their on-stage shambles, the seem to make threats of a disorganised, half-baked performance that belies their collective talents. Does this happen? The band burst into a rousing, slightly distorted rendition of Harmacy opener ‘On Fire’ that dispels all allegations of sloppiness. After another couple of Lou tracks, favourites ‘Skull’ and ‘Too Pure’, Lou’s delicious banter with the audience begins. ‘It’s been 11 years since we were last here…’ he says. A voice in the crowd ‘Actually, I think it was 15’ and another slacker-infused tone from the pit ‘Oh shut up’. Laughter. The band’s connection with the audience and all-welcoming interaction is definitely one of their strengths.

After another two of Lou’s it’s Jason’s turn. The two swap their instruments. I’d previously not thought much of Jason’s songs, appreciating where they were coming from but preferring Lou’s melodic compositions. My opinion was dynamically changed that evening. The real strengths of Jason’s songs can easily be appreciated live – they include the energy often diminished by polished recordings (not something that Sebadoh are known for anyway, other than on Harmacy). Plus, when he starts playing, he really looks like a teenager instead of a thirty or forty-something. It’s only now that I realise that Lou and Jason are killer bassists.

The majority of the songs in the setlist were culled from Harmacy and Bakesale, though ‘Forced Love’, ‘Soul and Fire’ and ‘The Freed Pig’ made an appearance. The set closed with a – dare I say it – empowering ‘Brand New Love’, before an encore of [a song from Bakesale that I’ve forgotten]. Despite their shambolic appearance, Sebadoh, with the addition of new drummer Bob D’Amico, pull off an incredibly powerful live set.

You may not have heard of Lloyd Cole. Indeed, he has had few solid hits, and nearly all of them were in the eighties. His reputation amongst the rock cognescenti is, however, that of an overlooked genius or an underappreciated songster. Lloyd’s experienced a bit of a renaissance recently, after touring Australia in 2009 and earlier this year, releasing a 4-Disc B-side box set and a new (fan funded!) album. Could his music be experiencing a renewal of the hipster interest not seen since his indie-pop heyday? With actual, real-live modern hipsters?

First, a little of a biographical introduction. Cole was born in Buxton, Derbyshire, in the upper midlands of England. The reason he’s geographically grouped with Scottish groups like Orange Juice and The Blue Nile is because he went to Uni in Glasgow. There, he formed the band that would take him to the top of the pops and back. The Commotions were an ably talented bunch of musicians who turned Cole’s coffee-shop crooning into suave indie-pop.

With a band in tow and a head full of contemporary literature, Cole set about recording his debut album in 1984, Rattlesnakes. I’ll make my point right now, so you don’t miss it. If you run out and buy a Lloyd Cole album after reading this little subjective analysis, you must buy this album. Actually get rid of that wankery at the start of that sentence; you must buy this album.

As you must’ve now guessed, Rattlesnakes is a dear personal treasure to me. One of the few albums that my parents both liked, it got a fair few plays in my dad’s house. He was the one that told me that the first track was brilliant, the second was very good, and the third the best pop song ever written.

Rattlesnakes is a striking album, but not in the most immediate way. Its cover is a photograph of a door. Yes, a door, but not just any door – the grimy, musky looking door that can only belong to a run-down Glaswegian student bedsit. To tell the truth, that’s what I thought Uni was going to be like (thanks to Blackboard and Uni Bureaucratics, there was a sharp learning curve ahead).

If you were to demark a gimmick of Cole, you’d probably pick his lyrics. Dropping names like Leonard Cohen, Norman Mailer, Turman Capote and referencing Joan Didion, you can kind of guess that Lloyd was an Arts student. Far from being a cheesy lyrical technique, he carries it off very well, with a tongue-in-cheek cleverness that would be hard to reproduce in modern rock and pop.

The songs are a little like R.E.M if they were more insecure and less vague (we’re talking their first 4 albums here). Key example – ‘Speedboat’. A marvellous trip through what it is to be unpopular, to live in the slow lane of youth and ‘take notes, trusting in prudence’. That’s me to a tee in highschool. Uncle Lloyd was, inevitably, a dear friend who didn’t mind me quietly writing instead of being Corey Worthington.

‘Perfect Skin’ is an ode to that mythical indie girl, a woman who, with the glamour of Greta Garbo, will take your hand and show you the livelier side of life (without letting go). It also has my mum’s favourite lyric in it – ‘She’s got cheekbones like geometry/and eyes like sin’.

I’d like to draw your attention to the title track. ‘Rattlesnakes’ has everything that a song needs: simple chords, pining lyrics and one of the finest string arrangements that has ever graced a pop song (‘Unfinished Sympathy’ notwithstanding). Look it up on youtube if you’d like an inroad to Cole’s works.

Sadly, however, most people stop at the brilliance of Rattlesnakes. Go to any JB-HiFi or other record store and, more often than not, it’s the only trace of Lloyd Cole in stock. Truth is, Cole has released two more albums with the Commotions and nine as a solo artist (not counting compilations or live albums). They’re all very good, and well worth checking out. Over the years he’s ventured into folk, electronica, country and even ambient music (Plastic Wood). A writer of quality music and highly literary lyrics, Lloyd Cole deserves as much praise as can be garnered for the greats.

[written near rare books reading room this morning]

Is it a single? Is it an E.P.? Is it a… of course it’s a bloody E.P. Punk is designed around the E.P. Short and (relatively) cheap, it’s the perfect format for a style that boasts some of the briefest pieces of music with a typical song structure and that irrepressible DIY thing going on.

I walked into a prominent Bourke Street record store on a recent trip to the CBD, and asked for something that was new and very loud to review. The shopkeeper’s recommendation was this, the $10 7” White Wards E.P. Wasting My Time. I’d never come across them. I doubt many of you have either. White Wards are a hardcore punk band from Olympia, WA. I believe that this is their first non-demo recording, but I might be wrong. There’s sparse information about them on the internet.

The first thing I noticed is that neither side of the record is marked. There’s no way of telling which is the A-side or the B-side, but given the nature of the songs, this distinction probably isn’t too important. ‘EVERYTHING ENDS IN ROT’ and FAMILY VAN R.I.P.’ are the only markers, carved into the run-out groove. The insert sheet is similarly obscure, looking like a piece of X-Ray film that’s gone through a demented typewriter.

But, the songs… Well, to me they sounded like a less refined version of Black Flag (Early Rollins), with barely intelligible vocals and copious atonal guitar feedback. There are some hints at melody, which I guess is what the casual listener takes pleasure in straining out.  With titles like ‘Tear The Veins Out’ and ‘Fucking A Dead Body’, one can guess at the songs’ subject matter. Of course, once you get your mind in the right place, it’s all good fun.

That’s the problem for the punk outsider. It requires effort to get your head in the right place to enjoy it. But, is it worth the effort when you could just as easily, and perhaps (paradoxically) less expensively, listen to the aural MSG of The xx, Massive Attack or even U2? All are bands that are steeped in praise in the anonymous world of criticism, but you’re unlikely to meet anyone who will admit they like that last option in the Den…

But, criticisms and ponderings aside, it’s an interesting record. I’d personally spend money on more 80s hardcore, but it’s nice to see that this particular vein of musical heritage is kept alive across the pond.

Oh, and I’d say that the ‘EVERYTHING ENDS IN ROT’ side is slightly better.

http://ironlungrecords.bigcartel.com/product/white-wards-waste-my-time-7

[E.P. review, 18/7/11]

I’ve arrived fifteen minutes early. A young woman with a guitar and blue hair is playing on a corner stage. Typical coffeeshop style music, the kind you read about in articles on bohemian living. Probably a little poppy too, maybe some Jewel or even Alanis Morisette. She ends her set and RnB tinged hiphop crossover takes over the P.A.

I’m here to see Milan (his real name). I met him at the John Curtin hotel two months previously. A friend of the well-championed Little Audrey, I’m anxious to see what he can do. Expcially considering that he asked me to write a review of his E.P., which, at writing, has still not arrived.

Milan is a young man with hair of Sly Stone proportions. He carries a guitar on his back, and a beer in his hand. I’m the first person he sees as he shows up to Veludo Bar (ten minutes prior to his slot, of course). I wave, he remembers me, exchanges pleasantries and heads to the amenities.

Before his set starts, let’s discuss the venue. Located on colourful Acland street, Veludo Bar and Cafe is an atmospheric, cozy… enough with the copywriting. Veludo’s strikes me as pleasant, if a little nerve wracking. These venues are a little foreign to me, but I’m more than willing to explore. There’s a downstairs restaurant section, that I didn’t investigate, as well as the upstairs bar area. It regularly hosts performers on its little stage. The atmosphere is, on the whole, intimate, and offers open space on the balcony for fresh air. I could hear the music within whilst walking up Acland street.

As soon as my friend Nina arrives, we order drinks. I’m in the mood for something a little warmer than Tiger Beer, so after a rather perplexing exchange with the barman I arrange for ‘something good’ and coffee. It arrives for $10 and includes ‘a few goodies’. It’s very strong coffee… maybe a shot of whiskey, one of brandy and perhaps even a touch of Cointreau. Whatever’s in there, my head is spinning after I down the whole thing.

After Milan disappears, Little Audrey himself arrives. Guy (his real name) tells me that the soundman is late, and we get a conversation going. Bands from Perth? Tame Impala, Dead Letter Circus, Jebediah and Effigy. Guy owes me a DVD full of Nouveau Vague films (I want to watch Breathless, because I’ve heard it’s a good movie.

Guy is recording Milan’s first E.P. (‘in it’s early stages’ according to the photographer-on-duty Adam Dean). Guy, being the gentleman that he is, plays me a couple of tracks on surprisingly bassy Hong Kong headphones. The first, a lengthy six-minute acoustic ode called ‘Hope’, opens with Milan’s acoustic guitar and surpringly deep baritone – his demure stature is deceiving. His Dylan influence shines through when the harmonica arrives at the two-minute mark, but I’d say his lyrics are more Cohen than Zimmerman – they have a plainess about them that Bob tended to eschew in his earlier days. Heavy bass swells and doesn’t relent, becoming a pair of walls housing Milan’s guitar and song. I’m enamoured by the final organ chord, which is held for the last 30 seconds of the song. Time will tell if this quirk survives the edit.

‘Pink Avenue’ is the next teaser taste. A much more upbeat song than its predecessor, it brings happier feelings to the table. I can’t quite remember what it sounded like, but it went for barely a minute. After listening, another three-quarters of an hour passes. The sound system is set up and Milan takes the stage. He opens with an original composition, entitled ‘Who Will Love You Now?’. A decent showcase of his guitar and neck-harmonica prowess, it proves a pleasant introduction to this afro-haired performer. More please.

Milan is meek, laconic, even sheepish on stage, but this could well be an affectation. He begins strumming his second piece and his voice comes to fore. A surprisingly deep croon, Milan’s voice channels 75% Bill Callahan, 25% Nick Cave. His lyrics are excellent for such a young performer – perhaps a literary background? Or too much Leonard Cohen? A Dylan cover gets a throw around (‘Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right’) and then a few more of Milan’s own..

Milan’s brief set finishes with a rather passionate cover of Lennon’s ‘Working Class Man’. Obviously one to honour the greats of the art, Milan likely polishes his craft none too seriously, but with great dedication. The names that I’ve dropped, like Cave, Dylan, Cohen and Smog, all have great weight attached to them – just listen in to the conversation of any passing rock snob. Just dedicated, simple songwriters, many of whom have gained the esteem and acclaim reserved for writers of classic literature. Milan obviously traces their hallmarks with care. After all, if you’ve got your eye on the pantheon, why not mimic the gods?

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Milan/195124603870515

[Gig review, 24/7/11]

phantom brush batters the office door,

rousing me from this furrowed sleep,

I turn my gaze to the screen once more,

but nothing will quell that infernal beep,

‘A fine writer’ once heard,

his services requested,

for a duty absurd,

the client he detested,

some kind of ennui,

pushing his vain industry,

orders words key,

and orders them thustly…

[fragments of verse written (funnily enough) at work. Tumblr reminds me of an unpleasant someone. No matter.]

I have a soft spot for self-releases - they remind me of my own failed (but enthusiastic) attempts at plugging Dew Warning recordings in secondary school. I have an even softer spot for free CDs, because I’m often broke. Naturally, Little Audrey’s (assumedly) debut release was bound to find its way into my Sony. Plus, it was packaged in a page torn from the Melways – how cool is that?

I know very little about Little Audrey. I know his name is Guy Faletolu, and that we had seven mutual friends on Facebook before I added him. I assume he gigs on occasion and enjoys the kind of indie music I frequently find hard to come to terms with. He also receives very little in the way of promotion (not surprising – he is unsigned at time of printing) other than the usual channels online and on the street. This is perhaps why the CD was given away free beneath the counter at Missing Link records.

But, rambling aside, how does it sound? I’d say ‘contemporary’, but that likely means little to you. There’s a pleasing combination of gritty electronics (read: bitcrushed  drum machines), synth washes and bird sounds with acoustic guitar, organ and requisite husky-smooth vocals. All steeped in reverb. Sound pretty hipster-standard? Maybe. But, bear in mind that this is a self-release done by a guy just four days younger than myself (thanks, Facebook!).

The quality of the arrangements and production, while basic, is quite astounding. Faletolu breeds a sometimes melancholy, always uplifting mix of indie-pop. It takes considerable talent to engage me in this kind of music, and the economy with which Little Audrey constructs his sound is, at least in my eyes, astonishing. I should remind potential listeners that this is still by no measure a ‘hi-fi’ release – remember that my reference point for home recordings is Lou Barlow demos from the early 90s.

And now, lyrics – I can’t hear them very well, but they must be cohesive if they don’t stick out. Again, akin to early R.E.M. and Michael Stipe. The music itself could cause me to name-drop for another paragraph, but there’s hints of recent Eno on ‘Pretty Love’ and Jose Gonzales on ‘We Used To Sing’. Oh, and a nice Underworld-style beat on track 3. I’m guessing that light hearted indie-love is a fair contender in the lyrical proceedings, as is the standard ponderous form of introspection. Regardless, Faletolu’s execution is so tight one could hardly dismiss his work as derivative.

The whole package is very highly recommended, though the only reliable place to find a copy is on the internet. Granted the amount of talent exposed in this little missal, I’d keep a close eye on the meanderings of Little Audrey. I wish I could question him intensely on his methods – I feel like I could learn a thing or two…

http://www.myspace.com/littleaudreybuzz

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Little-Audrey/322863454319

http://www.triplejunearthed.com/LittleAudrey

I’ve been doing far more reading than writing, and I’m getting anxious about it. I finished reading The Hundred Secret Senses by Amy Tan (I recommend it), began reading The Tao of Physics by Fritjof Capra and I’m slowly working my way through a book about Nick Cave’s old band, The Birthday Party.

With regards to The Birthday Party, I find them kind of scary. Truth be told, I’ve read far more about Nick Cave’s body of work than I’ve listened to it. By researching them, however, I’m ‘inoculating’ myself against the ambiguities and frightening aspects of my image. This kind of rationalism is probably one of the ways in which people enable themselves to criticise ‘art’. Stupidly overblown pseudo-intellectual statements. Same goes for Big Black. ‘Kerosene’ is a pretty good song, though.

I’m running low on money, but then again, I’m sure we all are. I’m getting a car that I can’t drive around on my own yet, and it’s going to take a chunk out of my bank balance. I’m refusing to spend any more money on CDs this month, after my last binge…

I’ve also got a sound idea for a short story, but I’ve had trouble putting it into words. This along with the ‘novella’ that I plotted out in English class last year, which I doubt anyone but me would want to read… it’s set entirely in a concert hall…

An emotional note. People tend to throw you blows, particularly those who you’ve come to love and appreciate most as human beings. These hurt on many, many levels. To stay afloat in these circumstances, you’ve got to look for the one thing that can’t be taken away from you, and hold onto it as if you’d otherwise drown. This is existence itself (death in itself is a kind of existence). You’ve just got to reach that one golden moment where you finally figure out how much of your happiness is under your control…

Anyway, back to obscurity next week.

it goes without saying that I preferred the old Kmart

“Kitty got up from her little table and, as she passed by, her eyes met Levin’s. She pitied him with all her heart, the more so as she was the cause of his unhappiness. ‘If I can be forgiven, forgive me,’ her eyes said, ‘I’m so happy.’

‘I hate everybody, including you and myself,’ his eyes answered, and he picked up his hat. But he was not fated to leave yet. They were just settling around the little table, and Levin was on the point of leaving, when the old prince came in and, after greeting the ladies, turned to him.”

[Tolstoy, Anna Karenina, Penguin Classics edition translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky]