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SQUIRREL NUT ZIPPERS
Perennial Favorites
Mammoth Records
I’d avoided the Squirrel Nut
7ippers until Perennial Favorites came
in the mail a couple ot weeks ago. Over
the last couple of years. I've heard
enough bands (often with the word
Daddy" in their name — caveat emp
loy comprised of mid-career alterna
tive rock folks who scored a record
deal by dressing in zoot suits and
unremarkably resurrecting pre-rock
American pop forms to the delight ol
“Friends" aficionados who realized that
you can't dance, socialize or do much
of anything else to the Stone Temple
Pilots.
The value of pure nostalgia — art
whose primary purpose is its evocation
of another time — is inherently ques
tionable. At the same time, not to be a
student of the path is a sure path to
ar'istic folly. Literary critic Harold
Bloom maintains that truly great art
arises from what he calls “anxiety of
influence*': tne results ol such anxiety
are creative misinterpretations of the
great work of the past: thus, great art is
something totally new that still oflers
the strangest echoes o! its antecedents.
Marc Ribot of Tom Waits' later bands
once labeled Waits’ take on older pop
music forms like the blues “ironic,"
and. indeed, with Waits you hear the
American past going through irony's
filter and coming out singularly reinter
preted. Whatever it is. it's not nostalgia.
I'm not so sure about Perennial
Favorites. However, here's the theoreti
cal rub: it’s a deeply brilliant record
anyway, a raucous, funny, vibrant, var
ied thing, daft, theatrical, shamelessly
Vaudevillian and more fun than your
last night on the town. You may feel
like you've heard much of it before —
especially if you're a 78 rpm buff of the
R. Crumb variety — but the band has
toe much of the energy of the moment
— some moment — for you too care
too much while it’s spinning. Making
the pleasure even guiltier is the voice
of banjo player Katharine Whalen it is
not an imitation of Billie Holiday. It is
the voice of Billie Holiday, in the same
way a trumpet is a trumpet is a trum
pet It's actually nice to have Billie
Holiday walking among us again.
Same goes for Stephen Foster. Fats
Waller and all the old demons — so
long as their bootheels make the floor
boards shake
Richard Fausset
VARIOUS ARTISTS
Up'ifted Melodies 10"
Square Records
Uplifted Melodies is the first thing
put out by Square Records. It is a com
pilation ol a motley group of bands out
of Florida (mostly Pensacola area) and
serves as a scene sampler.
Punk outfit the Eastwoods start it off
with “Hail to the Chief." an aggressive
rock and roll punk song a la the
Misfits. Great bass line and great
lyrics, but sort of lackluster. The
Flatwheelers's “Mighty Mississippi is
the best song on the comp hands
down. This is the ambler's summer tun
song, with stripped down instrumen
tals and snotty Tom Sawyer vocals:
“I'm going for a ride/l’m going !o the
riverside/l'm talkin bout the roarin’
Mississip/I'm goin just for the
trip/AIright!". Great attitude here.
Williams Train's “Driving Jehovah's
Witness" is boring Dinosaur Jr-ish
indie rock. Pen to Plough's “Anchor" is
a nicely crafted, straight-up rock song
featuring big drums against a pretty
melody sung wistfully by the singer
over quiet guitar. Ghostmeat Records'
This Bike is a Pipe Bomb's “X depres
sion* is a noisy country work ditty with
banjo, bass, Ictsa snare, and strained
boy vocals. Eugene Swank and the
Atomic Honky Tonk's “Mean Loving"
features surfish guitar and trilled, nasty
masculine vocals, like Jello Bialra-lite
Todd's ballad "Wrestiin* is way too
reminiscent of The Counting Crowes
The Eastwoods’ encore “Day in the Sci-
Fi’ is an average love song featuring a
constipated-sounding singer and pretty
guitars toughened with punk posturing
Overall a sundry bunch ol songs,
with only one or two worth lifting.
Funke S^ngodeyi
THE PRETENSIONS
Bizarre Terrain
(Local Independent Release]
The Pretensions are a local one-
man studio project comprised of Eric
Haarbauer. Bizarre Terrain, which
Haarbauer recorded at home, op^ns
with “Wasn't Enough,’ ? minute and a
half of multi-tracked lakey falsettos
^
* Pretensions
lilitli t i i * A I N
warbling a sea-song the likes of which
were probably stuck in the heads of
WWII vets who did time in the Pacific
Theater and were then relegated to
mainland family shore-duties, driving
new Buicks and making babies who
grew up to tremble under their desks
during nuclear Armageddon practice
runs. At least I think so. It's an inexplic
able keeper that’s at once familiar and
deeply strange.
While “Wasn't Enough’ brings to
mind the best oddball work ot Frank
Zappa or Ween, the rest of this CD
comes off goofy when it wants to be
funny, off-kilter earnest when it might
be better ofl druggy and ubscuritamst.
Haarbauer is a brilliant technician:
Bizarre Terrain sounds like it cost mil
lions to make But a song like “Dark
Disco God,’ 3:36 of tongue-in-cheek
heavy metal, tinny dance beats and
slasher-movie vocal effects, makes for
pretty painful listening Like much of
Terrain, it feels like a novelty record,
when it's obvious that Haarbauer is
capable ol more substantial work. (E-
mail: ehaahSegon psy.uga.edu. Phone:
706-613-1933.)
Richard Fausset
SKINNER PILOT
This Parking Lot Is Being
Videotaped
GoodSin Records
Some of you will remember
Brooklyn's Skinner Pilot from their
one-year stint here some years back.
After several relocations, Skinner Pilot
has seemed to find a home. Their first
full-length release This rarking Lot Is
Being Videotaped is a neurotic urban
ite's (is that redundant?) rambling
chock full of references to and images
of Gotham. The brilliantly constructed
songs on this album are intense explo
rations of modern city life and para
noia. The band plays social theorist,
expounding on the personal and anti-
consumerist theory a la Frederic
Jameson with a visceral sexuality and
grit that makes these intellectual
digressions rock hard.
SP combines Godhead Silo's raw
energy, Nation of Ulysses' dramatics.
Polvo's dynamics, the Ex’s angularity
and radical politics, and the intensity
of New Radiant Storm King
(bassist/vocalist Elizabeth Sharp* old
band) to create edgy, dense work.
There is a lot of play with anticipation
here due to constant rhythmic and
dynamic shifts. Steve Healey’s drums
have this great ominous military march
feel. Sharp’s bass is driving and menac
ing and delicate. Guitarist/Vocalist
Andiew Zarou’s guitar lines give the mix
textures ranging from reverb-heavy,
staccato prog-rock mama to disquieting
strumming. The bass and guitar lines
are often wide enough apart to give the
whole thing a schizophrenic feel which
meshes with the claustrophobic, psy
chological mire conveyed by the lyrics.
When Sharp sings "I'm falling off the
edges, caving in at the middle’ or "Four
days on end I've been hiding under the
bed," one is hard-pressed not to believe
her. The complicated interplay between
all the elements succeeds in creating a
sinistei, tight-as-fuck, and beautiful
soundscape.
Elizabeth Sharp’s vocals are as
identifiable, disturbing, and versatile as
Kim Gordon's She goes from claustro
phobic discomfort to sexy, dispassion
ate mumbling to energetic bursts of
hoarse, psychotic screaming effortless
ly. Like the band itself, she shows an
incredible instinct for moody dynam
ics. Sharp shares vocal responsibilities
with Zarou, whose edgy, detached style
sounds like a hoarse combination of
June of 44's and now-defunct Circus
Lupus's vocalists.
A line from the final song
“Manitoba" encapsulates this album's
thematic project. ‘Here* the thought I
thought I'd see through: exchange a
conversation to* the grasp of a pulse.“
It suggests the alienation ol the big city
and the resulting desire for personal
connection, the false promise of such
connections, the need to resist being
taken in by facades, and the conse
quent neuroses of such vigilant para
noia. And as Zarou mutters in “Braille
Menu," “No one has time for metabo
lizing’ to get out of this rut.
Despite all of the above, some of
the songs are a bit too long, sounding
forced and tired after thoroughly work
ing out their emotional menace three-
tourths of the way through. Also, the
cerebral workout of listening to this
album gave me a headache each com
plete run-through. But maybe that's the
point? To give the listener the same
deadening, brain-fraying dysphoria
that the lyrics convey?
Piddling misgivings. Skinner Pilot
is bad ass. But be warned. This album
may cause emotional and intellectual
overload. (P.0. Box 20268. Tompkins
Square Station. New York. NY 10009)
Funke Sangodeyi
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m FLAGPOLE JULY 29, 1998