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CALEXICO
Hot Rail
Quarterstick
Calexico is Ihe sun selling on a
deseit border town alter a long, hot.
boozy day; a band hiding in the cooler
shadows where the drinking continues.
Behind the music, you can hear glasses
clinking, seethe twinkling lights that
cover the band's hometown ol Tucson.
Armed with skill, experience, the inspi
rational Sonoran Desert and a truckload
ol instruments, the duo of John
Convertino and Joey Burns run with
Enmo Morricone’s baton to score the
new Westerns in their heads. They
follow The Man With No Name on
lonely journeys; they come out of dark
ened doorways in Touch ol Evil.
This is only one of their many
musical projects. The pair has played
alongside Howe Gelb in the near-leg
endary Giant Sand and has been a
rhythm section for hire for years,
backing Lisa Germano. Victoria
Williams. Barbara Manning and Friends
of Dean Martinez. That’s not to suggest
Convertino and Burns are merely able
sidemen. Calexico certainly stands on
its own. and it employs a gorgeously
va r ied palette (and some wonderful
guests). Hot Rail continues the thread
from the previous release The Black
Light, itself a conceptual story of love,
loss and desperation in the desert.
The album begins with a gentle
mariachi instrumental, “El Picador,"
which carries an undertone of menace.
The sound builds in ferocity, sometimes
like Link Wray in the barrio, and then
recedes into whispered tales like "Sonic
Wind." Throughout the journey, the
ghostly atmosphere never breaks.
Whether soft or harsh, the mubic always
sounds of danger, fear, loneliness and
wide open sky. It's best to always have a
gun and a bottle handy in Calexico's
world (P. 0. Box 25342, Chicago, IL
60625)
Jay Nagy
OPTIGANALLY YOURS
Exclusively Talentmaker
Aosolutely Kosher
Stymie the stickman is a soft-
spoken, likable fellow; his fragile heart
is buttered by a skyscraping !Q, an
absurdist sense of humor, and frequent
indulgence in warm, cozy solipsisms.
He hasn't quite decided whether he'd
nominate The Magnetic Fields' Gel Lost
or They Might Be Giants' Apollo 18as
greatest record of the ‘90s. be' he knows
he can wait for history to decide
Stymie's mom doesn't understand
why her son chose to drop out ot col
lege. 86 his numerous opportunities to
make scads of money as a technical
engineer, and take a job at Yachtzy's
Copy Shop working from 12 a m. to 8
a m. for peanut shells. But Stymie would
rather apply his affinity for gadgetry to
the aforementioned s- .psisms: his
alarm clock for instance. A lew months
ago, Stymie found an Optigan (a Mattel-
manufactured Organ from the early 70s
that plays back the sounds ol real
instruments from encoded celluloid
disks - a "Mv First Mellolron," if you
will) at a yard sale and hooked it up to
his alarm clock Now, this is a pretty
spitty alarm clock we’re talking about.
Stymie's Mom bought it for him as a
high school graduation gift, and it has
the "sleep" and“easy-wake" functions.
That way. when Stymie gets his eight
hours roughly between 9 a m. and 5
p.m., he's coaxed in and out ol
Sleepyland by randomly generated
sounds from his Optigan, which wall
paper his dreams.
Stymie dreams a lot Mostly he
dreams about interactive oceanography
He dreams about quite a few real-lile
situations, too athletic competition
("I’m Bad At Sports”, bad haircuts
(' Poodlemarf). socio-romantic anxiety
("Held"), free advice (“Figaro"), and
space exp'oration (“The Outer Space”)
The dreams about interactive oceanog
raphy are the only ones that aren't gen
erally a tad disquieting, but the oddly-
textured. crackling Optigan backdrops
blunt even the nightmares
Once, Stymie dreamed about
absolute annihilation ("Song For
America"). He dreamed tnal he regurgi
tated his frostbitten heart and watched
the good and the wicked alike die
screammg under the collapsing,
uncaring universe. Without the burden
of feeling his heartbeat, it was the most
beautiful vision he'd ever seen
He woke up rather disappointed As
usual, he hadn't question the reality ot
the dream as it transpired "Absolute
annihilation." Stymie thought “That
would've been nice.” (471 Frederick St..
San Francisco. CA 94117).
Emerson Dameron
SAINT ETIENNE
Sound of Water
Sub Pop
Saint Etienne, a luminescent, white-
keys-on-the-piano type of group, is a
British trio responsible for all kinds of
influentir' music that you’ve never
heard, li began with a guy named Bob
and another guy named Pete covering a
Neil Young song, but it didn't really starl
to matter until a singing fawn named
Sarah gave a voice to the be - H 's sub
dued. seminal electromca This was in
1990, give or take
Lotsa bands listened to them and
got ideas Some you may have tieard ot
Stereolab, The Cardigans. Ivy.
Everything But The Girl They listened to
Saint Etienne over on the continent.
Saint Etienne is way continental, though
it spelled "humor" in the title of their
last album the American way, like God
intended The band is are so continental
(look at the name, stupid) that it never
bothered to cultivate an American audi
ence And why would it 9 We put ketchup
on potatoes
Fortunately lor us. Ihe many bands
who listened to Saint Etienne and then
got ideas did come to our burgeoning
outpost ol trade and commerce That is
why you own their records, and not
Saint Etienne's
Seattle's Sub Pop Records (motto
"Grunge 9 What grunge! 9 ') signed them
now that everyone openly dreams ol
Nina Persson’s silky white underpanties.
Saint Etienne and Sub Pop want you to
dream about Sarah's cottony-soft
unmentionables as well
Ain't gonna happen Problem is.
you blew all that cash on the first two
Cardigans records you never listen to
anymore, and you still really haven't had
a chance to get through those three
Stereolab discs your clingy ex-boyfriend
(as it) bought you for your birthday even
though you said not to. and anyway, if
he insisted, you really could use a new
backpack
Good Humor, the ‘98 Sub Pep
debut, was produced in Sweden by The
Cardigans' producer. Tore Johansson,
ana sounded like that group. The band
followed it with the Places To Visit EP.
augmented by various contributors and
producers, which resulted in a more
experimental sound, but also a con
fused one. This time then band collabo
rates with German tech-nodes To
Rococo Rot. among otners So what
Sarah Cracknell's voice is a ureathy,
sexy instrument, sometimes invoking
the ghost ot Dusty Springfield. And then
again, sometimes the singer from the
Divinyls "Boy Is Crying” has some
gumption to it. it you like cowbells. But
Ihe firs! single. “How We Used To Live,"
is nine minutes of San Tropez ennui, a
"Come Sail Away" for the Euro set
“Heart Failed" is the only track on the
disc worth your lime.
Thai's what happens when a singles
act that should leave well enough alune
tries to record album statements Forty-
two minutes and 45 seconds of your life
will pass by along with Sound Ol Water.
not one lingering impression made
Techiio-lile with sexy-chick vocals isn't
a terrible thing; it's just not terribly inter
esting when uninspired Look for Sami
Etienne flowing unobtrusively Irom the
speakers of a Gap near you (P 0. Box
20645, Seattle. WA 98102)
Mark Emge
DAVID THOMAS AND
FOREIGNERS
Bay City/
Thirsty Ear
Warren Gunderson manager ot
Yactitzy s Copy Shop, was one of the
three s.lent, disconsolate diners in the
Rubik's Cube Cafe at 2:46 a m He
wasn't exactly the picture of mental
health - the bulging capillaries under
his unmanageable, millipede-like eye
brows made it clear to anyone who
examined him that he had shit on his
mind - but no one guessed that he had
a triple-homicide planned before sun
rise.
No one save Tnshe. the frisky, mis
chievous waitress. Warren was a regular
customer (Ine Rubik's Cube was the
only place within a few blocks of
Yachtzy's that was open 24 hours), and
she had noticed him snap somehme
back. His ulceric misery delighted her;
she always made deep eye contact with
him as she poured cup after cup of
b r ackish Java “This place is like a psy
chological soup kitchen,” she whis
pered to the cook, who responded with
an aloof grunt.
Tnshe spent most of her iipshare
playing David Thomas And Foreigners’
Bay City over and over, in its entirety, on
the Rubik’s Cube's decidedly esoteric
CD jukebox She was familiar with
Thomas's former band. Pere Ubu.
through a few numbers tier cool cousin
had dropped on her Christmas arid
birthday mix tapes earlier in her life, but
she wasn't too saturated with musical
history to appreciate Bay City on its own
terms The subway clang of the percus
sion. Ihe hallucinatory lyrics. Ihe
unhinged amphetamine rush of
"Nobody Lives On The Moon" and par
ticularly Thomas's Tom-Wails-trapped-
m-an-oboe vocals all these made the
graveyard shift in this shithole more
than bearable
Coincidentally. Bay City also pro
vided the perfect post-industrial tribal
rhythms for the furies that danced
around Warren Gundersons head that
morning He daydreamed ot Dali's
clocks melting into the pores ol his skin
as Thomas sang Baby, I just can't kilt
all this time/ On my own” ("Black Cottee
Dawn"). It wasn't until “The Doorbell," a
Carl-Stalhng-on-Quaaludes ode to a
restless lover ("What will I do when you
go?/1 can't sit on my back/ And not
answer ihe phone"). Jhat his thoughts
tirially turned to the Saturday Night
Special in his briefcase and the cyanide
tablet in his shirt pocket He left his
cottee unfinished, deposited a S100 tip
on the table, and strode determinedly
out the door in the direction of
Yachtzy's. fully self-confident for the first
time in his previously pathetic life. (274
Madison Ave„ Suite 804, NY. NY
10016)
Emerson Dameron
PEARL JAM
Binaural
Epic
You can’t help but feel sorry for
Eddie Vedder. He seems to have an
uncanny knack for wanting the impos
sible. getting it. and then realizing he
doesn't really want it after all. He spent
most of his teens and 20’s desperately
trying to become a rock star only to land
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