Radio Free Chicago

The Mutts - An RFC Interview

In the basement of Double Door, I had the chance to sit down and ask The members of The Mutts a few questions twenty minutes before they went on stage...

So, The Mutts...

Mike: I have never really explained the band name before, this is an inaugural explanation... combination of liking dogs and making a living walking dogs.

First question... Most important, is, why?

Mike: Because it’s out there

Safe Word?

Chris: Booger

Favorite/least favorite cheese? (for the cheese-enthusiast)

Chris/Mike: Gouda
Bob: Well, I am a vegan... so least favorite might be the cheese that smells kind of like feet.

Robots or Dinosaurs?

Dinosaurs (collectively)

Strangest venue or gig you’ve ever played?

All: The Mutiny... not that it was strange... more cool than strange

How did you begin your career and who were your influences?

Chris: I was in a few bands before the Mutts (i.e. The Hush Sound) and we all just sort of met up and rocked out.

What is the most memorable concert you’ve ever attended?

Chris: The Roots at Depaul, outdoors in the pouring rain.
Mike: New Kids on the Block, my sister dragged me there when I was 8, my first concert I ever attended.
Bob: My first concert was Filter. Also Cornelius.

What are you listening to now?

Archie Powell and the Exports, Sting, Tom Waits and NPR, Big Science, Pillars and Tongues, American Football.

Old records/music that influenced you?

Bob: The first record I remember digging on as a kid was Weather Report's Birdland.  I was kind of obsessed with Jaco Pastorius' bass in the title track.  I also really liked Joe Venuti and John Barnes live at the Concord Music Festival for some reason.  I was 5 or 6.  Who knows? Haha.

What is the worst advice you’ve ever been given?

Chris: When someone handed me some peanut butter and said “Eat this, you’re not allergic.”

If you were to communicate using one word, what would it be?

Chris: Aghhh (with some silent J’s)
Mike: Meow
Bob: Yum

How do you make those wicked guitar riffs, is it a gift or did you learn from some venerable teacher?

Mike: My piano teacher from age 7 to 13 was a 6'7", 300+ pound Hungarian man named Janus Zemzars.  He had a booming voice and had to duck to get through the practice room doors at the Arts Center back in Ashtabula, OH.  It was terrifying to imagine going to a lesson unprepared.  But he was really a nice guy, who just happened to make a grand piano look like a toy (like a real-life Shroeder from Peanuts).  I loved learning gypsy Tarantellas, Muzio Clementi sonatas, and heavy Tchaikovsky compositions.  I accidentally lift riffs from that stuff on occasion.

Have you ever considered touring with some strange band whose sound is polaropposite of your own? if you had to choose what would it be?

Mike: Yes - either Sigur Ros or Dream Theater. Or both!

Best part of the sandwich?

Mike: The Crust

Bob: The sandwich is all about the hot giardiniera, available only at the Subways in the Midwest.  tastes like home.

 

 Terranaut

 From their album The Tells of Parallels

Kings of the New Sincerity: An Opening Volley

“Be Sincere.”

That’s it really, in a nutshell, distilled to its very essence. That is our simple entreaty, something held more vital than a manifesto, but not quite dogma.

It a sense, there’s not much to it, or at least not much concrete. There’s something about it, though, something compelling. Sincerity is one of those lovely little ideas both ultimately mutable and utterly inarguable. One can be sincere about almost anything, yet once you are, it is a statement of ultimate purpose and conviction. It’s a form of truth.

I’ll admit, the last few years have been a bit grim when it comes to finding sincerity, especially amongst the young, restless and hip. In an age where all the information and art that has ever existed is available on Youtube, the way a person interacts with the world changes. We have, as a culture, evolved in such a way that the young and savvy now have a built-in filter to keep from getting overwhelmed by the sheer volume, the torrents (not a coincidentally chosen word) of music and art and information that we are submerged in every day.

That filter is irony. That ironic detachment that keeps us at a distance, that keeps us abreast from the things we enjoy. Irony is the ultimate enslavement of culture; the idea that (with some intellectual finagling), you can enjoy and take part in something, no matter how ridiculous, offensive, insipid, or irrelevant, without it defining you. It’s a safety blanket, a pressure valve, and armor against critique.

I am, of course, avoiding the elephant in the room, that horrible, horrible word that gets tossed around so casually to describe the omnipresent cultural “other” that seems to occupy our periphery. The word everyone uses but no one want to be called. The word that is incredibly evocative and has specific cultural connotations, but few would ever profess to be.

I’m talking hipsters, kids. Stay with me.

The personality, the sense of self, is under siege by the insane volume of content, and so we embrace the avatar. That’s what “hipsters” are, real world avatars. That’s why, even though there is absolutely no debating that hipsters exist, they are never self-identified: no one would say they’re creating an alter ego through embracing specific cultural memes. But that’s what all the frumpy, ill-fitting sweaters, professed enjoyment of PBR, and ironic facial hair represent: the creation of the intellectualized, controlled “self” that is self-evident and well-defined.

Frankly, I find this tiresome. I imagine most do. It just seems like a lot of work, a grotesque distortion of the punk rock ethic of defining yourself in contrast to pop culture and somehow sanitizing it, making it safe. If culture is saturated with information with no real filter as to value, the hippest cat in the room is the one that embraces the most unlikeable, the most obscure, the most oblique aesthetic. Take crunk, chopped up and screwed grind beats, throw in a dash of Joy Division, a sample of "Ode To Joy," maybe a saxophone solo.  Don’t forget to overdrive the amps and lay on that endless reverb. Storm the offices of Pitchfork on a crack binge. Repeat as necessary. Yawn, motherfucker. Yawn. 

 Salem - King Night

What I find so exciting is that this repugnant, knee-jerk defense of the ego seems to ebbing in favor of… Sincerity. Be here now. As the familiar forms of distribution are getting outmoded by technology, culture is twisted and turning surprising ways, and music seems to be at the foreground of this change. Those of us who are observers and participants in the Midwest indie scene (whether its Chicago, or the new home for several of our contributors, Ann  Arbor, Michigan) have remarked that there’s something in the air, something palpable. You feel it at the shows by the local bands, some of them new, some of them scene stalwarts for years.

You can see it at work in the aesthetics of the bands we here at RFC have championed, both on a national and local level: Dawes, Blitzen Trapper, Local Natives, Okkerville River, the Tallest Man on Earth, Fleet Foxes, The Head and the Heart, Wye Oak, Timber Timbre, Lightning Love, Gun Lake, Matt Jones, and countless others. All these bands, while dramatically different from one another, seem to be eschewing the obscurity of the hip in favor of familiar sounds, lovely melodies, heartfelt lyrics, and often-acoustic instrumentation.

Dawes - Love Is All I Am

The Best Songs Ever (Part Two): Meat27's Mark Patten on Journey's "Lovin' Touchin' Squeezin'"

A few weeks ago I began a reoccurring segment called The Best Songs Ever. I feel it's about time to unleash my next choice on you all but first I think I should warn you that this next song is not suitable for those with delicate sensibilities. It's all about bumping the ugliest of uglies, sinking the pinkiest of pinks and beating the meatiest of meats. I feel these descriptions alone will have ruined the surprise - I mean, what other song could I possibly be talking about?! - so without further ado I present my second selection. If this isn't what you would consider to be one of The Best Songs Ever then I fear you're in for wrecking if you don't get a-checking. That's something the cool kids say nowadays, right? Right! Onwards!

Prepare your head for a big fat portion of audio double penetration that is likely to leave your brain walking like a withered cowboy for the next few months.

 

Indie Education: Neutral Milk Hotel

Children, open your double LPs to the chapter on Neutral Milk Hotel.

A great start point for any indie initiate, to call Neutral Milk Hotel’s In The Aeroplane Over the Sea a seminal work in for 90s indie rock would be to do the album a disservice. In a sense, NMH invented the structure, the tropes, and illuminated the path that indie rockers have been taking since then. Much of the great (and less than great) music that has come out on indie and DIY labels and seen mainstream success in the last few years is beholden to the voodoo Jeff Mangum get up to on that disc.

While it’d be criminal to ignore the early work of NMH, On Avery Island is a bit of a deep cut for the uninitiated. Uneven and a bit shaky, there are moments of real genius and beauty on their first full length (“Naomi” especially is a stand out). Still, those seeking safe passage from certified square to hip cat might be cautioned to start later, with the more confident and self-assured Aeroplane.

Both timeless and anachronistic, Aeroplane is a fuzzed out, twisted lo-fi pop masterpiece, meant to be played loud and celebratory. The “pop” label took me awhile to come to; it squirms in your hands and resists categorization. The snotty, rambunctious punk of “Holland 1945” seems at odds with the folk psychedelica of “Two Headed Boy,” and yet it feels remarkably organic and of a piece. Whether he’s playing a lonely drunken waltz as on “Oh Comely” or bashing his guitar to splinters on “King of Carrot Flowers Pts. 2 and 3,” the voice, intensity, and sheer triumphant melodicism never wavers. The core of the album is unadulterated hooks. It’s pop alright, mutated and almost unrecognizable, but still pop.

 

06 Holland, 1945

 

At the center of it, rising up through the fuzz and those gorgeous horn arrangements is Mangum, singing in that strained, resonant voice. To say no one sings like Jeff Mangum would obviously be hyperbole, but the fact is, that voice is so distinct, like a dustbowl carnival barker singing Indian raga. Hearing him wail wail “I LOVE YOU, JESUS CHRIST” on “The King Of Carrot Flowers Pts 2 and 3” is like gospel for malnourished suburban kids; it blurs the line between the spiritual and secular without ever being tongue in cheek or ironic.

 

02 King Of Carrot Flowers Part 2 & 3

 

His lyrics are pure abstraction: utterly inscrutable, at times moving, other times chilling, always sincere. Much has been made of the supposed narrative of Mangum singing to his love, the reincarnated soul of Anne Frank (now in the body of a little Spanish boy) but I feel this is a red herring and that the album celebrates the surreal as emotionally resonant in a way that defies narrative.

Listen to “Oh Comely:” it’s over 8 minutes long and almost dada with lines like “Your father made fetuses with flesh licking ladies.” Still, when he rumbles the line “know all your enemies, we know who your enemies are,” there’s a feeling of real menace and heartbreak.

 

08 Oh Comely

 

Aeroplane, idiosyncratic and off-putting and yet simultaneously sublime, remains a legacy virtually unrivaled in indie rock. Much of this owes to Mangum’s much spoken-about personal breakdown and how thoroughly he was removed from the pop landscape. We were subsequently left with this unfathomable artifact, this joyous record of some of the strangest, most haunting pop songs you could ever hear. Required listening. 

 

New Mountain Goats: "Damn These Vampires"

I recall seeing John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats perform a concert in Durham North Carolina over the summer and grasping what exactly makes the Mountain Goats so compelling as a band. While I’ve been a steadfast fan for years, they are an acquired taste. Whether it’s the crackling lo-fi and the clawhammer strumming of his early career to Mr. Darneille’s nasal yowling and inscrutability of his lyrics, the Mountain Goats seem committed to being vaguely off-putting while crafting hyper-literate pop songs played with a disturbing ferocity. They occupy odd territory in indie rock: scene stalwarts for years at this point with LITERALLY HUNDREDS of songs available, the music they make is more visceral and adolescent than your average navel-gazing singer-songwriter, but more intimate and cerebral than a punk band. This has left them a criminally underappreciated band. They don’t court their audience and instead seem to delight in being the indie rock equivalent of the drunk guy at the party talking a little too loudly and fervently about how much how awesome the Curtis “Showtime” Stevens Vs. Jesse Brinkley fight was, or his favorite ever death metal band he saw in high school.

Darneille’s drunken antics at the show in question further cemented their claim on this territory. The show was pure punk rock, if not in its aesthetic, than in its ethic. Darneille (backed by the self-proclaimed “best rhythm section in indie rock” Peter Hughes on bass and Jon Wurster on drums) dived into the audience, grabbing fans and screaming in their ears like a man on a joyous bender. For the diehards, it was heaven (being slapped by John Darneille is an honor akin to getting a jersey tossed to you after the game by your favorite football player);  still, to the uninitiated, and even those who maybe have only listened to them on their last few relatively restrained albums, it was a spectacle that might prove… disconcerting.

Still, possibly the most vital piece of information for comprehending and appreciating the MGs came earlier in the show when, during one of John Darnielle’s signature halting, blackly funny diatribes about getting drunk and unloading on a friend about your impending divorce over lunch, he said the following: “I woke up the other day, and I wrote a song. Because, that’s what I do. I’m a songwriter, I write songs.”

Much has been remarked upon by fans of the band in regards to the shift in the MG’s sound and aesthetic, the abandoning of the much ballyhooed boombox recordings for a slicker, more produced sound (first with producer/artist John Vanderslice, now on their new record All Eternals Deck with Morbid Angel producer Erik Rutan), but I see this as a natural evolution of the boombox: after getting the meager (in comparison to what they deserve) recognition for their years of service, people started to hand Darnielle bigger boomboxes. Were there no producers or studios interested in hosting Darnielle and his demented pop legacy, he’d return to a boombox. It’s the song, not the singer.

This is basically the essence of the Mountain Goats; their steadfast aesthetic, their prolific output, their resolve to simply not give a fuck. John Darnielle is merely a conduit for songs. The entire haphazard, carefree (careless?) aesthetic of the band, from their inception to now, has been all in service of not blocking the unending flow of music that has been inexplicably routed through Darneille. He’s unconcerned about being anything but a songwriter and imparting the diamonds, rough included, as quickly as possible to avoid losing it. It’s immediacy, the most primitive and powerful you’ll ever experience.  He didn’t have time or resources in the early days to belabor the songs, and it manifested in recording hundreds of songs in the most intimate, hissing analogue format possible.

His limitations as a singer/guitar player/producer/engineer/arranger all are inconsequential: The Mountain Goats write and play songs. No more, no less.

Still, given this ethic, the MGs have been thrust into an awkward position: after toiling for years in relative DIY obscurity, starting with the brilliant Tallahassee  they’ve  given resources, time, and patient and intelligent producers. Their recordings (from We Shall All Be Healed through The Life of the World to Come) have grown more ornate, the rawness and intensity traded for beauty and dynamics. We’ve seen John Darnielle’s debut as a classical-inspired  piano player, heard him whisper in our ears about feeling like a little boy lost in a mall on Get Lonely. This has pushed the band to more challenging places with some really wonderful results. Still, those of us with a fondness for the old days of tape hiss and out of tune guitars have perhaps missed the musical kidney punch Mr. D used to specialize in.

With the impending release of All Eternals Deck, we are treated to a new track “Damn These Vampires” which, I think, recaptures a bit of that magic while reconciling the ability to have more elaborate production.

The Mountain Goats - Damn These Vampires

Reminiscent of  his “Alpha” song cycle where the metaphors all concerned being young and wasted and falling out of love, “Vampires” feels like watching a spaghetti western at noon while drunk. Finally grasping dynamics, Darnielle’s guitar and Wurster’s drums are understated, letting Hughes’ melodic bass really carry. And even for the closet popstar like Darnielle (Robyn, watch out, the Mountain Goats are comin’ for you…), the chorus hook is almost too good, with that anthemic, scream at the top of your lungs quality:

Crawl till dawn

On my hands and knees

God damn these vampires

For what they’ve done to me…

All Eternals Deck comes out March 29th on Merge records. Get excited.

The Best Songs Ever (Part 1).

Editor's Note: Mark Patten is the amazing spitfire behind Meat27, one of Amber's very favorite blogs. Plus, he's the coolest British expat in California and goddamn, the man sure can rant.

I'm always a bit disappointed when publications and websites put together their lists of great, or possibly the greatest, songs. Whether it's in a specific genre or OF ALL TIME they seem to focus on material that is more well-known than popular. For example, John Lennon's "Imagine" gets thrown around a lot as one of the best songs ever written. Why though? Because of what it stands for and the impact it had at the time? As impressive as that may be, I can't think of any actual people who would list that as one of their favourite songs. I know nobody who would randomly put it on over and over again because it's just incredible to them. Can you party to it? Fuck to it? Stalk to it? See, it misses all the key life moments!

Isn't that what we should be looking for? Those special few songs that, for one reason or another, manage to mean a lot to a lot of people? Well, I am here to shine a light on those songs. The ones that, as far as I can tell, are universally loved and appreciated by pretty much everyone who has heard them. I'm sure there will be a few people who disagree with my selections but they're probably just trying to be cool by not liking something overwhelmingly likable. Fuck those people. Leave them with their impenetrable French new waves movies and fair trade chocolate that tastes like wax. You and me and everyone else smart enough to enjoy things that are just GOOD can gather together and just celebrate these songs. We all love them. Why? Who cares?! We just love them. That's enough. So here is the first part of my probably-not-very-long series of The Best Songs That Everyone Who's Anyone Loves. My first choice?

 

Justin Bieber's Hatedom, Why It's Hurting The Music Industry, And What You Should Do About It

In 2008 Scooter Braun was surfing YouTube when he stumbled across then unknown Justin Bieber. Braun recognized this kid was a potential goldmine and quickly became his manager. Within a few weeks, Braun scheduled a meeting between Bieber and legendary R&B artist Usher. Bieber showed Usher his chops and Usher, who also realized this kid could make him some serious bank, helped Bieber get signed to Island Records.

Bieber’s first album My World was released on November 17th, 2009. Within a few months it went Platinum and Bieber became the first artist to have seven singles from a debut album peak on the Billboard Hot 100. On March 23, 2010 Bieber released an updated version of My World, the creatively named My World 2.0, which went on to achieve the same success as its predecessor.

Justin Bieber - Baby ft. Ludacris

Let’s get something straight, Justin Bieber’s music sucks harder than a Dyson vacuum. He’s yet another attractive, talented singer who isn’t so much an artist as he is a product that was created by his label. His lyrics are so banal I wouldn’t be surprised if he wrote them himself.

Normally I wouldn’t take time out of my life to write an article about an “artist” like Bieber, but something strange has happened in the wake of his success. Justin Bieber has amassed the largest hatedom I can think of in recent memory. Mere mention of his name on late night talk shows is enough for the crowd to erupt in a sea of boos. Endless Internet articles and TV shows make jokes about how he hasn’t hit puberty yet, his questionable sexuality, and why he deserves to die a slow, painful death. It’s a bit extreme, and it scares and intrigues me a little.

Here’s the thing, in the music world, Justin Bieber is nothing new. Throughout music history there have been countless attractive vocalists who become products of their label, have other people write their songs for them, and amass unprecedented amounts of success. Because to most people music is background noise. Rick Astley, Brittney Spears, any 90s boy band that wasn’t N*SYNC,  “artists” like these have been so frequent throughout music history that I’m surprised people bat an eyelash at Bieber. Let alone get so worked up they start spouting death threats.

For the love of common sense, he’s just a kid. What the hell did he ever do to you? Nobody is forcing you to listen to his shitty music. I have never heard a single Justin Bieber song, and don’t plan on starting unless Amber forces me to. Why get so worked up? It makes no sense. It’s not that hard to ignore him.

What annoys me is at the most basic level, Bieber is at least talented. Call him a flaming-homo-faggot-lesbian all you want, but the kid has got a golden voice. While on the other end of the spectrum, RFC writers whose taste and writing I respect put KeSha’s Animal on their top albums of 2010 list. Ke$ha is ugly, she autotunes every song, and her lyrics are somehow (impossibly) more banal and repetitive than Bieber’s. I’ve been unfortunate enough to hear “Tik Tok” at parties, viral videos, and even a Simpsons episode. Her music is so bad it makes me resent the fact I have ear drums and a brain to transpose vibrations into sound. Unlike Bieber, who at the very least has talent, she’s has absolutely zero redeeming qualities. Yet, when I ask my friends about her I get the response “she’s good party music” and absolutely zero death threats.

You do realize all this hate is only making Bieber richer right? In the music business, infamy is every bit as valuable as good press. For every death threat and viral video of him getting smacked in the face with a water bottle, yet another schmuck discovers his crappy music and becomes a fan. By all means continue to imagine you’re hurting his reputation while Bieber, Braun, and Island records drown in Olympic swimming pools of hundred dollar bills. If you really hate Bieber, here’s what you should do. Ignore him. Never mention him again. Pretend like he doesn’t exist. Then make Radio Free Chicago your homepage, read every article, download every MP3 we host, and tell all your friends about us. It’s our job to have good taste in music and spread it around. The artists we review on this site are toiling away in obscurity because they love what they do more than eating and having nice things. Put your love to good use and hit Bieber where it really hurts, his wallet.

I’m sure this article has pissed some of you off because I suggested that maybe Justin Bieber doesn’t deserve to rot in hell for making shitty music. Now, as a music blog I’m obligated to leave you with a free MP3. I don’t own any of Justin Bieber’s music nor would I be caught dead recommending it to you, so instead I’ll leave you with the opening track off Bad Brains debut album Bad Brains. They’re the best hardcore punk band to ever exist and really indie to this day. Consider it a reward for making it this far.

Sailin' On - Bad Brains

Deranged Thoughts With Amber And Sara: Brand New

I was musing via text message, as I so often do, to fellow RFC-er Sara Jacobsen about such "deep subject matter" as Insane Clown Posse and the fact that Faygo is a legitimate beverage in Michigan, where I hail from, when I realized that Sara an I were sitting on a goldmine. We, you see, are two hilarious motherfuckers, for lack of better terminology. What, we respectively wondered, would happen if you got "two hilarious motherfuckers" with many interests in common together and had them co-write an article? Thus, Deranged Thoughts With Amber and Sara was born, an every-now-and-then article that, well, is basically just a couple of girls trying desperately to talk about music and failing to stay on topic miserably. For our first Deranged Thoughts With Amber and Sara column, we decided to talk about - or try to talk about, rather - a band we both have an immense amount of respect for, Brand New. They just so happen to be a band that I, Amber Valentine, wrote a pretty kick ass editorial about for Indie College that you should probably read instead of this because... Well... What you are about to read... Well, there's nothing I can say to make anyone feel better about anything that's about to transpire. But stick with us. It might get better. But, much like that time Mark told me "not to get too drunk", I make no promises.

Deranged Thoughts With Amber and Sara

Brand New Edition

Amber: I know it's, quite simply, over dramatic but honestly, every time I experience heartbreak, all I want to do is hole myself up in my room with a fifth of Jameson and Brand New's The Devil and God Are Raging Inside of Me. Agree or disagree?

Sara: Well, of course I agree with you.  The Devil and God is by far Brand New's best album; however, if we're talking booze, (which is in my top 3 favorite things right next to bitches and kittens) I'm going to have to go with a bottle of Jack.  Normally, I'd say SoCo, but I drank too much of that my freshman year in college and now it makes me sick.

I feel like everyone overdoes the SoCo early on in life. I've had my fill of SoCo and plus, if you order it at the bar, you look like a pussy. That's just a fact. Jack makes you look bad ass, so congratulations on that. Jameson, I feel, makes you look classy. At least I think so. So god only knows why I'm ordering it. I really ought to change things up and start ordering Canadian Club to match my real life class level. Hey, remember when you said "If you look up classy in the dictionary, there's probably pictures of you in varying states of sobriety making out with strangers in corn fields and rat infested back alleys"?

I do remember that!  Remember that time we went and saw Kevin Devine and I made you order me a Jack and coke?  That was a swell time. On a different note, the beverage I just ordered at Denny's tasted like straight whiskey.

DENNY'S SERVES WHISKEY NOW?!

 

  I have no idea!  It was some bright blue beverage!  It was beautiful and tasted like heaven!  (Heaven tastes like whiskey, obviously). It was actually awful... Not even gonna lie.

Well, bright blue tends to not equal greatness, so far as beverages are concerned. I mean, unless we're talking blue raspberry kool-aid and possibly Bombay Sapphire. I mean, I'm not a gin fan but so far as gin's go, that's the way to do it.

You can never go wrong with kool-aid.  It's one of very few drinks I can think of where the color and the flavor are one and the same!  I like that in a beverage!

Once, I interviewed Miniature Tigers. Remember, it was before the DeKalb show we went to? Well, at one point, Charles Brand apologized to me for having to interview them because he knew at the time that I was going to have to wade through an hour plus of bullshit transcription to get an even halfway cohesive interview out of that clusterfuck. I feel like that's what's happening here. Weren't we supposed to talk about Brand New or something?

Brand New - Millstone