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The story behind New York City's House And Parish has not been written yet. The characters and plot have been rolled out like a Hollywood red carpet. During the late 90s, much like the Rat or Brat pack, half of H&P strutted atop the fertile mountains of the independent music scene, planting individual flags of unique importance under the banners Texas Is The Reason and The Promise Ring. There are, of course, other players in the band, who also knocked around in memorable indie outfits such as The Gloria Record and The Love Scene. So what now?
After a bumpy start, trying to lock down a whirlwind of musicians in a breakneck city such as New York, the cards in the House & Parish have finally been laid on the table. Scott Winegard, John Herguth, Brian Malone, Jason Gnewikow are the finalists of a revolving door of musicians that contributed to the prolific artisans dazzling new effort, One, One-Thousand. But all of that is clearly inked on the obligatory one-sheet that lightly attempts to unveil the unique picture of House And Parish, a portrait where the paint has yet to dry.
In October I watched two very different live sets from H&P at the CMJ 2007, both including former Rival Schools guitarist Ian Love, who in the relaxing confines of his Brooklyn studio, produced the EP. Chris Daly, formerly of Jets To Brazil, hit some of the skins on the record, and while it seems that the dudes have locked in their final roster, the plan of attack, the clear way to victory in this old game of all-star players on a new team, still remains as hazy as some shade of winter.
After performing a handful of shows the boys will embark on a two-week European tour with The Weakerthans in late November before returning to the States where they hope to sell their passionate and sophisticated rock gems to a wild-eyed batch of new admirers. If all goes well, and they reach the groove they each aspire to ascend to, then, the studio will be their next home while they assemble their full length masterpiece. Again, it seems so easy to write it like that, just like in the pre-conceived fairy tales, but is this one?
Rather than continue sifting around the past to splice together a pertinent story about the now, let us merely give you the bits and pieces that we have collected and let you see, hear and feel for yourself.
Audio Interview w/ Jason Gnewikow + "What Am I Still Waiting For"
"Pristine Fields" @ Crash Mansion / New York City CMJ October 2007
After a bumpy start, trying to lock down a whirlwind of musicians in a breakneck city such as New York, the cards in the House & Parish have finally been laid on the table. Scott Winegard, John Herguth, Brian Malone, Jason Gnewikow are the finalists of a revolving door of musicians that contributed to the prolific artisans dazzling new effort, One, One-Thousand. But all of that is clearly inked on the obligatory one-sheet that lightly attempts to unveil the unique picture of House And Parish, a portrait where the paint has yet to dry.
In October I watched two very different live sets from H&P at the CMJ 2007, both including former Rival Schools guitarist Ian Love, who in the relaxing confines of his Brooklyn studio, produced the EP. Chris Daly, formerly of Jets To Brazil, hit some of the skins on the record, and while it seems that the dudes have locked in their final roster, the plan of attack, the clear way to victory in this old game of all-star players on a new team, still remains as hazy as some shade of winter.
After performing a handful of shows the boys will embark on a two-week European tour with The Weakerthans in late November before returning to the States where they hope to sell their passionate and sophisticated rock gems to a wild-eyed batch of new admirers. If all goes well, and they reach the groove they each aspire to ascend to, then, the studio will be their next home while they assemble their full length masterpiece. Again, it seems so easy to write it like that, just like in the pre-conceived fairy tales, but is this one?
Rather than continue sifting around the past to splice together a pertinent story about the now, let us merely give you the bits and pieces that we have collected and let you see, hear and feel for yourself.
Audio Interview w/ Jason Gnewikow + "What Am I Still Waiting For"
"Pristine Fields" @ Crash Mansion / New York City CMJ October 2007
At the dawn of emo, The Promise Ring from Milwaukee, Wisconsin were unfairly thrust onto the cover of every smutty rag from Tiger Beat to National Geographic, and after releasing four albums, eventually collapsed under the ill-favored tag of indie rock's young crusaders of the next sonic salvation. Their beer and cheese flavored love anthems exploded with high caloric slabs of winsome vocals, honeybunch lyrics and harefooted guitars that wrangled hearts with flippant potency.
Having practically supported the Delaware basement imprint Jade Tree for three treasure chests in escalating worth and importance, 30 Degrees Everywhere, Nothing Feels Good and Very Emergency, the ring disengaged from the tree and found comfort around the finger of Epitaph Records owner Mr. Brett Gurwitz, whose diversified upstart ANTI- eventually became the resting place for the band's final delivery Wood / Water.
Produced by Viva Hate producer Stephen Street, WW came atop a Tsunami of slowed down melancholy with a somber undertow that weighed the vibrancy of the previous ring trilogy down like an barnacled anchor, which made the appearance of the rather advanced product of restless alchemy, as grotesque to it's bankrolling beneficiary as if were the wretched face of Cher, or her son MASK.
Damaged beyond recognition yet still coherent, singer Davey von Bohlen and Dan Didier broke off to mix a pitcher of brisk Sunday sunshine called Vermont, the acoustic compound of carefree perspective and high caliber screwdrivers.
When news spread like unmanageable infernos in the breast pocket of Southern California that D.C. spazztastics The Dismemberment Plan went bust, bassist Eric Axelson was summoned to Milwaukee from the District of Columbia and the incubation period, originally named In English, now and forever Maritime, began in the sternum of a ship on a mapless journey into the beating drum of the Bermuda Triangle.
The first effort, Glass Floor, came with more post-breakup garbage than the Braddifer Anglinaiston crucifiction and moments after kickstarting the turbo ignition of the breakthrough cycle We, The Vehicles, bearded bassist Axelson abruptly quit the band in order to focus more on facial maintenance rather than touring, pacifistically demonstrating that he was not as good as the interstates are, Axelson just couldn't take von Bohlen and Didier, that far.
Flash forward to current internet age of free music in the Fall of 2007. No longer pretty in punk and happily married with children, the Milwaukee dad dudes Davey von Bohlen, Dan Didier, former Decibully bassist Justin Klug and guitarist / keyboard whiz Dan Hinz, cornered yours truly at an open table outside of Bauhaus Books and Coffee in Seattle America on a recent pit stop, beaming with the healthy thirty-something faces of extremely happy men. Flameshovel Records released Maritime's third album Heresy, And The Hotel Choir on October 17, a milestone recording that was peacefully configured without battling a single computer in the digital recording arena.
"The joy of Heresy is that we actually started writing it as four individuals crammed in this very small practice space in Milwaukee and only went to the computer after the song was structured so we could have a hands off listening," drummer Dan Dider told me of the band's valuable new commodity, invested in fully by newcomers Klug and Hinz, who each helped craft and design the album as equal shares in the company.
"I think Very Emergency was the last record that we wrote together that we actually were all in the same room. Wood / Water, Glass Floor, We, The Vehicles were all written basically with the aid of a computer. That's a chunk of time where you are kind of like, 'this kind of sucks, we should really focus on just trying to play and not send files back and forth.' So that was the charm of the writing on this record."
"We had to cut ourselves off from pro-tools or whatever tools," von Bohlen admitted. "You start to realize that its not helpful. There's just something missing if you do it 100% online."
"We're dinosaurs," Didier says of the mindboggling intricacies of the worldwide web. "It's the new batch of young bands that know how to design web sites and make blogs and format myspace posts with html. They probably got their first laptop at the age of five."
"I predict that in two years there will be no more internet," von Bohlen jokes. "But really, all we're talking about is forward. There's a whole lot of backward that comes with evolution too. I mean, after your whole record collection on your computer crashes, people are still going to be like 'dude, the Journey double gate fold, it's still here.'"
"It feels good to go back to an organic way of being music," bassist Justin Klug chimed into the convo, hidden beneath a gargantuan beard of Sasquatchian proportions. "Its so much more honest from the four of us that way because we wrote them the way we play them now. And that helps us in every facet."
With astounding vigor, the Maritime men pulverized a young audience at Showbox Theater | Seattle while opening for Jimmy Eat World this past October, with a stoic confidence matched only by fanatical sport enthusiasts in adult softball leagues, where the excitement of performance is its own championship ring.
The unit was tight, as if coached in the off-season by the great Vince Lombardi himself. Didier behind the drum kit made Animal from The Muppet Show look like a punk bitch. von Bohlen tore his throat out and stuffed every last rumble of his alpine delivery through the teeth of an unarmed microphone. Klug's wrinkled bass frothed like an epileptic tornado with Hinz on the keys, chords, and backing vocals, helping to round out this firm and final lineup of first-string cheeseheads.
Having practically supported the Delaware basement imprint Jade Tree for three treasure chests in escalating worth and importance, 30 Degrees Everywhere, Nothing Feels Good and Very Emergency, the ring disengaged from the tree and found comfort around the finger of Epitaph Records owner Mr. Brett Gurwitz, whose diversified upstart ANTI- eventually became the resting place for the band's final delivery Wood / Water.
Produced by Viva Hate producer Stephen Street, WW came atop a Tsunami of slowed down melancholy with a somber undertow that weighed the vibrancy of the previous ring trilogy down like an barnacled anchor, which made the appearance of the rather advanced product of restless alchemy, as grotesque to it's bankrolling beneficiary as if were the wretched face of Cher, or her son MASK.
Damaged beyond recognition yet still coherent, singer Davey von Bohlen and Dan Didier broke off to mix a pitcher of brisk Sunday sunshine called Vermont, the acoustic compound of carefree perspective and high caliber screwdrivers.
When news spread like unmanageable infernos in the breast pocket of Southern California that D.C. spazztastics The Dismemberment Plan went bust, bassist Eric Axelson was summoned to Milwaukee from the District of Columbia and the incubation period, originally named In English, now and forever Maritime, began in the sternum of a ship on a mapless journey into the beating drum of the Bermuda Triangle.
The first effort, Glass Floor, came with more post-breakup garbage than the Braddifer Anglinaiston crucifiction and moments after kickstarting the turbo ignition of the breakthrough cycle We, The Vehicles, bearded bassist Axelson abruptly quit the band in order to focus more on facial maintenance rather than touring, pacifistically demonstrating that he was not as good as the interstates are, Axelson just couldn't take von Bohlen and Didier, that far.
Flash forward to current internet age of free music in the Fall of 2007. No longer pretty in punk and happily married with children, the Milwaukee dad dudes Davey von Bohlen, Dan Didier, former Decibully bassist Justin Klug and guitarist / keyboard whiz Dan Hinz, cornered yours truly at an open table outside of Bauhaus Books and Coffee in Seattle America on a recent pit stop, beaming with the healthy thirty-something faces of extremely happy men. Flameshovel Records released Maritime's third album Heresy, And The Hotel Choir on October 17, a milestone recording that was peacefully configured without battling a single computer in the digital recording arena.
"The joy of Heresy is that we actually started writing it as four individuals crammed in this very small practice space in Milwaukee and only went to the computer after the song was structured so we could have a hands off listening," drummer Dan Dider told me of the band's valuable new commodity, invested in fully by newcomers Klug and Hinz, who each helped craft and design the album as equal shares in the company.
"I think Very Emergency was the last record that we wrote together that we actually were all in the same room. Wood / Water, Glass Floor, We, The Vehicles were all written basically with the aid of a computer. That's a chunk of time where you are kind of like, 'this kind of sucks, we should really focus on just trying to play and not send files back and forth.' So that was the charm of the writing on this record."
"We had to cut ourselves off from pro-tools or whatever tools," von Bohlen admitted. "You start to realize that its not helpful. There's just something missing if you do it 100% online."
"We're dinosaurs," Didier says of the mindboggling intricacies of the worldwide web. "It's the new batch of young bands that know how to design web sites and make blogs and format myspace posts with html. They probably got their first laptop at the age of five."
"I predict that in two years there will be no more internet," von Bohlen jokes. "But really, all we're talking about is forward. There's a whole lot of backward that comes with evolution too. I mean, after your whole record collection on your computer crashes, people are still going to be like 'dude, the Journey double gate fold, it's still here.'"
"It feels good to go back to an organic way of being music," bassist Justin Klug chimed into the convo, hidden beneath a gargantuan beard of Sasquatchian proportions. "Its so much more honest from the four of us that way because we wrote them the way we play them now. And that helps us in every facet."
With astounding vigor, the Maritime men pulverized a young audience at Showbox Theater | Seattle while opening for Jimmy Eat World this past October, with a stoic confidence matched only by fanatical sport enthusiasts in adult softball leagues, where the excitement of performance is its own championship ring.
The unit was tight, as if coached in the off-season by the great Vince Lombardi himself. Didier behind the drum kit made Animal from The Muppet Show look like a punk bitch. von Bohlen tore his throat out and stuffed every last rumble of his alpine delivery through the teeth of an unarmed microphone. Klug's wrinkled bass frothed like an epileptic tornado with Hinz on the keys, chords, and backing vocals, helping to round out this firm and final lineup of first-string cheeseheads.
"With the old band, it was like expectation, expectation, these guys are going to be huge, just you wait, its coming, just wait...the next move these guys are going to make...its going to break them...and it just never happened. Ultimately that becomes un-enjoyable," explained drummist extraordinaire Dan Didier. "That's why that first Vermont record is my favorite record because there was no preconceived notion, there's no expectation. That's basically why Vermont happened, subconsciously. We thought, 'let's just do something where we're not feeling like were kind of at gunpoint by our fans and the media.' With Maritime and especially on Heresy now, I feel the same way I felt doing that Vermont record. I'm just too old to give a shit. I've already done a bunch of shit and I'm over it."
"I don't think you really lose that feeling of the fact that its pretty cool, that throughout all of the personal extensions of our lives now, that we're still a band. That's a huge feat, " von Bohlen says, having already worked alongside producers Casey Rice, Brad Wood, J Robbins, Mario C, Stephen Street and Stuart Sikes in an electric hodgpodge of projects from Cap N' Jazz to Jimmy Eat World. "If we get blogged about we can't control that or worry about that or whatever the notion of success is. We're still a band and were pretty proud of that."
"When you got nothing you got nothing to lose," said Dan Hinz, who participated on two of the band's three releases. "I think you sit back and look at the things you have to put out, and to make three records, and the band is still a whole, that's nuts. There's always a yearn for more, but I think we are very appreciate of what has happened so far."
While muttering this deep thought before dashing off to suffocate the blaring cry of his weeping mobile, Dan Didier provides a poignant outline. "Expectation kills bands. And this band has no expectations."
Words / Photos by Jason Anfinsen
Without sporting beards, robes or wooden canes, Roddy Bottum, Jone Stebbins, Lynn Truell, and Will Schwartz of the decade-young San Francisco cluster Imperial Teen are the sage prophets of indie pop. The sensible set's initial audio gift was opened by the world in 1996, a recording which left college stoners and snooty magazine editors so Seasick that no amount of Dramamine could cure. After the release of their sophomore sparkle What Is Not To Love, a giant monster with flesh gnawing fangs named Universal Music Group swallowed innocent labels, shiny bands, and good people, before blindly spitting the unwanted bones of discarded victims onto the floor of a dark quiet room.
A forceful explosion of luck blew the mature gang of savvy musicians along a wave of good karma from the foggy San Francisco Bay to the sea lice shores of the Atlantic Ocean where they were safely rescued by Mac McCaughan and Laura Balance. The founding members of Superchunk who began Merge Records way back in 1989 under the Tar Heel sun in Chapel Hill, North Carolina mildly turned fans of the media labeled "queer-alt rock" On in 2002, and for the moment, everything seemed to be working out fine, just fine.
Double luck struck like a fart from the ass of Zeus when The Arcade Fire all but burned down the relic Billboard album chart in 2004. Funeral torched as high as number two, all but etching Merge Records on mugs, hats, and stickers in novelty gift shops of the world above the title "new king of independent cool." In 2007, when luck doesn't seem to be anywhere, not in our nation's White House nor in the body of former pop idols who no longer have the looks or brains to "do it again," good fortune continues to gracefully spurt from the gleaming pores of Imperial Teen.
The Hair, The TV, The Baby And The Band is an infectious dose of yummy brainwash that leaves an idle mind in danger of a regurgitating mind-suffocating like hit, like a Sunday sunrise marijuana sermon on the edge of the Golden Gate bridge.
"It's Now," with a volatile mid section outburst, is a real turn-on that wonderfully encapsulates this ageless outfit. The catty eruption of dramattitude boils past the point of evaporation and into an atmosphere of unpolluted oxygen. "Sweet Potato" is a thunderbolt of pop that sizzles away the lines of old age. Mac and Laura are godparents of the best looking, most athletic and scholastic champ of the Imperial Teen family.
I sat and chat with Imperial Teens Will Schwartz, the compact guitarist who speaks like Perry Ferrell and spends his downtime in the dance unit Hey Willpower, and Lynn Truell, the fetching drummist and mother of three who is still as punk as when she was armed with hardcore sticks in The Dicks, in the rear of the Crocodile Café in Seattle America September 2007.
Lynn looked very fine and acted warm throughout, as did Will, politely hidden behind shy armor, which loosely wore off as my fiery Q's melted them both into puddles of pretty answers.
JA: Was it scary when the whole Universal disaster happened?
LT: Scary wouldn't be the word, annoying would be a better word. And also they were kind of, we were very, they didn't...
JA: You were the last to know?
LT: Exactly.
JA: As you should be. You are, after all, the band.
LT: It wasn't like we were bummed. We were just a little surprised and like huh, ok, now what are we going to do? But we weren't devastated or anything. It was a relief because they were so mixed up. Like there were some really great people that worked there but they were struggling with the same issues.
JA: So how are things at Merge?
WS: They're just so on top of it and so communicative. And they're peers so they get it, they understand what touring is like, they understand every aspect of it, so they know when to contact us and let us know what the good news is or any news.
LT: They're a part of it. If you write Laura or Mac they'll write you back. It's so much easier with them.
JA: First night on a surprisingly intimate tour will be here at the Croc in Seattle America.
LT: Yeah, because of what everyone else in the band has going on, rather than take those long day drives we just decided to fly to Seattle, Boston, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, New Jersey, New York, Philly, Boston. Maybe in the Spring we'll do some dates in other parts of the country. It's just what we can handle right now.
JA: And with everyone else being so busy, how do all four of you juggle lives and projects outside of Imperial Teen? I would imagine that nailing all of you down to create an album would be a difficult task.
WS: You just have to commit. It really is about everybody just being methodical and stating when they are available and getting together to do it.
LT: it just kind of makes itself happen. We're pretty lucky in that respect. Like when I got the record in the mail I couldn't believe we did this because we're all living in different places and doing completely different things. It was a bit overwhelming that we did this because it was a landslide of emails, phone calls, and then it finally happened.
JA: So making a record in 2007 is a way different process than in 1996 when you young rascals where first starting out?
WS: Yes definitely.
LT: Totally different way.
WS: We did it in a more traditional way when we started. We lived in the same city, had a practice space, rehearsed three or four times a week, wrote songs and made a record. Now it's really deliberate. If you want to do it, you have to just go for it.
LT: We read your review of our record on The Tripwire.
JA: Really? You aren't going to hit me now are you?
LT: No, I really liked it. My husband said it was very poetic.
WS: We expected to make a good record but I think this feels like something magical happened.
LT: We expected it from ourselves to make a good record, but we didn't necessarily have any expectations that came from it. Once it was on tape and we listened back to it, you hear it almost for the first time. When you're playing the songs it's different than when you're in it literally making the music. At that second when you hear it back and its totally different, it sounds pretty rad. And the reviews have been positive and we've been getting radio airplay, and that's really nice, those are just bonus things for us.
JA: What appeared to be nightmare situation has worked out all sorts of good for you dudes.
LT: Oh we're really lucky. We know that. We deserve it.
JA: (laughs) You deserve it.
LT: (laughs) Well we do, we're not just goofing around. We like doing this. The other day Roddy was talking about how amazed he was that Imperial Teen has made fifty songs together. And I think that in itself is a really cool thing.
Without sporting beards, robes or wooden canes, Roddy Bottum, Jone Stebbins, Lynn Truell, and Will Schwartz of the decade-young San Francisco cluster Imperial Teen are the sage prophets of indie pop. The sensible set's initial audio gift was opened by the world in 1996, a recording which left college stoners and snooty magazine editors so Seasick that no amount of Dramamine could cure. After the release of their sophomore sparkle What Is Not To Love, a giant monster with flesh gnawing fangs named Universal Music Group swallowed innocent labels, shiny bands, and good people, before blindly spitting the unwanted bones of discarded victims onto the floor of a dark quiet room.
A forceful explosion of luck blew the mature gang of savvy musicians along a wave of good karma from the foggy San Francisco Bay to the sea lice shores of the Atlantic Ocean where they were safely rescued by Mac McCaughan and Laura Balance. The founding members of Superchunk who began Merge Records way back in 1989 under the Tar Heel sun in Chapel Hill, North Carolina mildly turned fans of the media labeled "queer-alt rock" On in 2002, and for the moment, everything seemed to be working out fine, just fine.
Double luck struck like a fart from the ass of Zeus when The Arcade Fire all but burned down the relic Billboard album chart in 2004. Funeral torched as high as number two, all but etching Merge Records on mugs, hats, and stickers in novelty gift shops of the world above the title "new king of independent cool." In 2007, when luck doesn't seem to be anywhere, not in our nation's White House nor in the body of former pop idols who no longer have the looks or brains to "do it again," good fortune continues to gracefully spurt from the gleaming pores of Imperial Teen.
The Hair, The TV, The Baby And The Band is an infectious dose of yummy brainwash that leaves an idle mind in danger of a regurgitating mind-suffocating like hit, like a Sunday sunrise marijuana sermon on the edge of the Golden Gate bridge.
"It's Now," with a volatile mid section outburst, is a real turn-on that wonderfully encapsulates this ageless outfit. The catty eruption of dramattitude boils past the point of evaporation and into an atmosphere of unpolluted oxygen. "Sweet Potato" is a thunderbolt of pop that sizzles away the lines of old age. Mac and Laura are godparents of the best looking, most athletic and scholastic champ of the Imperial Teen family.
I sat and chat with Imperial Teens Will Schwartz, the compact guitarist who speaks like Perry Ferrell and spends his downtime in the dance unit Hey Willpower, and Lynn Truell, the fetching drummist and mother of three who is still as punk as when she was armed with hardcore sticks in The Dicks, in the rear of the Crocodile Café in Seattle America September 2007.
Lynn looked very fine and acted warm throughout, as did Will, politely hidden behind shy armor, which loosely wore off as my fiery Q's melted them both into puddles of pretty answers.
JA: Was it scary when the whole Universal disaster happened?
LT: Scary wouldn't be the word, annoying would be a better word. And also they were kind of, we were very, they didn't...
JA: You were the last to know?
LT: Exactly.
JA: As you should be. You are, after all, the band.
LT: It wasn't like we were bummed. We were just a little surprised and like huh, ok, now what are we going to do? But we weren't devastated or anything. It was a relief because they were so mixed up. Like there were some really great people that worked there but they were struggling with the same issues.
JA: So how are things at Merge?
WS: They're just so on top of it and so communicative. And they're peers so they get it, they understand what touring is like, they understand every aspect of it, so they know when to contact us and let us know what the good news is or any news.
LT: They're a part of it. If you write Laura or Mac they'll write you back. It's so much easier with them.
JA: First night on a surprisingly intimate tour will be here at the Croc in Seattle America.
LT: Yeah, because of what everyone else in the band has going on, rather than take those long day drives we just decided to fly to Seattle, Boston, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, New Jersey, New York, Philly, Boston. Maybe in the Spring we'll do some dates in other parts of the country. It's just what we can handle right now.
JA: And with everyone else being so busy, how do all four of you juggle lives and projects outside of Imperial Teen? I would imagine that nailing all of you down to create an album would be a difficult task.
WS: You just have to commit. It really is about everybody just being methodical and stating when they are available and getting together to do it.
LT: it just kind of makes itself happen. We're pretty lucky in that respect. Like when I got the record in the mail I couldn't believe we did this because we're all living in different places and doing completely different things. It was a bit overwhelming that we did this because it was a landslide of emails, phone calls, and then it finally happened.
JA: So making a record in 2007 is a way different process than in 1996 when you young rascals where first starting out?
WS: Yes definitely.
LT: Totally different way.
WS: We did it in a more traditional way when we started. We lived in the same city, had a practice space, rehearsed three or four times a week, wrote songs and made a record. Now it's really deliberate. If you want to do it, you have to just go for it.
LT: We read your review of our record on The Tripwire.
JA: Really? You aren't going to hit me now are you?
LT: No, I really liked it. My husband said it was very poetic.
WS: We expected to make a good record but I think this feels like something magical happened.
LT: We expected it from ourselves to make a good record, but we didn't necessarily have any expectations that came from it. Once it was on tape and we listened back to it, you hear it almost for the first time. When you're playing the songs it's different than when you're in it literally making the music. At that second when you hear it back and its totally different, it sounds pretty rad. And the reviews have been positive and we've been getting radio airplay, and that's really nice, those are just bonus things for us.
JA: What appeared to be nightmare situation has worked out all sorts of good for you dudes.
LT: Oh we're really lucky. We know that. We deserve it.
JA: (laughs) You deserve it.
LT: (laughs) Well we do, we're not just goofing around. We like doing this. The other day Roddy was talking about how amazed he was that Imperial Teen has made fifty songs together. And I think that in itself is a really cool thing.
For nine seasons and over one hundred episodes Patton Oswalt played Spencer, the friend of the fat guy who screamed every week at his psychotic-Scientologist wife inside a tiny bunker where the Heffernan's held Jerry Seinfeld's father hostage, on The King Of Queens. In July, Sub Pop released Oswalt's second comedy album Werewolves And Vampires right around the time when the stunted joke-slinger starred as Remy in Pixar's Ratatouille, which has made well over 200 million dollars to date. His squeaky voice can be heard on television shows, video games and major motion pictures by ears connected to a diverse fan base of young tykes and heavyweight tokers. He's sharp and business oriented with a passion for thrusting upstart funnymakers into the comedy kiln, allowing them to bake or burn, in his punk rock comedy extravaganza The Comedians Of Comedy.
After being introduced as the little guy in front of a sold out crowd at the Showbox Theater in Seattle America on October 3, Patton Oswalt strolled out, grabbed the microphone and viciously ripped open the first night of the 2007 Comedians Of Comedy tour. The pudgy quipster perused the excited crowd, determined to find a punching bag dressed in ironic apparel to complete his "hipster t-shirt" bit. Oswalt found gold in the front row after targeting a Capitol Hill cutie pie whom he quickly pegged an "Alterna-Barbie from Ghost World." The girl who surfed through a wave of stoned Seattleites only to be drawn and quartered by Oswalt's ruthless barrage not only loved the hell out it, she also braved the frigid Autumn winds of the Puget Sound on an otherwise dull Wednesday evening and paid $25 to boot.
Backstage at the Showbox, amongst a room full of treats and comics holding notebooks and doing bits, wearing my own hipster garb in the form of a Bukowski shirt, I cornered the pudgy jokester and rifled off an onslaught of my own. My questions quickly began to feel like amateur hour at the Spanish inquisition as his answers were delivered with a borderline tude that some find amusing while others take offense as they dream of pounding him and his sarcastic brand of humor into emergency room putty.
JA: 2007 has been a pretty good year for you so far.
PO: It's a very busy year, but fun.
JA: Take me back ten years to when you did your HBO special in 1997.
PO: (laughs) Oh god.
JA: Go with me here. When you got off the stage, before the show even aired, before you landed on The King Of Queens, how did you feel about your set?
PO: I just remember being so happy. It wasn't that I was relieved that it was over, it was that I was happy that for once in my career. Never again did I just focus on one specific thing for a number of months and then just deliver it. And it's so sad that I cant just remind myself: if you just concentrate on one thing, it comes out really really well. Because I am openly proud of that special, not in a bragging way, but it was something that I really wanted to do and I did it exactly the way I wanted to do it. I just remember that is what I felt and unfortunately it's a feeling that I have allowed myself to forget.
On May 14, 2007, over thirteen million television sets tuned in to say goodbye to the series finale of The King Of Queens for a send off episode called 'China Syndrome,' written by the show's creator Michael Creighton, the same saint responsible for providing almost a decade of financial security and drama school for the young Oswalt after catching the comic's aforementioned HBO special.
JA: On your website you posted a nice goodbye to The King Of Queens. That must have been a warm sendoff.
PO: It was great. That show, having been on the air for nine years, we really lucked out. We didn't think we would be on the air for nine years like that. And for the creator to get to finish the show the way he wanted and to bring it home in whatever way he felt, that must have felt really good. That was nine years of his life and nine years of something that he created. That's got to feel great.
JA: What kind of polish did you walk away from The King Of Queens? I'm sure you aren't the same now coming out of it as you were going into it.
PO: Oh yeah. Just from getting to work with Kevin James and Jerry Stiller and the whole cast and the director Rob Schiller, I learned how to act. I didn't know how to act when I got that job. I went from atrocious to merely competent. Not a bad arc.
JA: I smell a new bumper sticker.
PO: Yeah. Atrocious to competent in under a decade.
In 2004 Patton Oswalt nailed a comedy killing triple play. Sub Pop released his debut ha-ha disc Feelin' Kinda Patton and Comedy Central captured his one-hour special No Reason To Complain which was then pressed onto DVD. 2004 was also the year the acerbic Oswalt cleverly developed the idea for a cheaper, more compact, punk rock circus of laughs called The Comedians Of Comedy which has become a financially successful and artistically gratifying tour, television series and independent film.
JA: Not only is 2007 a huge year for you but 2004 was also a monster one as well. You seem to be in the orifices of the different media.
PO: I'm in the orifices of the different media? Yes, I've prison raped entertainment.
JA: And they keep coming back for more.
PO: Yeah I guess 2004 was just one of those years where a lot of stuff lined up that I had been working on for a long time. I worked on Ratatouille for two years. I worked on Sunshine And Werewolves for about two years after the first one, in between doing The Comedians Of Comedy tour, television show and the movie. So yeah, it was a lot of quietly working on things and all of them coming out at once. It felt really good.
JA: And when you created the comedians it?s like now you got a band.
PO: What I like is TCOC is that it's not a set clique. I have a kind of a brand name that can fit all kinds of new comedians in what I want people to see. So it doesn't have to be just the same group. And I think audiences are starting to realize that when you see it says The Comedians Of Comedy, it will be not necessarily the original four (Zach Galifianakis, Brian Posehn, Maria Bamford), but comedians you should see. Almost like a roving music festival.
JA: Yes. Taking an idea that Rodney Dangerfield as well as a ton of established comedians have done in the past but packing audiences into indie rock clubs. How has that against the grain decision paid off?
PO: Well David Cross had done a version of it and other comedians had done rock clubs. I had been doing rock clubs for a while. So I wanted to do it with my friends and boy did it click.
JA: Hell yeah. It's been three years with no end in sight.
PO: Well it's been four years. We started in 2003 a very small tour me and Zack and it kept building exponentially after that.
In addition to Bumbershoot and SXSW, TCOC were the first comedy assassins to slay the burning bags of skin in the Californian desert at this year's Coachella fiesta.
JA: Tell me about Coachella. What the hell was that?
PO: I don't know what it was but boy did it work. They invited us out and we were on this little side stage for 3,000 people in the hot sun and I just kept thinking this is the biggest mistake. This is us being excited about Coachella and its not going to work, but it really worked. And then of course afterward the booker said ?hey we should have you guys on the main stage next year and it's like, people get so excited when comedy works that it needs to get five times bigger than it is and that's how it dies. It's got to stay small and intimate.
JA: Don't you think that is the beauty of performing in the technology age where you can create a quick snapshot and it may come out on DVD, or...
PO: Oh yeah. You can do that even if it doesn't come out on DVD. It can be accessible on the internet and expose people to what you do. It's great for comedians because they are not at the whims of what a comedy club will demand or what a club owner will demand.
JA: So that being said, in 2007 when one of the biggest bands in the world Radiohead plans on releasing In Rainbows on the internet as 'pay what you can,' why are all comedians like Eugene Mirman, Michael Showalter, Michael Ian Black making records?
PO: Because we do not have the machinery behind us that a Radiohead has. Even though they are saying free or pay what you can, they still have an amazing distribution machine behind themselves whereas we don't. So having a Sub Pop get behind us and if someone hears my CD they'll hopefully go to my web site where I'll list other comedians that you should be seeing or web sites that you should be visiting and the kind of comedy that I do, I'll make the environment more friendly to what I do by promoting other people.
JA: And that seems to be your crusade as of late.
PO: I'm trying to, yeah. I've been doing that for four years now.
JA: I felt like when Chicken Little came out, all of the advertisements said Chicken Little staring Zach Braff. Do you feel like Pixar didn't pump you up enough?
PO: I think the star of Ratatouille is Pixar and Brad Bird. I was just a lucky dude that got the role. I don't think people associate the character with me in that if they come to our show they say 'we wanna hear Remy.' That's what's great about a Pixar movie is its what I am trying to do with TCOC done much bigger, much better and much smarter and for a much longer time. It's everyone doing they best to contribute towards a flawless work of art. That movie is going to age so well.
JA: When you spent the two years doing it, did you think that it would turn out as big as it did?
PO: Of course I didn't know for sure but the fact that it was A) Pixar and B) Brad Bird, that's a pretty good indication. They've done, what I am trying to do with this tour, is create a name which equals a level of quality. So it gets to the point where they say if its Pixar I'll see it. It doesn't matter if I'm not interested, I'm sure they'll make me interested.
JA: With such a successful voice over career for children's programming, how would you approach an angry mob of crazies who said 'I saw his show and he was swearing!'
PO: Well then they are idiots. You can do both. You can totally do both. Shel Silverstein did kids books and adult records. If you saw Richard Prior on Sesame Street wouldn't you at least read a little about him before you saw him live? Just because anyone does one thing, doesn't mean they have to stay there forever.
Feature_Ezra Furman And The Harpoons - Slapdash Brilliance From The High Voltage Rock N' Roll Future
words photos video : Jason Anfinsen
Banging Down The Doors | album review
Ezra Furman and The Harpoons greeted me in the baggage claim at the Minneapolis airport with four college faces and one plastic goose. During my two-day trek with the band of Tufts University seniors which began in Minnesota and took us through Wisconsin to Chicago, these harmless young men failed to walk anywhere near the deviant line of ghoulishness similar to the violent rowdies depicted by Anthony Burgess in his novel A Clockwork Orange, although Ezra Furman and The Harpoons are real horrorshow.
The Harpoons consist of Job Mukkada the bass banging, fast food munching joker, Adam Abrutyn the drumstick hunk, Jahn Sood the organized guitarist and singer/guitarist Ezra Furman, the spotlight spazz who writes all of the band's "high voltage rock n' roll anthems".
A young Furman was not hell-bent on having the manifestation of his detailed visions birthed by the collective senses of strangers, but The Harpoons with vaporous faces which illuminate picture perfect prom dates, have become a cogent garment of strength for Ezra, an article that the shy kid from Chicago now wears rather comfortably as the temperature rises amidst the escalading level of mania that this promising Boston band are beginning to be spun through.
Ezra Furman and The Harpoons' premiere ornament Banging Down The Doors is an effervescent album as mischievously significant as the eponymous debut from The Violent Femmes, but exactly what is the measure of potential inside the hearts of Ezra Furman his assembled Harpoons? What is the combined weight of their talent multiplied by the noxious results of the doors to the world being smashed to worthless bits by ruthless fists of four ordinary college dudes? The biggest task for these young scientists will be to quantity the outcome of their undiscovered musical future.
While mouthing repetitive declarations like, "I predict that we all won't die in a car accident today," Furman revealed a deep fear of becomming mangled remains intertwined with exposed metal of an obliterated automobile. The disorientation with which every Harpoon suffered while behind the wheel was beyond incomprehensible, allowing the possibility of such a gruesome vision of Furman's to possibly see the blinding light of day.
Let it be known that The Harpoons drove with accuracy seen only by Stevie Wonder. Their drifting spans of attention made them as effective as King Louis XVI after he was beheaded. Together they sniffed directions like McGruff the crime dog after mistakenly inhaling a suitcase of angel dust. For the sake of any God who will listen, please, create for these Harpoons a captain capable of effectively helming the mighty Furman family vessel!
“ The first day in the studio, I felt like I wanted to quit the whole thing. ”
After an hour of going one way down a "buses only" street, Job "drove" our frightened souls around the recent bridge which collapsed and over to the Soap Factory, an artist commune in the bowels of a desolate factory on the other side of the tracks, where the boys replayed highlights of a most disastrous drive. In 2006, months after Furman was stabbed silly by The Harpoons, a special showcase was arranged for producer Brian Deck (Modest Mouse, Iron and Wine), an engagement possibly more important than the reading of Ezra's Haftorah on the day of his bar mitzvah.
The mission was simple for the pubescent road warriors; complete the journey from Boston to Chicago and delight the regal producer atop his throne of glistening emeralds, as he silently judges the quality of the music ever so gaily while eating Venezuelan cougar eggs fanned by half-naked slaves.
"After a few hours on the road we pulled over to ask a gas station attendant where Buffalo was and he said that we were in Montreal," guitarist Jahn Sood told me in his deadpan delivery. "It took us 22-hours to finally get from Boston to Chicago and play one set."
And what a set it was, luring Deck from his heavenly palace of platinum and down into his workplace at Engine Studios in Chicago for the five-day session that spawned the rapturous knock Banging Down The Doors.
"The first day in the studio, I felt like I wanted to quit the whole thing," Furman said. "Yeah," Adam added, "we failed to realize how exhausting it was and I think we were all just unprepared and overwhelmed."
Indeed. At times during this low budget reenactment of Almost Famous, I found myself feeling the affects of what the kids called "carsy," an exhausted sickness acquired after extensive hours in the meager confines of a touring mini-van. Uninvited and with the thrust of a belligerent know-it-all, I generously filled the roles of road manager, abusive father, asshole older brother, drunken uncle, drink ticket thief and unheard navigator in the passenger seat without a shotgun.
"If you learned anything on this trip," Sood said, "it's that we as a group are terrible with directions."
The fork in the band's road bent to the side of sanctuary when Mr. Jim Powers at Minty Fresh, an independent record label in Chicago once aligned with the wallet and blockbuster name of David Geffen, wrangled up this net of tiny perch amongst a sea of legendary whales, most likely with a sharp focus sharp on music licensing, television and movie projects. The Harpoons had to scrap their Seattle gig to shoot a pilot in Los Angeles which was the spark for my two-day adventure with the unblemished barely legals.
After a rousing performance amongst a room of too cools at the Kitty Cat Klub on a brisk Autumn night, we awoke on the wooden floor of an apartment in Upton Minneapolis that belonged to a generous pixie who answered the pathetic cry of Furman blatantly asking if anyone could put us up. Salvation came by the name of Aubrey from Green Room Booking, who also paid the bill for any number of complimentary fruitinis that wound up in my alcoholic belly. I was, after all, with the band.
“ I still have never even heard Strangeways Here We Come but officially The Strokes are my favorite band. ”
We spent a great deal of time on the road, The Harpoons and the buffoon, joined at the hip with I-90, spinning iPod mixes, reading thick books, cracking tame jokes, sleeping then waking only to blearily inquire where we were, then back to catching more zzz's. While driving his parent's van and holding a cup of roadside coffee baking ever so raunchily in the afternoon Wisconsin sun, Furman took a sip of the foul tasting brew.
"Ew," he gurgled, "I can't do it," he wretched. "I usually eat lunch between noon and one and then dinner between six and seven," Ezra said. He admitted openly to having never eaten a pickle. I didn't watch the victim of famine take a bite of anything but the neon green tips of his convenient store shades.
As Ezra drove with his skinny white body in a shirt with "I Know It's Over" lyrics scribbled in Sharpie across the chest, I sat with a hidden grin, cloaked in my green The Queen Is Dead shirt as "It's so easy to laugh, its to easy to hate, it takes guts to be gentle and kind" came from the mouth of the Moz.
"Oh wow," Furman said, looking down at his ragged apparel and NOT at the road like a good driver. "I never even realized that before, that it's this song and we're listening to it" he said with a smile. "That's kind of weird," he says. "I still have never even heard Strangeways Here We Come but officially The Strokes are my favorite band."
After the long trek from Minnesota brought us to the land of Lincoln, the need for instant energy was maddening. Furman jokingly mentioned that he wished to score some uppers. After the laughter subsided, I wondered and then finally asked him, "Ezra do you even know what uppers are?" He thought about it for a moment, slumping down into the back seat and from behind the safety of those dark sunglasses he hit me with, "I guess it means a delicious sandwich."
A mirror image of the introverted genius reflected in the early years of Morrissey or Stipe, Ezra Furman's subtle sex appeal is deeply hidden beneath his whimsical shyness, buried well under his endless allure and nervously pulsating down in the bottommost holdings of his passionate body, where the 21-year-old's truest wealth is just beginning to be mined.
"I haven't written a song in two months since we left on this summer tour," the screwball told me. While trying to find the perfect explanation for his lack of inspiration, his gentle face cringed as the overworked synapses of his sparkling brain franticly attempted to articulate some poetic reason. He mumbled something about "lack of placid tranquility" then spaced out to discomforting silence which brimmed with slight anger at the fact that the words which rang so clear in his head were heard muffled and distorted by the deaf ears of mine. Indeed, the spastic traveling of picaresque verbiage humming in the vast canals of Ezra Furman's mind is often accepted best through his quirky songs rather than his yet to be fluent prose.
Ezra is nothing more than and cannot be anything but, Ezra, the nice Jewish boy from Evanston Illinois who bursts into our reality the moment he heroically combusts on stage.
"We must go there. There are many people that I must hug," he said of his childhood home in the North Chicago suburb of Evanston, a destination that led the band an hour away from their scheduled load in time of seven p.m.
At his Shangri La just near the Dempster stop on the purple line, Furman's hospitable family squeezed a giant poncho of affection around their son in the special way that evades the evils that consumed Joan Benet Ramsey's parents.
Furman, even though he quipped about becoming an English teacher by saying, "I think that I'd want to teach in my own school," couldn't stray from the arts if was written in the Torah to do so. This quirky kid is a jewel amongst pyrite with a voice that comes along once every four years like a new President or a college education.
If the band were to bust, I could easily see Job, Adam and Jahn putting down their electric equipment and picking up a copy of the Wall Street Journal to lay on top of their quarterly stock reports while on vacation in Maui after a "good year at the office."
In a moment of careless candor, seconds before the band's big homecoming fiesta that culminated the end of the 2007 tour and the release of the band's debut album, Job the bass player says "its almost like this show is already over. That's the way I feel about it, like it doesn't even matter."
After shooting a bent look of confusion back at Job, Ezra said, "Oh I strongly disagree." He was visibly frazzled before the gig, anxiously checking and rechecking his set list, as if memorizing for the big exam. This subtle lack of direction or dedication or determination of the band as a whole is the equivalent of a sinister plague slithering into a den of smiling babies and wanting to sink its venomous fangs into the necks of four future somethings.
With legions of family, friends and supporters in Chicago elevating Furman's rising ability to affectionately annihilate, I witnessed a tremendous shock of the future, a quick smidgeon of tomorrow, which portrayed these tykes as acoustic-folk-blues-rock's new-new cover children. He, as they say, has it. He writes the songs, penned and recorded a whopper album, looks like a young Dylan and bays like a Mountain Goat. All of the vital ingredients for the making of a star are in the pot and ready for the mix. So what's next for Ezra Furman and The Harpoons?
For nine flimsy months the boys will hit books instead of bongs with ankles chained to the halls of Tufts University in Boston, pigeonholing them into a small performance radius to penetrate - Boston, D.C., Philly, Buffalo, and New York.
In addition to earning those sheepskin parchments, I hope they also graduate from the frat dude date rape circus which fails to remain a novel lifestyle past the age of twenty-one. Adolescents such as The Harpoons I hung with made it a team effort to incessantly drag their feet when they walked, mumble their sentences when they talked and obsessively deny the reality that "all this" is their job.
Indeed there are no specific dress codes and the location of the office changes nightly, but what is most essential is the importance of being able to communicate with alarming new foreigners - yucky disc jockeys, lusty groupies, uncoordinated photographers, slimy booking agents, bumbling managers, hibernating record executives - and be able execute powerful decisions with a cement confidence that will determine their own outcome in this pell-mell adventure.
Nice as they are, these adorable lads are in dire straits of a striking sting from a syringe the size of the Seattle space needle that will flood limitless amounts of energy, passion, and commitment into the immaculate veins of these intelligent goofs as if by a dude named Ahab.
Faceless record labels and managers and musicians will whirl about like ideas for songs to a diehard writer like Furman. The vision for the future incarnation of his bubbling embryo of greatness, however magnificent or whacked, belongs solely to him. Only he and his current confidants can type their topsy-turvy future with barbs of flesh piercing confidence in order to accurately spear the intestines of this planet with the mastery of four ripened harpoons.
It takes a moment for the flames gurgling below the infernal surface of Ezra Furman and The Harpoons to emerge like butterflies from a volcanic cocoon. Is this band intent on setting the hands of fate forward and establishing their own destiny or are they too busy lollygagging in the moment, man, like, just chilling out and waiting to see what happens down the road, man?
Looking at my Gucci it's about that time. How long, tell me how long, tell me how long, tell me how long?
Banging Down The Doors | album review
Ezra Furman and The Harpoons greeted me in the baggage claim at the Minneapolis airport with four college faces and one plastic goose. During my two-day trek with the band of Tufts University seniors which began in Minnesota and took us through Wisconsin to Chicago, these harmless young men failed to walk anywhere near the deviant line of ghoulishness similar to the violent rowdies depicted by Anthony Burgess in his novel A Clockwork Orange, although Ezra Furman and The Harpoons are real horrorshow.
The Harpoons consist of Job Mukkada the bass banging, fast food munching joker, Adam Abrutyn the drumstick hunk, Jahn Sood the organized guitarist and singer/guitarist Ezra Furman, the spotlight spazz who writes all of the band's "high voltage rock n' roll anthems".
A young Furman was not hell-bent on having the manifestation of his detailed visions birthed by the collective senses of strangers, but The Harpoons with vaporous faces which illuminate picture perfect prom dates, have become a cogent garment of strength for Ezra, an article that the shy kid from Chicago now wears rather comfortably as the temperature rises amidst the escalading level of mania that this promising Boston band are beginning to be spun through.
Ezra Furman and The Harpoons' premiere ornament Banging Down The Doors is an effervescent album as mischievously significant as the eponymous debut from The Violent Femmes, but exactly what is the measure of potential inside the hearts of Ezra Furman his assembled Harpoons? What is the combined weight of their talent multiplied by the noxious results of the doors to the world being smashed to worthless bits by ruthless fists of four ordinary college dudes? The biggest task for these young scientists will be to quantity the outcome of their undiscovered musical future.
While mouthing repetitive declarations like, "I predict that we all won't die in a car accident today," Furman revealed a deep fear of becomming mangled remains intertwined with exposed metal of an obliterated automobile. The disorientation with which every Harpoon suffered while behind the wheel was beyond incomprehensible, allowing the possibility of such a gruesome vision of Furman's to possibly see the blinding light of day.
Let it be known that The Harpoons drove with accuracy seen only by Stevie Wonder. Their drifting spans of attention made them as effective as King Louis XVI after he was beheaded. Together they sniffed directions like McGruff the crime dog after mistakenly inhaling a suitcase of angel dust. For the sake of any God who will listen, please, create for these Harpoons a captain capable of effectively helming the mighty Furman family vessel!
“ The first day in the studio, I felt like I wanted to quit the whole thing. ”
After an hour of going one way down a "buses only" street, Job "drove" our frightened souls around the recent bridge which collapsed and over to the Soap Factory, an artist commune in the bowels of a desolate factory on the other side of the tracks, where the boys replayed highlights of a most disastrous drive. In 2006, months after Furman was stabbed silly by The Harpoons, a special showcase was arranged for producer Brian Deck (Modest Mouse, Iron and Wine), an engagement possibly more important than the reading of Ezra's Haftorah on the day of his bar mitzvah.
The mission was simple for the pubescent road warriors; complete the journey from Boston to Chicago and delight the regal producer atop his throne of glistening emeralds, as he silently judges the quality of the music ever so gaily while eating Venezuelan cougar eggs fanned by half-naked slaves.
"After a few hours on the road we pulled over to ask a gas station attendant where Buffalo was and he said that we were in Montreal," guitarist Jahn Sood told me in his deadpan delivery. "It took us 22-hours to finally get from Boston to Chicago and play one set."
And what a set it was, luring Deck from his heavenly palace of platinum and down into his workplace at Engine Studios in Chicago for the five-day session that spawned the rapturous knock Banging Down The Doors.
"The first day in the studio, I felt like I wanted to quit the whole thing," Furman said. "Yeah," Adam added, "we failed to realize how exhausting it was and I think we were all just unprepared and overwhelmed."
Indeed. At times during this low budget reenactment of Almost Famous, I found myself feeling the affects of what the kids called "carsy," an exhausted sickness acquired after extensive hours in the meager confines of a touring mini-van. Uninvited and with the thrust of a belligerent know-it-all, I generously filled the roles of road manager, abusive father, asshole older brother, drunken uncle, drink ticket thief and unheard navigator in the passenger seat without a shotgun.
"If you learned anything on this trip," Sood said, "it's that we as a group are terrible with directions."
The fork in the band's road bent to the side of sanctuary when Mr. Jim Powers at Minty Fresh, an independent record label in Chicago once aligned with the wallet and blockbuster name of David Geffen, wrangled up this net of tiny perch amongst a sea of legendary whales, most likely with a sharp focus sharp on music licensing, television and movie projects. The Harpoons had to scrap their Seattle gig to shoot a pilot in Los Angeles which was the spark for my two-day adventure with the unblemished barely legals.
After a rousing performance amongst a room of too cools at the Kitty Cat Klub on a brisk Autumn night, we awoke on the wooden floor of an apartment in Upton Minneapolis that belonged to a generous pixie who answered the pathetic cry of Furman blatantly asking if anyone could put us up. Salvation came by the name of Aubrey from Green Room Booking, who also paid the bill for any number of complimentary fruitinis that wound up in my alcoholic belly. I was, after all, with the band.
“ I still have never even heard Strangeways Here We Come but officially The Strokes are my favorite band. ”
We spent a great deal of time on the road, The Harpoons and the buffoon, joined at the hip with I-90, spinning iPod mixes, reading thick books, cracking tame jokes, sleeping then waking only to blearily inquire where we were, then back to catching more zzz's. While driving his parent's van and holding a cup of roadside coffee baking ever so raunchily in the afternoon Wisconsin sun, Furman took a sip of the foul tasting brew.
"Ew," he gurgled, "I can't do it," he wretched. "I usually eat lunch between noon and one and then dinner between six and seven," Ezra said. He admitted openly to having never eaten a pickle. I didn't watch the victim of famine take a bite of anything but the neon green tips of his convenient store shades.
As Ezra drove with his skinny white body in a shirt with "I Know It's Over" lyrics scribbled in Sharpie across the chest, I sat with a hidden grin, cloaked in my green The Queen Is Dead shirt as "It's so easy to laugh, its to easy to hate, it takes guts to be gentle and kind" came from the mouth of the Moz.
"Oh wow," Furman said, looking down at his ragged apparel and NOT at the road like a good driver. "I never even realized that before, that it's this song and we're listening to it" he said with a smile. "That's kind of weird," he says. "I still have never even heard Strangeways Here We Come but officially The Strokes are my favorite band."
After the long trek from Minnesota brought us to the land of Lincoln, the need for instant energy was maddening. Furman jokingly mentioned that he wished to score some uppers. After the laughter subsided, I wondered and then finally asked him, "Ezra do you even know what uppers are?" He thought about it for a moment, slumping down into the back seat and from behind the safety of those dark sunglasses he hit me with, "I guess it means a delicious sandwich."
A mirror image of the introverted genius reflected in the early years of Morrissey or Stipe, Ezra Furman's subtle sex appeal is deeply hidden beneath his whimsical shyness, buried well under his endless allure and nervously pulsating down in the bottommost holdings of his passionate body, where the 21-year-old's truest wealth is just beginning to be mined.
"I haven't written a song in two months since we left on this summer tour," the screwball told me. While trying to find the perfect explanation for his lack of inspiration, his gentle face cringed as the overworked synapses of his sparkling brain franticly attempted to articulate some poetic reason. He mumbled something about "lack of placid tranquility" then spaced out to discomforting silence which brimmed with slight anger at the fact that the words which rang so clear in his head were heard muffled and distorted by the deaf ears of mine. Indeed, the spastic traveling of picaresque verbiage humming in the vast canals of Ezra Furman's mind is often accepted best through his quirky songs rather than his yet to be fluent prose.
Ezra is nothing more than and cannot be anything but, Ezra, the nice Jewish boy from Evanston Illinois who bursts into our reality the moment he heroically combusts on stage.
"We must go there. There are many people that I must hug," he said of his childhood home in the North Chicago suburb of Evanston, a destination that led the band an hour away from their scheduled load in time of seven p.m.
At his Shangri La just near the Dempster stop on the purple line, Furman's hospitable family squeezed a giant poncho of affection around their son in the special way that evades the evils that consumed Joan Benet Ramsey's parents.
Furman, even though he quipped about becoming an English teacher by saying, "I think that I'd want to teach in my own school," couldn't stray from the arts if was written in the Torah to do so. This quirky kid is a jewel amongst pyrite with a voice that comes along once every four years like a new President or a college education.
If the band were to bust, I could easily see Job, Adam and Jahn putting down their electric equipment and picking up a copy of the Wall Street Journal to lay on top of their quarterly stock reports while on vacation in Maui after a "good year at the office."
In a moment of careless candor, seconds before the band's big homecoming fiesta that culminated the end of the 2007 tour and the release of the band's debut album, Job the bass player says "its almost like this show is already over. That's the way I feel about it, like it doesn't even matter."
After shooting a bent look of confusion back at Job, Ezra said, "Oh I strongly disagree." He was visibly frazzled before the gig, anxiously checking and rechecking his set list, as if memorizing for the big exam. This subtle lack of direction or dedication or determination of the band as a whole is the equivalent of a sinister plague slithering into a den of smiling babies and wanting to sink its venomous fangs into the necks of four future somethings.
With legions of family, friends and supporters in Chicago elevating Furman's rising ability to affectionately annihilate, I witnessed a tremendous shock of the future, a quick smidgeon of tomorrow, which portrayed these tykes as acoustic-folk-blues-rock's new-new cover children. He, as they say, has it. He writes the songs, penned and recorded a whopper album, looks like a young Dylan and bays like a Mountain Goat. All of the vital ingredients for the making of a star are in the pot and ready for the mix. So what's next for Ezra Furman and The Harpoons?
For nine flimsy months the boys will hit books instead of bongs with ankles chained to the halls of Tufts University in Boston, pigeonholing them into a small performance radius to penetrate - Boston, D.C., Philly, Buffalo, and New York.
In addition to earning those sheepskin parchments, I hope they also graduate from the frat dude date rape circus which fails to remain a novel lifestyle past the age of twenty-one. Adolescents such as The Harpoons I hung with made it a team effort to incessantly drag their feet when they walked, mumble their sentences when they talked and obsessively deny the reality that "all this" is their job.
Indeed there are no specific dress codes and the location of the office changes nightly, but what is most essential is the importance of being able to communicate with alarming new foreigners - yucky disc jockeys, lusty groupies, uncoordinated photographers, slimy booking agents, bumbling managers, hibernating record executives - and be able execute powerful decisions with a cement confidence that will determine their own outcome in this pell-mell adventure.
Nice as they are, these adorable lads are in dire straits of a striking sting from a syringe the size of the Seattle space needle that will flood limitless amounts of energy, passion, and commitment into the immaculate veins of these intelligent goofs as if by a dude named Ahab.
Faceless record labels and managers and musicians will whirl about like ideas for songs to a diehard writer like Furman. The vision for the future incarnation of his bubbling embryo of greatness, however magnificent or whacked, belongs solely to him. Only he and his current confidants can type their topsy-turvy future with barbs of flesh piercing confidence in order to accurately spear the intestines of this planet with the mastery of four ripened harpoons.
It takes a moment for the flames gurgling below the infernal surface of Ezra Furman and The Harpoons to emerge like butterflies from a volcanic cocoon. Is this band intent on setting the hands of fate forward and establishing their own destiny or are they too busy lollygagging in the moment, man, like, just chilling out and waiting to see what happens down the road, man?
Looking at my Gucci it's about that time. How long, tell me how long, tell me how long, tell me how long?
Flashback 1997. Miami. Maladjusted tour. Surprise looks when we were shocked and amazed to discover not one, but two Smiths songs ("Paint A Vulgar Picture" & "Shoplifters") in the set. Flash forward one decade later to Spokane Washington of all places, where I witnessed the most intimate and inimitable Morrissey concert of all time.
I arrived in Spokane, on the east side of the Evergreen State, 4-hours after speeding away from Seattle in my uninsured Ford Focus. The gig was originally booked at the grandiose INB Performing Arts Center, but the demand for Moz on the eastern part of the Wash was anything but overwhelming, so the fanatics were herded into a smaller pen, built to hold 1500. Listen to me now - by my head count there were only 300 bodies in the room. It were as if Morrissey graciously agreed to play a Make-A-Wish show for me and 299 other party patients affected with terminal Moz fever. You couldn't have imagined the fright in the air as we diehards fluttered like Ritalin butterflies in fear of a short set or abrupt cancellation. The excitement kept us paralyzed with anticipation. Strangeways, there we were.
In the back of the building, at around 3:30, I locked into a conversation with this fellow named Brian Bateman, who flew in from Boise, Idaho. Moz guitarist Boz Boorer recently signed Brian's stub and spilled the beans of a giant black bus with a Florida license plate that left about twenty-minutes ago to retrieve the singer from his secluded retreat. Frantically, almost as if on cue, Brian speaks out of the corner of his excited mouth, "oh my god here comes the black bus." I quickly grabbed my Olympus camera as Brian cemented himself in the pathway of our idol. Walking a pace in front of us and heading into the sound check, gliding on a wave of class, came Steven Patrick Morrissey.
At 8 p.m. Kristeen Young and her drummer "Baby" Jeff White greeted the cold, quaint crowd with the surefire ice breaker, "Hello Spokandy." I have great respect for Young, whose face resembled Bjork and whose yowl clawed crazier than PJ Harvey, as she belted out her impressive thrust of energy while fearlessly tangling with an intoxicated heckler. "What's your name?" the sloshy waster yelled. When Young pointed to that violent keyboard of hers, which bore her name in sparkly silver lettering, the drunken dolt admitted "I can't read." We, the antsy partygoers and I, let it ride. Then, like the reveal of a bummer narcotics officer, the saucey stinkpot shits all over our celebration cake when he belts this out; "we love you Tori Amos." The tsunami of groans almost caused Young's eyes to flood. Ever the professional, whose hands were attractively held captive in the plastic holders of a 6-pack which were clipped together but a series of close pins, Young took a deep breath, and let the pain momentarily subside. From there the set was even more vitriolic and fierce. I was close enough to see that the vixen is a shaver. I want more of her.
Shortly after 9 a series of Moz-selected videos began to roll, including one foreign music show that was blessed by a fabulous performance of "Looking For A Kiss" from The New York Dolls. A British female voice over began spouting off free association words. Morrissey comes out in chocolate brown shirt and pumpkin tie. Matt Walker, the power sticker, skips into the sickening drum intro of "The Queen Is Dead" and the music critic melted into a screaming, sweating, sobbing blob of a boy. Here is what you will remember for the rest of my life.
During the fourth song of the set, towards the end of "Disappointed," just before the audience screams "no," Morrissey kneels down and with eyes bluer than the sunniest day, he clutched my lucky hand. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, then the defibrillator paddles brought me back to life.
As the thump of lightning shattered down into the heart of "Life Is A Pigsty," Morrissey lay down on the stage, on his back with feet up on the drum riser, and while the green light illuminated the keyboardist on the far right, Mozzer gradually humped the open air until the staggering ignition of "How Soon Is Now?" The old man, who at 47 doesn't appear to be getting off the stage any time soon, continuously joked behind the good natured attempt at a southern accent. "Where is everybody on a humdinger of a Saturday night in Spokane? Are they out hunting? We should go hunt the hunters." I felt that he was in high spirits despite the punch his ego must have felt, especially since the Los Angeles date of this "Greatest Hits" tour, just sold 17,500 tickets.
Oddly enough, it was during "I Just Want To See The Boy Happy," when Moz threw his third shirt of the evening, a long-sleeve dark blue number, right into my arms. Did I mention that I was front fucking row with 299 stark mad partygoers behind me?! Seconds before he threw it I clearly remember explaining to myself, "Ok Anfinsen, he's going to throw that shirt, and when he throws that shirt, you are going to jump your boney white ass as high as the sky will allow and while you are up there you better pray to god that you come down with that shirt," I explained to myself, "or else you oughtn't not come down at all."
As that sweaty parasol of blue descended, I leaped like a Gazelle and sure as smoldering hell I snatched that shirt, leaving Morrissey without a stitch to wear. Upon landing, my too good to be true body was smothered by avalanche of hunger. Those wolves pounced on my salty flesh. Kicks were felt against my skull but the pain failed to derail my steam rolling smile. My lucky hands had the bulk of the shirt as my new nemesis, the girl with the merciless claws, held the right sleeve of the blue shirt hostage. Those next few minutes were filled with a violence that was neither kind nor appropriate. And I took that time, along with scratches and slaps, to explain to myself, "Ok Anfinsen, you are a thirty-year old man, and right now you are the floor of a night club wrestling a woman over a damp article of clothing."
At the very end of the extremely brilliant set, just after Morrissey belted out this twisted line, "Spokane, my face is leaving in 10 minutes, and you'd better be on it," a pin size hole in the dam popped, releasing a stream of loonies onto the right hand side of the stage. A rush and a push and the small girl next to me saw her chance. We boosted this tiny person up to the top of the guard rail which she bravely leaped from. When she landed on the stage, she didn't realize how mighty of a force gravity truly is, but she found out very quick as she plummeted painfully down onto the floor. Things appeared to be broken. Above the screaming amps and wailing fans, I could hear her writhing in agony. We all felt her pain, including Morrissey who showed a great deal of concern as she was carried away.
When the sharply dressed boys evacuated the torched stage, flame-throwing guitarist Jesse Tobias chucked a handful of yellow picks. One stuck to my shoe like glamorous glue and another other one was quickly snatched and given to one of those cool kids from Boise. Then, like sample day at the Amore store, I gave free love to everyone. High-fived Moz's security guard, bear hugged the merch guy, and lip smacked the sweet cheek of the 50-year old gal who told me that besides Morrissey, her favorite part was watching me in total awe.
Around one in the morning, atop the naked mountain highways of Central Washington, a big black bus with a Florida license plate, like two lovers entwined, passed me by. With a face full of bleary eyes, deaf ears, and indestructible smile, I calmly explained to myself, "Ok Anfinsen, your favorite musician in the history of life, the greatest artist that you will ever experience, this charming man that made your hand smell like an expensive brand of Old Brit Spice, is on the bus directly next to you, on a deserted North American highway, in the middle of this storybook night and you'll probably never see him again, oh, not until the next time."
MORRISSEY
May 5, 2007
Spokane, WA
Queen Is Dead
First Of The Gang To Die
You Have Killed Me
Disappointed
Youngest Was The Most Loved
All You Need Is Me
Ganglord
National Front Disco
Lucky Lisp
The Boy With The Thorn In His Side
Irish Blood, English Heart
I Will See You In Far Off Places
Everyday Is Like Sunday
Let Me Kiss You
Life Is A Pigsty
How Soon Is Now?
In The Future When All Is Well
I Want To See The Boy Happy
Encore:
You're Gonna Need Someone On Your Side
The decemberists
Behind a jubilant dance of fanciful lyrics, bountiful arrangements, dreamboat pop chords, traditional Irish authenticity, and endless supply of oddball instruments, no other band around tickles tiny hairs on human ears better than rock and roll’s cutest and cleverest outfit, The Decemberists.A glimmering new 10-song, hour long disc, [The Crane Wife] is an adventure through the mind of Meloy, whose interest in bayonets, rivers, wars, butchers, crime, and love, shine through like a enchanting universe that can only found when listening.
On October 3, 2006 the Portland Oregonions shed their independent skin, formerly sheathed in the Kill Rock Stars, as they bravely leaped aboard the major label vessel to such brain twisting music makers as Beastie Boys, Coldplay, and cross town neighbors The Dandy Warhols, landing firmly on the deck of Capitol Records. One of the stipulations of the blood parchment deal was that the band retain creative control on everything from their quirky publicity photos, intricate art work, or double/single ply toilet paper on the tour bus.“I think that a lot of what informed the decision to move to a major label was that we did have a foundation that we built ourselves that I don’t think a major label could have fucked with,” says the group’s mouthpiece and main vein Colin Meloy. “[Capitol] recognized that we had built something on our own that was working , and there was really no sense in changing it.”
Having snatched up heavy gobs of dream love around the world with the gaily addictive sounds found on three full-length spinners (Castaways And Cutouts, Her Majesty The Decemberists,Picaresque) and two EPs (5 Songs, The Tain) the leap into the corporate unknown felt seems natural and deserving of these hard-working artists, like some blinding signal call to the great big time.
“I think that there was a certain feeling that we had to really attack this recording with as much confidence and aplomb as possible,” Meloy explains. “Just because we did feel that we really needed to prove to our fans and people who have been coming to our shows and buying our records that we are still doing things on our own terms. As a consequence, I think the record comes across of being a little more sure of itself.”
The major label debut offering, to label slime, industry geeks and dying breath fans alike, is The Crane Wife, produced by longtime friend and collaborator, Death Cab For Cutie’s Chris Walla and Tucker Martin. This glimmering new 10-song, hour long disc is an adventure through the mind of Meloy, whose interest in bayonets, rivers, wars, butchers, crime, and love, shine through like a enchanting universe that can only found when listening.
“Because of Chris’ prior commitments to Death Cab, we really only spent about a month with him in the studio. By now, we sort of know how each other works. He knows how far to push us and also when to stop pushing us. The rest of the time belonged to Tucker Martin, who really made it happen.”
In between recording albums, covering Morrissey songs for bootleg EPs, or spending time with his new child, the Montana native often tours these United States with a minimal arsenal of coke bottle specs, voice, and acoustic guitar.
“At times on the solo tours, I feel lonely on stage and the arrangements feel naked. I miss being able to feel like a tight unit performing these songs. But on the other hand, there is a certain freedom afforded as a solo performer. You can talk as much as you want for better or for worse, and not feel like you are holding anyone up. [You can also] change songs mid-set. There is a lot of freedom there.”
From the intimate Chicago or Seattle performances that I have permanently downloaded in my memory bank, Meloy is constantly exuding a beam of attractive charm that clings to your stimulator like a air powered squeeze pump. While babbling quippy non-sequitors or detailing explanations of a song’s detailed history, he always seems to say, or always seems to play, some note of mysterious genius that acts as nitrous to the swooning masses.
Rout Of The Patagons is the name of The Decemeberists 2006 tour, which I drooled over on opening night on October 17, 2006 in the band’s hometown of Portland. Amongst the grab bag of good time treats were a hocus pocus mix of album sweets, unknown delights, and endless batch of new favorites found on The Crane Wife. The nearly two hour jolt of sweaty bliss that licked me dry, stuck like bubble gum cement to the stretchy numbers “The Crane Wife 1 & 2” and “The Island: Come & See/The Landlord’s Daughter/You’ll Not Feel The Drowning,” as well as the cheery pop blasts “O’ Valencia,” “Yankee Bayonet (I Will Be Home Then),” and “The Perfect Crime #2."
“[Because we’re] playing bigger, less intimate places now, ticket prices have inevitably gone up, we feel like we need to put on the best show possible,” explains Meloy. “We need to put on the best show that we possibly can and do everything to make it interesting and entertaining.”
Drenched in the reality of a smashing new record, European world tour scheduled for 2007, impossibly vast licensing opportunities, and unlimited support from a hallmark imprint, The Decemberists appear to be valiantly riding into a fanstastical tale of suspense and joy, like a song only Colin Meloy could imagine.
Let's Get Out Of This Terrible Sandwich Shop: Rock On A Roll With Comedy Chips
by JASON ANFINSEN
From the ballbag of the Chicago comedy scene comes Let's Get Out Of This Terrible Sandwich Shop, an indie rock express of pop chords, hilarious sketches, and adorable personas. What started as a one-man-band dream of shop manager Tony Mendoza, who self-released the quirky crew’s first 3-song 7" Hatchet on Mimosa Enterprises, has now become a glorious reality with band member and employees, Thea Lux on guitar/vocals, and Joanna Buese on bass/kazoogle (Editor’s Note: That’s right, kazoogle). In addition to kooky instruments and playful demeanor, The Shop makes themselves even more peculiarly unique by having a cat in the band. "The cat is usually under the weather," sighs Mendoza (vocals/drums/farfisa). "He’s there for moral support, and we feed him the test sandwiches that we are working on."
All three members of this charming trio have a lengthy performance history with celebrated Chicago theater groups like Annoyance Productions, Sirens, Los Shut Up, and 58 (an official selection to the 2006 New York Fringe Festival written by Mendoza). Each member of the group is capable of writing a catchy tune, silly joke, or committing to the outlandish absurdity of their hilarious and sometimes messy live extravaganzas. "We want people to come to our shows and see something funny and entertaining. We want you to laugh," says Mendoza.
Taking inspiration from oddball popsters like They Might Be Giants and Ween, as well as eclectic outfits like Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band and Jan and Dean, Let’s Get Out Of This Terrible Sandwich Shop combines classic surf pop with dreamboat harmonies and screwball lyrics, which are fueled by a vintage farfisa organ for an FDA-approved rock delicacy. Visualize the sound of The Beach Boys having the All American slapped out of em’ by The Misfits. The Shop’s 8-track EP was released Spring 2006 on the Chicago/Idaho imprint, Roydale Recording Company Corporation Inc., and is currently available for purchase on ITunes. The band also independently pressed a limited amount of CD’s which feature original artwork and photos. More sandwiches are in the freezer, waiting to be thawed out, heated up, and served to the starving masses later in the year.
With no real category to file these funtime cutiepies into, there is an obvious fear [for the band] of being pigeonholed as a disposable joke band like GWAR or Tenacious D. "We’re very fearful of everything. We try to stay indoors a lot and watch FOX News before we do a gig," jokes Mendoza. "We’re trying to juggle comedy while still retaining integrity in our music." Whimsically dark lyrics, like, "The tweaker sketching Satan breaks the tip off of his ballpoint pen," from the infectious tune "Earthquake," or, "You’re going to cut up a cadaver and find a prize inside," from "Amanda" add a refreshing zest of flavor to each freshly baked sandwich on the nutritious menu of bits, skits, and clever wits. "We’re trying to do silly stuff that we think is funny, weird, and goofball but still… might have a touch of class," laughs Mendoza.
Tony, Thea, Joanna, and their sick cat, are saying yes to all possibilities with their audio comedy experiment, which utilizes a golden rule of improvisation. With a solid stream of encouraging press (Chicago Sun-Times, Time Out Chicago, The Onion), repeat airplay on college and commercial radio stations across the country, and growing fan base of sammitch lovers, Let’s Get Out Of This Terrible Sandwich Shop is in prime position to take their adventure to unimagined bounds. "I just want to travel, see the world, play weird shows, and make more art," explains Mendoza. "I can’t do anything else."
All three members of this charming trio have a lengthy performance history with celebrated Chicago theater groups like Annoyance Productions, Sirens, Los Shut Up, and 58 (an official selection to the 2006 New York Fringe Festival written by Mendoza). Each member of the group is capable of writing a catchy tune, silly joke, or committing to the outlandish absurdity of their hilarious and sometimes messy live extravaganzas. "We want people to come to our shows and see something funny and entertaining. We want you to laugh," says Mendoza.
Taking inspiration from oddball popsters like They Might Be Giants and Ween, as well as eclectic outfits like Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band and Jan and Dean, Let’s Get Out Of This Terrible Sandwich Shop combines classic surf pop with dreamboat harmonies and screwball lyrics, which are fueled by a vintage farfisa organ for an FDA-approved rock delicacy. Visualize the sound of The Beach Boys having the All American slapped out of em’ by The Misfits. The Shop’s 8-track EP was released Spring 2006 on the Chicago/Idaho imprint, Roydale Recording Company Corporation Inc., and is currently available for purchase on ITunes. The band also independently pressed a limited amount of CD’s which feature original artwork and photos. More sandwiches are in the freezer, waiting to be thawed out, heated up, and served to the starving masses later in the year.
With no real category to file these funtime cutiepies into, there is an obvious fear [for the band] of being pigeonholed as a disposable joke band like GWAR or Tenacious D. "We’re very fearful of everything. We try to stay indoors a lot and watch FOX News before we do a gig," jokes Mendoza. "We’re trying to juggle comedy while still retaining integrity in our music." Whimsically dark lyrics, like, "The tweaker sketching Satan breaks the tip off of his ballpoint pen," from the infectious tune "Earthquake," or, "You’re going to cut up a cadaver and find a prize inside," from "Amanda" add a refreshing zest of flavor to each freshly baked sandwich on the nutritious menu of bits, skits, and clever wits. "We’re trying to do silly stuff that we think is funny, weird, and goofball but still… might have a touch of class," laughs Mendoza.
Tony, Thea, Joanna, and their sick cat, are saying yes to all possibilities with their audio comedy experiment, which utilizes a golden rule of improvisation. With a solid stream of encouraging press (Chicago Sun-Times, Time Out Chicago, The Onion), repeat airplay on college and commercial radio stations across the country, and growing fan base of sammitch lovers, Let’s Get Out Of This Terrible Sandwich Shop is in prime position to take their adventure to unimagined bounds. "I just want to travel, see the world, play weird shows, and make more art," explains Mendoza. "I can’t do anything else."
