Monthly Archives: August 2012
This week marks the third anniversary of the launch of TWBITW. The traditional third anniversary gift, in case you’re wondering, is leather. Thanks in advance.
Actually, we like to celebrate anniversaries around here with two things: The consumption of booze (although let’s face it, we celebrate everything with the consumption of booze) and the addition to The Weird List of a classic artist. Last year, it was Primus; the year before that, it was Parliament-Funkadelic. This year, we’d like to finally make a whole shit-ton of you readers happy by belatedly inducting one Frank Vincent Zappa into our hallowed halls of weirdness. Welcome, Frank! Your arrival is long overdue, we know.
Full disclosure: Although I’ve come to appreciate him in small doses, I never was much of a Frank Zappa fan. Way back in high school, I knew a kid who owned a copy of Joe’s Garage, and he would occasionally play it for us with all the usual Zappa-head exhortations: “The guitar on this track will blow your mind,” “The rhythm changes on this part are nuts,” “Check it out—this whole song is about sausage!” I wish I could say he eventually won the rest of us over, but honestly, we all just shrugged and went back to our U2 records.
So despite being the keeper of a weird band blog, I’m not really the best person to expound on the weirdness of Zappa’s colossal ouevre, which encompasses more than 60 albums and a mind-bending mishmash of rock, jazz, funk, doo-wop, classical and avant-garde tape loop and sound collage experiments, sometimes all of the same album and always shot through with a surreal sense of humor that made it hard to tell when he was trying to make a point and when he was just fucking around.
Still, I will endeavor to enumerate just a few of the many, many reasons why Frank Zappa not only deserves to be on The Weird List—he should probably be the patron saint of this whole damn blog:
- At the age of 22, he played a bicycle as a musical instrument on the Steve Allen Show. Yes, video of this exists.
- In 1968, at the height of the Flower Power era, he and his band the Mothers of Invention released an album called We’re Only in It for the Money that was basically a giant fuck-you to hippie culture.
- He is the inventor of a recording technique called “xenochrony,” in which two different studio takes done in entirely different tempos, keys and/or time signatures are merged together to jarring effect. You can hear a good example of it in
this track. (Reader Waffenspiel referred us to this later track, which is actually a better example.)
- He ran a pair of independent record labels called Bizarre and Straight. Among the artists signed to them was this guy. Also this guy. Oh, and Alice Cooper.
- At a time when most people were too chickenshit to openly criticize Scientology, he openly mocked it with his made-up religion, Appliantology, led by a con artist named L. Ron Hoover, on Joe’s Garage. Had I known all this back in high school, I might have been more inclined to dig Joe’s Garage.
- This was his only Top 40 hit in America.
- He helped give the world Steve Vai.
- His most controversial work was a 1984 rock musical called Thing-Fish, which has been variously condemned as being racist, sexist, homophobic and just in general bad taste. Here, judge for yourself. When he couldn’t get the musical produced on Broadway as he originally intended, Zappa instead partially staged the whole thing for a photo shoot for Hustler magazine. (All of this helped set the stage for Zappa’s anti-censorship campaign against the Parents Music Resource Center, Tipper Gore’s lobbying group that prompted the advent of parental advisory stickers. Zappa’s Senate testimony against the PMRC ranks among the most entertaining performances of his career.)
- For much of the last decade of his life, he composed and recorded almost entirely on the Synclavier.
- The same year he released Joe’s Garage (1979), he also released albums called Orchestral Favorites and Sheik Yerbouti. Yes, Orchestral Favorites featured a full orchestra. No, Sheik Yerbouti was not a disco record.
I could go on, but you get the idea. No one colored outside the lines like Frank Zappa.
“I never set out to be weird,” Zappa told his hometown paper, The Baltimore Sun, in 1986. “It was always other people who called me weird.” Don’t all the best weirdos say that? (And in case we haven’t made this clear by now: Around these parts, we consider “weird” to be a high form of praise. “Weird” means you’re doing something original and exciting that changes people’s perceptions of what music or art can be. “Weird” should be a badge of fucking honor, not something used to belittle or trivialize an artist’s work. Can someone place explain that to this guy? Thanks.)
I’ll leave you, selfishly, with a song that’s not Zappa’s weirdest by a longshot. It just happens to be my favorite. After all, it’s our anniversary! Crank it up, and don’t forget to air out those python-skin boots.
P.S. As of Aug. 14th, Frank Zappa’s entire catalog is now available on iTunes. Frank would’ve been totally down with it.
Monster noise duo Lightning Bolt kicked off their big U.S. tour, and to celebrate, they released a new track from their forthcoming EP, Oblivion Hunter (also the name of a forthcoming mixed drink—I’m still experimenting to get the right ratio of Jager to Everclear). It’s called “King Candy” and you can stream it below via Soundcloud. Turn it up to fuck-the-neighbors levels for maximum effect.
Lightning Bolt’s tour continues tonight in New Orleans, where they’re supposedly playing this place, and will find its way here to L.A. next week for the FYF Fest. Oblivion Hunter comes out Sept. 25th. Our calendars are marked.
We’ve made no secret of the giant man-crushes we have on Deerhoof drummer Greg Saunier, the man who makes it possible to dance your ass off to the Bay Area noise popsters even at their noisiest. So it is with big, googly puppy-dog eyes full of man-love that we present to you this awesome little video filmmaker Vincent Moon shot with Saunier in Hong Kong. It’s just 8 minutes of Saunier walking around the city with a pair of drumsticks, but it’s a hoot.
This is apparently the first of four Deerhoof “solo” videos that will be premiering over the course of the next week on You Ain’t No Picasso. Check back there next week to see what on-camera antics Satomi Matsuzaki, John Dietirich and Ed Rodriguez get up to. There probably won’t be any impromptu back massages like in the Moon/Saunier clip, but with Deerhoof, you never know.
Deerhoof’s next album, Breakup Song, comes out Sept. 4th.
Usually, when we do a Facebook poll, the winner is either a shameless ballot-stuffer (but we love you anyway, Baby Seal Club) or a band that’s so blatantly, hit-you-over-the-head weird that of course everyone had to vote for them (rock on, Radioactive Chicken Heads). But the winner of our latest poll is neither blatant nor, as far as we can tell, ballot-stuffing. They’re just low-key purveyors of some of the creepiest drone music we’ve heard in ages. So meet our latest poll winners: Hanetration. And prepare to be unsettled.
Despite being one of the most blogged-about artists we’ve added to The Weird List in quite some time, we actually know virtually nothing about the person behind Hanetration. We know he (or she) is from England and, uh, that’s about it. No bio, no photos, no nothin’. Even when the mysterious Hanester emailed us a link to his (or her) Bandcamp page, he revealed as little as humanly possible: “Can I point you in the direction of a free EP I’ve put together?” read the email. “Hope you enjoy it. All the best.” And then…poof. Gone back to the misty British backwater from whence he came.
I say “backwater” not so much because I’m assuming Hanetration lives on the moors. This shadowy figure could be working out of a seedy flat in Brixton for all I know. But the vibe conjured by this music is definitely one of blasted heaths, boggy woods and ancient fields laced with Druidic stone circles and werewolf bones. It’s eerie shit, is what I’m saying.
It appears that Hanetration’s entire catalog to date consists of just four songs, all available on a free EP via Bandcamp: “Rex,” “Alarm,” “Rufus” and “Wreck.” Check out “Rex” below and tell me this doesn’t sound like a field recording of some kind of pre-Celtic human sacrifice ritual—or, at the very least, a serious Theraflu overdose.
P.S. Go vote in our next Facebook poll. Take it from us: Passing judgment on other people’s music will fill you with smug satisfaction. (You’ll have to like us first, but you already do, don’t you? Don’t you??)
Between appearing at Stephen Colbert’s StePhest Colbchella ‘012 festival, setting Guinness world records for most shows in 24 hours, releasing 24-hour songs encased in human skulls, and pissing off Erykah Badu, the Flaming Lips have been just about the hardest-working rock band on the planet for the past 12 months. So it should come as no surprise that they apparently have a brand-new studio LP, tentatively titled The Terror, set for release before year’s end. The surprising part is that they’ve managed to do all this despite the fact that, according to frontman Wayne Coyne, drummer/multi-instrumentalist Steven Drozd has been battling drug addiction for at least some of this incredibly prolific period.
In an interview with Rolling Stone, Coyne revealed that Drozd was “in a bad way” for much of the recording of The Terror as well as the band’s most recent, collaborative album, The Flaming Lips and Heady Fwends. The article doesn’t specify what drug(s) Drozd was hooked on, but portrays the troubled Lips member as spending much of his time holed up in a separate recording studio, writing what Coyne describes as “horribly creepy” songs, some of which will find their way onto the new album.
Coyne tells Rolling Stone that his bandmate has fully recuperated and is “better now than ever.” Hopefully he’ll soon be able to tell his own version of what went down—because, although we’re assuming Coyne talked to Rolling Stone with Drozd’s full permission, there’s still something a bit creepy about using your friend and bandmate’s addiction problems to, in essence, talk up how intense your next record is going be.
There’s no music from The Terror available yet as far as we know. But in the meantime, here’s a video of Wayne Coyne and Stephen Colbert crowd-surfing in matching giant hamster balls. Enjoy.
It’s been awhile since we heard anything from Matmos, the electronica duo who earned a spot on The Weird List for their early experimental albums based on sampling the sounds of Civil War-era instruments and surgical procedures. They’ve released lots of great music since then, but never really outdone themselves in the weirdness department. Until now.
For their latest project, Drew Daniel and M.C. Schmidt have attempted to build their music around a series of experiments in telepathy. Sticking test subjects in a sensory deprivation chamber, they’ve then attempted to have Daniel telepathically transmit “the concept of the new Matmos record,” then recorded the subjects as they describe whatever sounds or images they may be experiencing. If this sounds batshit crazy…well, it probably is. But no crazier than turning the sounds of a bone-saw into a minimal techno groove.
Anyway, Matmos just released the first track from this experiment, “Very Large Green Triangles,” which you can hear below. It’s one of three songs that will be featured on an EP due out this October called The Ganfeld EP, to be followed by a full-length album, The Marriage of True Minds, sometime in early 2013. Befitting its source material, The Ganfeld EP will be available in a deluxe version that includes a pair of Incase headphones and the same little sensory-deprivation goggles those test subjects wore.
No word yet on whether Daniel and Schmidt will tour in support of The Marriage of True Minds. But if they do, we really hope there’s a part of the show where they just stare at the audience very intently in total silence for 10 minutes. Then announce that they just played “California Rhinoplasty.”
Yeah, we missed Gathering of the Juggalos again. Also, Insane Clown Posse is suing the FBI. Wait, what?
It’s true: Another year has passed and Andy and I have once again failed to cross “Fuck shit up at the Gathering of the Juggalos” off our bucket list. So we can’t bring you any first-hand accounts of the 13th installment of GOTJ…although let’s face it, even if we had gone, we probably would have fried too many brain cells to tell you what actually happened. We’re not so good with the whole “maintain journalistic objectivity” thing. It’s not really how we roll.
But here’s what we can tell you, thanks to the awesome live-vicariously-through-others engine that is the Internet: ICP’s set “dazzled fans“…or at least doused them with the expected large quantities of Faygo. People got arrested. Some jackass got his car destroyed when he was caught stealing shit from people’s tents. (Seriously, people, do not fuck with the Juggalos.) Oh, and ICP announced that they’re going to sue the FBI for classifying Juggalos as a “criminal gang.” Wait, what?
I know both of those last two things sound completely insane, but both are completely true: The FBI really has classified Juggalos as a gang, and Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope really did announce at GOTJ that they are…well, not suing the FBI just yet, but seriously looking into it, arguing that their fans are being wrongfully charged as gang members and excessively punished for everything from minor drug possession to parole violations. And you know what? We’d say they have a pretty good fucking point.
For more on how ICP are gonna start Sticking It to The Man, go to JuggalosFightBack.com. And all bullshit aside…more power to ’em. Because if wearing clown paint and listening to rap music and saying “Whoop! Whoop!” a lot is enough to get you classified as a gang member in America these days…well, then we really have lost our collective shit.
It’s another first here at Weird Band HQ: our first-ever album review. We’ve got Christeene’s Waste Up Kneez Down cued up and ready to go under the knife of our razor-sharp critical acumen. You ready, Christeene? More importantly, are we?
Remember about 10 years ago when “electroclash” was all the rage? We’re gonna describe Christeene’s sound as “electrotrash.” Her mix of filthy lyrics and throbbing dance grooves definitely owes a debt to electroclash’s more provocative artists, like Peaches and Princess Superstar, but she’s bringing her own Southern swag to the party. Also, she’s actually a dude in slutwave drag, which adds a layer of kink and gender confusion to her music that electroclash’s nasty girls couldn’t pull off so handily. (“Pull off so handily,” by the way, will only sound like a possible sexual double entendre to you if you haven’t heard this record. After you’ve heard it, it sounds like a line from Sesame Street.)
The album starts strong with a trio of down ‘n’ dirty dance tracks, of which “Fix My Dick” is the clear highlight—in part because it is, lyrically, the lowlight. “I’ll let you chew on my crabcakes, the hell with the first date, just slide me the beefsteak” is actually one of the least gross lines in the song. But “I need a woman gonna eat my dirty shame” might be the most telling. Christeene is an equal-opportunity hoe-bag who will tangle men and women alike in her cum-caked fishnets. But it’s the women who make her feel filthier.
We’re not big fans of the album’s next track, a lilting ballad called “Workin’ on Grandma,” in part because we still have no idea what the fuck it’s about. Is it literally about Christeene’s grandma? And why is she so desperate to convince grandma to stay? Is the rent tight? Is “workin’ on grandma” some kind of gay sex thing we’re unfamiliar with? Maybe Christeene will enlighten us one day.
“39 34 39,” an ode to Christeene’s (wo)manly curves, sounds like a cross between Prince’s “Dirty Mind” and DeBarge. No, seriously. Just imagine El DeBarge crooning “My pussy ain’t poppin’ for free” and you’ll see what we mean.
“Big Shot,” by contrast, comes on as cyber-sleek as Depeche Mode, until Christeene staggers into frame and starts wet-humping the Korg synthesizers. Violator? I hardly know her! (Yeah, we just made a Depeche Mode joke. How ya like us now?)
“Tropical Abortion” might be the most tasteless song on the album, which is saying a lot. That’s probably why Christeene and her main producers, JJ Booya and Powerhammer, dressed it up in a faux-Caribbean New Wave romp worthy of…well, maybe not Gloria Estefan. Billy Ocean?
After the throwaway “Oprah Angelz” comes “Bustin’ Brown,” a slow-grind Southern rap ode to “breakin’ laws in your behind.” Yes, it’s a sodomy jam for the ladies, complete with a critique of all us “straight motherfuckers” who don’t know how to do it right. (No comment, Christeene.) This is the part where she rhymes “Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?” with “You fuckin’ like you tryin’ to kill us.” Which might be our favorite part of the whole album. Until….
Sigh. How do we explain the awesomeness that is “Tears From My Pussy”? We can’t, so we’ll just let you hear it for yourself. This is right up there with Beck’s “Debra” in the annals of R&B parody songs that are better than 99% of actual R&B songs. It has a fucking children’s choir, for fuck’s sake! Singing about pussies! (Relax, they probably thought they were singing about cats. Also, our carefully trained critics’ ears tell us it may not be a real children’s choir.)
Musically, “African Mayonnaise” isn’t the strongest song on the album, but lyrically, it’s the closest the man behind Christeene, Paul Soileau, comes to spelling out Christeene’s agenda. “I am your new celebrity,” goes the song’s refrain, “I am your new America/I am the piece of filthy meat y’all take home and treat to yourself.” And later: “Come take a piece of me and burn it in your back room.” It’s his/her sneaky way of reminding us that, as foul as Christeene’s sleazeball anthems can get, all she’s really doing is reflecting our increasingly depraved, hypocrisy-ridden culture back at us. Or maybe we’re reading too much into it and she’s just channeling America’s endless parade of talentless fame whores.
Waste Up Kneez Down ends with a surprisingly solemn (by Christeene’s standards, anyway) piano ballad, then a live version of “Tears From My Pussy” featuring what sounds like the world’s most under-rehearsed chamber orchestra. At first, it sounds like a full-blown train wreck, but stay with it until about the 4:30 mark, when a few violins finally find the right key and the whole thing slowly, miraculously, transforms into something kinda beautiful. Sorta like Christeene herself. (See how we did that?)
So, to sum up: If you like your electro-party jams with a queer eye for the pig sty, buy this fucking album. And no, we have no idea what the last sentence means, either, but buy it anyway! Your friends will be amazed, appalled and ultimately delighted when you throw this shit on at your next wine and cheese night.