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Texas Platters
SEPTEMBER 15, 1997: Farewells & Fantasies (Elektra Traditions/Rhino)
Though he was born in El Paso in 1940, there's little about Phil Ochs' music that
says "Texas," other than an affinity in his later recordings for a bit
of country twang. That doesn't matter; we'll take him -- with pride. Ochs, to most,
is a name shrouded in mystery: a folk/protest singer that they think they
heard a song or two by years ago, and if memory serves, was pretty damn good. Odds
are one of the following rings a far-off bell: "I Ain't Marching Anymore,"
"Outside of a Small Circle of Friends," and "Love Me, I'm a Liberal"
-- all familiar, but distantly so. That's pretty much the story of Ochs' life as
a recording artist, too; success constantly eluded him. Still, every album, every
song he wrote was from the heart, a gut-wrenching stab at changing the world from
an idealist who couldn't get a break. Ochs' talent for writing songs was intense,
and his music was often beautiful and usually haunting, but it was inspiration, rather
than craft, that drove him. In the end, after that inspiration had left him and he
faced the fact that the end of the Sixties had proved that protest songs weren't
going to change the world, Ochs joined the ranks of the apathetic the only way
he knew how; by taking his own life in 1976. It would be nice, if ironic, to say
that his recorded legacy is a treasure trove of masterpieces waiting to be savored
from beginning to end, but the sad truth is that his albums run the gamut from rushed-sounding
to stickily over-produced. It's not surprising that radio programmers of the time
didn't know what to make of him, as it takes a few listenings to get past the marred
recordings and into the scarred heart of his songs. It's worth the effort, though,
and this compilation may be your best bet at doing so, as it offers a varied look
at his work, holding most of his essential songs in its three packed CDs. Whether
your distant, nagging memory recalls him as Dylan with a one-track mind, or Leonard
Cohen with a high, whiny voice, Ochs at his best was the equal of either. His death,
and the reasoning behind it, were tragedies; the loss of his music to history would
be a greater one. Hopefully, this solid, extensive compilation will at least forestall
that sad event. URSA MAJOR (Miniature Goat)
Armed with sharp popcorn riffs and sneering wit, Ursa Major turns in a simple
yet luminous design for their fleeting 25-minute debut. Using the groundwork of Anglo
art-damage like Wire and Elastica as a jumping-off point, the local trio combines
urgent, repetitive melodies with snap-shut, no-nonsense rhythm. The bass isn't the
most pronounced element here, but Andy Maguire's undertow approach to the task is
key. Susie Martinez's subtle, snowball-against-a-windshield snare treatment and Pam
Peltz's politely demeaning vocal reading on "Yellow Pages" are two other
conditions that keep you wide awake and itching. "Seventh Heaven" contrasts
a foreboding bridge of drone with a glorious big sky chorus, while "From the
Nursery" closes up shop with playfully demented squeaking on top of an end-of-the-night
hook that gets pounded straight into the ground. Ursa Major starts out with bare
white walls, but the dots and sprinkles of collective personality are what make this
a well-toned, distinguished endeavor.
Melatonin Bullet EP (Sandwich)
This spacerock thing seems like such a friendly movement. It's low-key, not at
all pretentious, and generally stays out of the way of the more brash and attention-hungry
genres like electronica and ska. The image of the quiet, humble bystander may be
why it's so easy to like bands who make this kind of music. From the opening bar
of "Trucker Talk Ch. 1" it's obvious that Transona Five are gonna be gentle
with you -- and they are, holding your hand all the way through to "Trucker
Talk Ch. 4" at the end. Every sound is so fluid that embryonic is the only word
to describe the music and where it takes you. Showing their Velvet roots, the tunes
are not overly orchestrated; they're forged from simple melodies that are repeated
over and over -- deviated from however slightly -- and allowed to build upon themselves,
always coming up just short of the peak. The results are quiet, beautiful, trance-inducing
songs, seven of them, that leave you wanting an eighth.
FLOUNDERS WITHOUT EYES Movin' On
The same qualities that help distinguish Movin' On are ultimately its undoing.
The open-air, mountain jam sound of the band's tight, well-polished groove -- taking
up where the Allman Brothers' "Blue Sky" left off (or any Grateful Dead
performance) -- floats deliciously on the guitar/keyboard/C-3 organ interplay this
Austin seven-piece have been plying on Sixth Street for the past five years. Jenny
Mier's Big Mama vocals, echoed just enough to blend with the wandering psychedelic
wah-wahs of Don Baker and Mitch Merrick, are strong enough to make the vocal contributions
from any of the three guitarists (including bassist Joe Mier) unnecessary, if not
downright annoying. More problematic is the album's 71-minute length, which doesn't
support the group's material, leaving that airy groove to float harmlessly into the
ozone. Certainly, there are worse ways to go (the production, mix, and tones of Movin'
On being impeccable), but when the stand-outs stand up to be counted (the opener
"Red Light," the title track, the beautiful "Buy a Little Time"),
the also-rans ("Wind Blows Cold," "Cold Titty," "South of
the Border") shout 'em down. Flounderhounds will no doubt do the same to this
review.
That's What Daddy Wants (Ark 21)
Wayne the Train could make one hell of a video for "That's What Daddy Wants":
Tales of a playa, "juke joint jumpin" around steel guitar, and "Boogie
Woogie Bugle Boy" trumpets. Get Hype Williams to direct a chorus of nubile fillies
cooing over Hawaiian-shirted Hancock, who's driving around Bee Caves in a deluxe
El Dorado with Bevo XII-size horns on the front, and it's platinum. A hillbilly "Hypnotize."
But oh, can he back it up. Besides some of the best country horn work since "Think
I'll Just Sit Here and Drink," plus a couple of the best highway/train songs
since Bakersfield, That's What Daddy Wants is easily suaver and swankier than
anything from the film Swingers. It's got more grease under its fingernails,
but that's because Hancock, Chris Miller, Dave Biller, Bill Bratcher, Paul Skelton,
producer Lloyd Maines, and a host of others worked their fingers to the bone milking
every last bit of twang and fury from their instruments. Given the way his barn-burning
"Brand New Cadillac" pushes into the red, not to mention the size of the
cash jacuzzi his Ark 21 label lounges in, the Train could be on the cover of Details
in no time. But stars blow up, then burn out. Any song on this album makes clear
Hancock is one hell of a honky-tonker so long as he draws a breath.
(Prestige)
In the jazz world, New Orleans may be known for its long line of trumpet masters,
and Detroit acknowledged for its impeccable pianists, but Texas is the land
of the tenorman. Make no mistake. Down through the years, the Lone Star State has
produced an incredibly rich tradition of Texas tenor players whose big, swaggering,
bluesy sound conjures up images of spacious skies and wide open spaces. In fact,
one of the gems on Texas Tenors, a hardy cross-section of Lone Star sax stylists
culled from the vast archives of Prestige/Riverside Records, is the title track from
the classic album The Sound of the Wide Open Spaces, with Dallasites James
Clay and David "Fathead" Newman locking horns in the grand tradition of
dueling tenors. The compilation does a commendable job of covering all the obvious
bases; indeed, the first four tracks feature, in order, the royalty -- Illinois Jacquet,
Arnett Cobb, Buddy Tate, and Budd Johnson. The really exquisite pleasures, however,
come from hearing lesser-known but still vital saxmen, who provide the gusto and
territorial differentials that link the major players. Fort Worth's King Curtis and
Jessie Powell, San Antonio's Clifford Scott, and Houston's Wild Bill Moore, although
better known in R&B circles, were still consummate jazzmen. Unabashed modernists
Booker Ervin from Denton, and Houstonite Wilton Felder of Jazz Crusader fame never
loose sight of their earthy roots. With this rollicking, blues-drenched collection
being such a joy to listen to, let's hope volume two is on the way.
MILLENNIUM SWING (Satellite Studio)
Two things are apparent from the very first track of Millennium Swing's eponymous
debut: These guys sound a helluva lot like Steely Dan, and they've got the chops
to pull it off. Which is good, because Steely Dan were never afraid to challenge
their listeners, first with a glassy, blue-eyed R&B ballad, then with a trance-inducing
syncopated tune like "Do It Again." Thus, with songs like "Shaking
the Blues" and "Mexican Sunset," Millennium Swing mixes things
up quite a bit in Becker/Fagan fashion. The downside to this is that, at times, this
local group's disc tastes a little too much like Diet Coke; it hit the spot, tasted
okay, and gave you a decent buzz, but somehow you wanted more punch and less sweet.
The playing is tight and the songs well-crafted, but some tunes had too much arrangement.
Instead of adding depth and warmth to the song, the additional strings on "Satellites
and Her" make an otherwise fine tune sound like the theme song from one of Aaron
Spelling's Seventies shows. Thankfully, Andrew Boutot's singing, soulful without
being sappy, compensates for these freshman shortcomings. Even the backup singers,
Sheree Smith and Laquetta Phillips, are excellent, if a bit low in the mix. Millennium
Swing is an above-average debut, but it'll be interesting to see if the group
can develop their own voice in the future.
There Should Be An Entry Here (Ata-Glance)
Like an old psychology text written in a foreign language, the Pilot Ships operate
on the thin, grainy line demarcating cognition and mystery. This collaboration between
members of Monroe Mustang, Stars of the Lid, and the Angels uses subtlety and restraint
to create a Badlands for the ears where desolate, wide open spaces are as important
to meaning as verses and notes. The slowly rotating loops of melody on tunes like
"July 6th" and "Fun" give the quartet plenty of room for organic,
four-track embellishments. Cheree Jetton's delicate, faraway vocals on "A Song
by Your Campfire" evokes shades of both Syd Barrett and Mo Tucker. And then
there's "Looked Over... No Fun Reprise," the 25-minute, more-for-your-money
closing slice of bucolic atmosphere. Not a bad way to end the evening. By focusing
on mood and place rather than narrative, the Pilot Ships belie their surface passivity
by surrounding you with their music. Before you know what's happening, you're a lot
further from shore than you meant to be.
Colors (Verve) GERI ALLEN Eyes in the Back of Your Head (Blue Note)
When one thinks of Ornette Coleman's music it's usually within the context of
either the electrified onslaught of Prime Time or the revolutionary stylings of his
acoustic quartet. In either instance, until recently, the role of piano didn't fit
the equation. That all changed last year with the release of the two Sound Museum
sets in which Geri Allen's piano resulted in a more standard quartet lineup and added
a seemingly new dimension to Coleman's Harmolodic vision. Now come two new ventures
that find the Fort Worth-born saxophone legend teamed in intimate duets with a pair
of pianists. Joachim Kuhn is Coleman's conversationalist on Colors, a live
album recorded last summer in Leipzig, Germany. As anyone familiar with Coleman's
work might surmise, the interplay can often sound more argumentative than cooperative,
but there are some truly beautiful and inspired moments here where saxophone and
piano are superbly complementary. For his part, Coleman's sufficiently feisty on
the one hand, immediately recognizable by his plaintive cry and pet phrasing, but
also quite gentle and melodic on the other. "Passion Cultures" and "Night
Plans" feature some of his most splendid playing to date. Kuhn has never been
my favorite pianist, but he proves a compassionate foil to Coleman's often testy
exuberance. His sometimes stirring solos tend to elicit emotionally charged responses
from his saxophone partner. If for no other reason, the unusual nature of a duet
with piano makes this a worthy addition to the Coleman oeuvre. Seemingly more focused
and intent, perhaps because they are set within the framework of a more varied musical
program, the two piano-saxophone pieces on Geri Allen's Eyes in the Back of Your
Head are startling in the way they stand out in an already outstanding set of
piano-trumpet-percussion combinations. Coleman's voice on these sides is so passionate,
authoritative, and pure as to be almost revelatory. Coleman and Allen have a definite
musical rapport, no doubt stemming from the former's Sound Museum projects.
I find it interesting that the recording was engineered so that the piano and saxophone
come out of separate channels with very little overlap. This tends to accentuate
the individual voices, bringing them into clearer focus while letting the listener's
mind help to create the musical interaction. It's a technique that works extremely
well here in helping assure a level playing field, especially in light of Coleman's
commanding presence even in the company of so formidable a player as Allen. Their
two performances are alone well worth price of admission.
Live at Carnegie Hall (Epic)
Rumor has it that Stevie Ray Vaughan didn't want this album released during his
lifetime, but if there's one thing groups from the Rolling Stones to Rush have proven,
it's that artists shouldn't produce their own live albums. Objectivity is why producers
are hired; when most artists listen to their live performances after the fact, all
they tend to hear is imperfection, meaning that all the listener will then hear are
overdubs -- spelling sterility for all. Nowhere is there a better example of this
than the SRV-produced 1986 disaster Live Alive. Epic's posthumous 1992 release
of In the Beginning, a raw, live broadcast of SRV burning up Steamboat in
1980, has since helped polish the guitarist's tarnished live album legacy, and so
will the new Live at Carnegie Hall. Recorded in 1984, it features Vaughan
running through the material of his heroes, some of which isn't on any other Double
Trouble release ("Letter to My Girlfriend," "C.O.D." and "Iced
Over"). Also unique to SRV's catalogue is the big band sound provided by guests
like Dr. John and the Roomful of Blues Horn Section, as well as a steamy vocal by
Angela Strehli on "C.O.D." Live at Carnegie Hall isn't the posthumous
revelation that Rykodisc's Radio One was for Jimi Hendrix, and it would be
nice to see the SRV estate release something from Vaughan's '89-'90 tour, but neither
is it Live Alive Revived.
This the Trip (Arista Austin)
This record isn't awful, which is noteworthy, because it comes from one of the
most miserable of genres: white-guy wannabe funk/rock. Nonetheless, on Sister 7's
long, long awaited major label debut (remember the SBK deal?), the Austin
quartet comes off polished and lively. The performances are tight, the arrangements
are loose enough to befit the style, and the production is clean. Patrice Pike's
voice, maybe the best thing about this band, is up-front strong without being in-yo-face
annoying. Unfortunately, the album still dead-ends with the inherent problem of going
the funk/rock route. When bands combine these two styles, the best aspects of both
get watered down. On the rock side, there's none of that driving, primal element
that just grabs a listener; "Bottle Rocket" may have some loud bitchin'
guitar, but it lacks that savage component common to everything from "Wild Thing"
to "Smells Like Teen Spirit." On the funk side, there's nothing on This
the Trip that is anything like Bootsy Collins coming in on the one and pushing
the butt-shaking bass. So, no, this album isn't awful, it's just not enough of any
one thing to be really good.
LITTLE JACK MELODY & HIS YOUNG TURKS My Charmed Life (Carpe Diem)
Little Jack Melody's third release is full of gorgeous musical textures and hidden
aural surprises, but that's what happens when you mix Bertold Brecht cabaret commentary
with Tom Waits-style instrumentation. The title track, with its smoky lounge feel,
brags about (pines for?) a life where the "skies are always sunny, jokes always
funny/100% is my share/ My Charmed Life/essentially nonpareil." Another tune,
"At Night You Hear the Trains," with its hawker-meets-space waltz beat,
sounds like Chris Isaak writing the incidental music for a circus episode of Twin
Peaks (after exceeding the recommended dose of codeine cough syrup). Then there's
"Samba Ordinaire" with its delightfully bouncy Brazilian rhythm and punchy
horns, and "Thirty Pieces of Silver," a haunting song with Judas-meets-Faust-meets-your
local grifter lyrics and an appropriately edgy sax solo. But not every tune is a
twisted tale: "Maggie, With Green Eyes," with its sparse, moving piano
and violin line, is a short, emotional song about losing a loved one to life's fate.
Ah yes, what a deliciously crazy world it is. Thank Zeus for circus freaks like Little
Jack Melody & His Young Turks for unfolding it for us.
Ventriloquist Conartist (Framed)jo
You can run along if you were expecting juvenile ruminations on poop in the pants
or hardcore jacking off. Though prurience is still a staple of the Hamicks' overall
offensive, Ventriloquist Conartist focuses solely on the dark, cinematic side
of frontman Bob Taylor's songwriting. This takes longer to sink in than the band's
earlier material, but the not-so-obvious moods conjured by tunes like "Don't
Fall in Love With the Underground" are vaguely appealing like the lightheaded
resignation you feel after going 48 hours without sleep. The two versions of "Statistic
Man" find Taylor groaning and shouting his way through the words as though he
was an inebriated preacher singing at the walls. As Taylor's lyrical persona has
metamorphosed from zit-ridden punk kid to reclusive weird uncle, the rest of the
band has followed his lead by eschewing New Wave minimalism for horror matinee bombast.
The instruments coagulate to form a menacing, brooding sound that occasionally lashes
out at you like a shard of glass. It's a perfect complement to late nights of USA
Network blood and cheesecake with the volume down.
The Way Things Are (IUKA)
Polk, Barton, and Towhead came together thanks to adjoining Kerrville campsites,
and on the duo's debut they've lost none of the intimacy those kinds of situations
inspire. Tastefully embellished by a cast of professionals including Amy Tiven, Scrappy
Jud Newcomb, Rich Brotherton (who also produced the disc), Kristin Dewitt, and Jon
Dee Graham, The Way Things Are flows like a quiet Colorado and unspools like
a dusty memory, with just a hint of irony. Because this album is about the way things
are, of course, like regret (Polk's "I Do Not Ask," Barton's "I Know
You") and realization ("The Way Things Are," "Home of the Brave"),
it's also about the way things were, and the way we wish they were. It's a musically
seamless, consistently touching series of songs that could have come straight from
a Kerrville campfire, and certainly did come straight from Kerry Polk and John Barton's
hearts.
THE ONLYS 1300
I think I've seen them live -- in fact, I'm sure of it. I just can't remember
when. Or where. Or what they sounded like. And after a few swings through 1300,
I still don't know. It depends on what song you're listening to. If it's "Shy,"
then they are Seaweed. If not, that reference is ridiculous. The Onlys wear
their influences on their sleeves, alright, only they've sweated so much during the
playing that the ink has run and it's just a blur. "Touch Without Feeling"
comes about the closest to pinning them down, a rant that falls directly between
Suicidal Tendencies' "Institutionalized" and Pavement's "Conduit for
Sale." That's it... except the preceding song ("Pavement") renders
that comparison useless. Regardless, the coolest song is buried a few minutes beyond
the end of the 11th track. That was the one I heard live. Where the hell was
that?
BLUECANOE Unnumbered (CSW)
After five years (and several name changes) of putting their time into the local
scene, Bluecanoe have just now gotten around to releasing their first CD. And judging
from the results, they've been chomping at the bit for a while. Clocking in at 75
minutes with a whopping 17 cuts, and not one but two "secret" bonus
tracks, Unnumbered could have easily been more overwhelming than entertaining
for a band without the songs -- and more importantly, the variety -- to pull it off.
Fortunately, Bluecanoe isn't hurting for either. Unnumbered is all over the
board when it comes to musical styles without ever straying far from the comfort
of the modern rock couch. Starting off with the vaguely U2-ish wail of "The
Fourteenth Day," they quickly track through the mud of grunge, the fields of
Europop à la XTC, and the streets of New York Talking Heads-style rock
without batting an eye. Amazingly, they manage to keep from getting lost in the sea
of their influences; you never get tipped out of Bluecanoe into the drink of some
odd compilation album -- even though you've certainly got plenty of time in which
to do so.
JOHNNY EDSON
Hobnobbin' With the Hoi Polloi
It's like West Side Story. Prokofiev's "Montagues and Capulets"
pounds on the jukebox as the town cars and pickup trucks file into opposite ends
of the parking lot. The rival crews enter the club apart: fedoras in the front, Stetsons
through the side. Mutters of "city slickers" and "redneck hicks"
rustle as tense fingers grip martini glasses and Lone Star longnecks. One rancher
spies the banker who repossessed half his herd and nudges his buddy. A church deacon's
hands go to his pockets when he spies that kid from the feed store who ruined his
marriage. Suddenly, from the very back, right down the middle of the hardwood dance
floor, strides Johnny Edson. Clad in sharkskin suit and Acme boots, Edson unbuckles
his bulky black case, pulls out a six-string, and calls out a cadence. First he calls
Floyd Domino, Cindy Cashdollar, Gene Elders, and David Sanger to the bandstand, then
Maryann Price, the Studebakers, Bob Meyer, and Mike Mordecai. By night's end, the
deacon is jitterbugging with Charlene from the beauty parlor, the rancher's got his
cows back, and the society doyennes have left their Neiman purses at the bar to two-step
with Wrangler-wearin' ropers. Swingin' sheriff Edson says not a word, packs up his
six-string, and heads back out the door, his work for the evening done.
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© 1995-99 DesertNet, LLC . Austin Chronicle . Info Booth . Powered by Dispatch |
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THE PILOT SHIPS
THE HAMICKS
POLK, BARTON & TOWHEAD
