Ric Todd--- Drawing Lines

Look out! Time warp! As soon as I slipped Ric Todd's Drawing Lines into the CD player it was suddenly the seventies all over again, only better. Those were good days for rock, my friends. Larry the K and I worked at Licorice Pizza in L.A. and San Diego and, man, we were digging the music! We would get shipments in, put on a rocker like, say, the first REO Speedwagon or a Scorpions album, and we would rock the store, bopping heads with an armful of records, heading from section to section restocking the bins. One time, we passed one another, each playing a stack of albums like air guitar, leaned back and played a dual lead together. As soon as the guitar break was over, we headed toward the racks, laughing.

K and I recently renewed our friendship after a few decades of little contact and I think we both realize how golden those days were. We loved the same music and when we didn't, we tried. We shared our music like people share air. It just came natural. So when I heard Todd's EP, I thought of the K. This is classic rock with roots not unlike that of Pat Travers and Lone Star and early Aerosmith. True, Todd does not look like the bands of that era (if I didn't know better, I would have expected Americana or standard singer/songwriter fare) but he sure as hell sounds like it. And it's only partially in the guitar.

Most of it is in the groove because that replaced the ol' hook when pop gave way to rock. Think Savoy Brown and Foghat and Climax Blues Band--- louder and softer. Upbeat, unplugged on one of the five tracks, the other four pure groovers. Like the opening track, Red Letter:

Got the idea? Hell of a track with lyrics right up there with Shakespeare and Longfellow (seriously, this is possibly what they would be writing if they lived today). Dig this:

I stand up/Heavy is the hand that's had enough/I stand up/Bury me in lies and cover me in flies/I stand up/Blacken out the sky with anger/I stand up (red letter)/You cannot control what I do not submit

You getting this? That's not all. There's a chorus:

A bird in flight to your quicksand/A hammer strike to your nail/To live a life that you can't have/Bend now I won't to your will

Man, them's lyrics, Skeezix! None of this rhyming love with dove or blue with you. This cat stands up! And it doesn't stop there. Check out the chorus on New Religion:

Because every time you put your hands on me/I find a new religion/And I just gotta get my hands up

Beats the hell out of the lyrics of those ol' rock ballads.

The band backs it up, too. Two guitars (probably one of the guitarists playing bass at times)--- Todd and Dale Heib. Drums and percussion courtesy of Casey Smith. And they come ready to rock! Todd handles the vocals and does a damn fine job, Heib nailing down the high harmonies. They even have a hint of Trower on End of My Rope.

Sad thing is, this may be my only chance to write about Todd and crew. I write only about the music I like and then only because they need a leg up.  By the time this album is available everywhere, everyone will get into it. He will no longer need me to help spread the word. It will spread on its own.

The dude is from Fargo, sports fans. The last musician I heard from Fargo was Lucy Black who put out a solo album right after Betty Does Veronica split up. You might have been watching the TV series. Now you can hear the music. Buy this EP. Consider it an investment in happy.

Frank O. Gutch Jr.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades. He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gracefully.)

The Fuzz--- Best Kept Secret

Ever drive and have a great song come on the radio or maybe have a CD in the player and you all of a sudden notice you're driving 20 miles over the speed limit? Happened to me tonight and I'm surprised I wasn't pulled over. What could I do if I was? Crank The Fuzz's new album up louder and let the music plead my case? I could have done it, especially if Loaded was the track playing when I rolled down the window. Or Wilt. Hey, officer, I lost it for a minute because of this rockin' tribute to Wilt Chamberlain's sex life. Here, let me turn it up for you. “He shoots, he scores.” Get it? What's that? Get out of the car and put my hands on the hood? Are you listening to this, man?

It would have been worth a ride to the police station, sports fans. The album started out normal but the more I heard it, the more I had to turn it up. By the time it got to Track 8, the aforementioned Loaded, I might as well have been. Loaded, that is. I was headbanging, for Chrissake, and I haven't done that for years! Got tired of the migraines, I guess. But there I was, hair a lot shorter and the head bobbing like a madman, screaming “I'm loaded... and I don't care...” and “I've wasted... all of my time... and I'm losing... most of my mind... and I... don't... care!!!!!!” and listening to this guitar solo which I swear to God is as close to Randy Bachman as I've ever heard--- Bachman at his best! Remember the solo on Guess Who's American Woman? Think that cranked up to 11 on a stack of Marshalls and you're almost there. In fact, I want to hear this through a stack of Marshalls cranked up to 11--- a big stack! In an arena! This is the kind of stuff I saw back in the late sixties when The Wailers took on The Sonics at the Albany Guard Armory. When Stray opened for Caravan at the Starwood in the mid-seventies. When Motorhead... wait. I've never seen Motorhead! See what this stuff does to me?

There is raw power here. Raw power! Play it low and you won't get it. This kind of music you have to crank up!!! Wild freaking take-no-prisoners, slashing guitar and vocals as raw as the guitars. Riffs! Noise! Pounding beat! It's all here. Again, though, crank it up!!!

  All tracks are good but rockers are going to really get off on opening track I Can't Wait, Wilt, The Stones-oriented Charley Horse, the demon speeder She Believes, Locked Out which reminds me a lot of many of the bands from the seventies New Wave movement, and Loaded, which starts out pure funk and turns wall-of-sound riff-heavy hard rock quickly, with an extended groove over which two guitars run rampant--- God, you gotta love them dual leads!!! Call the Cops ends the madness and it's just as well. My heart can only take so much exercise these days. Just ask my girlfriend. By the way, I don't have one. Just threw that in to see if you were paying attention.

Garage freaks, metalheads, Power-Poppers and speed freaks are going to love this album. Hell, I'm not any one of those except maybe a Power-Popper, and I love it, and the last time I looked in the mirror, I was an old man! Not as old as I had thought, I guess. If I am, this music makes me forget it for awhile. Ah, to have the Maxell sound system. This is the kind of stuff that makes your hair blow back. And, yes, I still have hair. But I probably won't have it too much longer. Not if I keep listening to these guys.

Available from Green Monkey Records.

Frank O. Gutch Jr.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades. He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gracefully.)

Jenn Lindsay--- Uphill Both Ways

There was something vaguely familiar in Jenn Lindsay's music when I first heard Uphill Both Ways and it took me a few listens to nail it down. It turns out Jenn Lindsay plays (wait for it!) New Wave! I tossed genres around to see how they fit and none seemed to corner exactly what it was until the late 70s popped up and that was it! Jenn Lindsay, my alternative pop-ites, plays music for which Ken Barnes and the late Greg Shaw of Who Put the Bomp lived—60s influenced pop with creative flare. Lindsay displays just the kind of creativity and flare that could well have garnered her a cover of the rejuvenated Bomp zine, the project Shaw was working on when he so unfortunately left us. Her music fits all of his criteria—melody, hooks and drive.

Indeed, Shaw would have taken this CD on himself, not trusting anyone else to point out the positives: the Percy Sledge-like organ of Belong Alone giving way to the perfect three-chord chorus behind the bopping rhythm; the punchy acoustic rhythm of Brain which echoes the production of some of the best the 60s and 70s had; the fast, upbeat rhythms of the acoustic guitar and Lindsay's intriguing song stutter of Uphill Both Ways, not to mention the intriguing harmony vocals. What would have really done it, though, would have been the magnificent pop opus, It Came 2 Me, which mixes elaborate production with voice sans production until the end, a strange but captivating combination—and who could resist her inclusion of two lines from Lennon and McCartney's Got To Get You Into My Life as she crescendos "I was alone, I took a ride/I didn't know what I would find there". This CD is worth it for that alone.

She isn't all power pop, of course. She folds House of the Rising Sun and Amazing Grace into a strange folk song lamenting the tragedy of recent New Orleans (and the Bush Administration's bungled response) which she titled House In New Orleans. Christmas Song, Part 2 has a folky Hem sound and shows that she can feel as well as dance. If that doesn't satisfy your folk craving, she goes overboard in the monumental eight minute-plus Kitchen Sink in which she laments love gone bad with only acoustic guitar, occasional added voices and a classic sense of humor. And there is the eerie "Postolka", minor chords and weird chord progressions and all.

Sonics freaks might pick this apart if they heard it, but I contend that the production is spot on. You can't pull off something this creative in a sterile environment, just as you couldn't in the 60s and mid- to late-70s. It is the feel of the music as much as the music itself which gives this CD its edge. It feels good to me. Really, really good.

Until I heard this, Maggi Pierce & E.J. headed my list of groups to see. Now I have fantasies of a double bill. I don't even care who opens for who.

Jon Pousette-Dart--- Talk

I remember Pousette-Dart. I remember the Pousette-Dart Band, in fact, and the reaction their first album received on the West Coast, mainly as the band which opened for Peter Frampton on the Frampton Comes Alive tour--- when was that? 1976? They were also known for their mime-themed album jacket, universally panned by mime-haters worldwide, which at the time stopped more than one of my friends from even considering either album or band--- not a death knell in itself, but one wonders how universal was the attitude. And to open for Frampton, who just months before was virtually unknown in the States in spite of, how many, four solo albums? Whose followers from his days with Humble Pie deserted him en masse because of what they considered his descent into pap hell? Who, months before the live album was even released, became a god to millions who would not touch his previous four studio albums while begging with tears in their eyes for the new one? God knows what it must have been like going onstage before thousands of such people, but it had to be daunting.

Truth be told, I liked that first album in spite of the cover (yes, I too am a mime-hater) but the West Coast did not. In spite of a modicum of airplay, usually coinciding with said tour, they made a very small splash in the ponds of Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Seattle, though they would do much better with the second album, thanks to airplay for Amnesia and County Line, the band's only real charters on radio. Still, they were East Coast, and in those days there was that schism.

I had not thought about them in years--- in fact, until this new album, Talk, dropped in my hands. Immediately, that first album jacket passed before my eyes and with slight shudder, I put it reluctantly into the CD player only to find that I liked this album. Liked it a lot, in fact. There is a very seventies feel to it, in fact--- a leaning toward the soulful. Jon Pousette-Dart still has a voice and uses it to full effect, helped along by an outstanding group of session men and three wonderful female vocalists with whom to duel--- Bekka Bramlett, Rhonda Vincent, and Jonnell Mosser--- voices which fit his like a glove.

All of the references I have found relating to Pousette-Dart mention soft rock and I guess that fits this album too, but there is more here than that. There is that soulfulness I mentioned and a slew of solid songs, many co-written by songwriters of stature. There is a feel which flows beginning to end which ties the songs together. And there is a sound--- a very pleasant sound--- thanks partially to Bil VornDick, a producer I know from his work on The Dixie Bee-Liners exceptional Ripe and Susanville albums (each was among the top picks the year of release). What did I say above? That I liked it? I do.

Pousette-Dart revisits the aforementioned Amnesia and County Line on this album and I have to admit that it is good hearing them again. Dinosaurs like myself might remember hearing them on the radio back when radio mattered. I miss those days. If this world of music was not in such chaos, this album would have a good chance. It may have, anyway. It is good enough, that's for sure. And it deserves a chance.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

Zombie Garden Club--- Zombie Garden Club

Holy shit! Zombie Garden Club? I don't know what I was expecting but this is way beyond what the name leads me to believe. This is crunch. This is part Legendary Shack Shakers and early Them without the harmonica and part sixties garage--- the part featuring a driving beat and cheesy Farfisa organ. But mostly what this is is heavily-reverbed vocal laid over some of the best guttural guitar I have heard in some time. Too Slim pulls it off when he wants to, prodding The Tail Draggers God knows where with that almost evil guitar sound. Th' Legendary Shack Shakers nailed it when David Lee was twangin' the strings around, say, Pandelirium time. Joe Bonamassa and Stevie Ray Vaughan occasionally strayed into the mania and I am sure there were others. But when I put this puppy into the player and heard a riff straight out of The Music Machine's Talk Talk on Track One (Call It Love), all comparisons vanished.

Here's the thing. I could compare every song on this album to something, if I really wanted to. The tunes are so good and so well put together, I just don't want to. I just want to listen. Even to the two oddballs on this rockin' album--- Diamond Daze, a track as much jazz-based as it is rock, and Calling Andromeda, straight out of the Mike & The Mechanics or Barclay James Harvest playbooks.

I have three pages of scribbled notes which sounded like something when I wrote them but now seem disjointed and vague. Call It Love--- Music Machine Talk Talk riff beneath sixties Brit Rock vocals. Judgement Blues--- Brash, bluesy guttural guitar with Swamp Rock vocals, a more controlled Legendary Shack Shakers. One Step, Two Steps, Three Steps Gone--- Sixties-sounding rocker complete with very prominent Farfisa organ. Fuzzface--- Groove heavy with fuzzed-out overamped guitar. They give you an idea, but I swear you have to hear this to get it.

I know this is a band, but not on the record. One Johnny Douglas put this together all by his lonesome but it sure as hell sounds like a band. The drive is there. The riffs are there. The sound is there. And more importantly (well, equally as important), the songs are there. Douglas has a touch when it comes to capturing the various areas of influence and it makes me laugh, he's so good at it. I love stuff like this.

Every track a gem, too. Fourteen songs, all dipped in roots--- my roots, evidently, because I have not been able to set this aside since receiving it. I feel like saying, though I am too close to the music to know if it would ring true or not, that this is one of the best garage roots albums I have ever heard, Makes me want to dance.

And already in the running for my pick for Top Album of the Year.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

The OF--- Escape Goat

Man, can I hear the theatrical side of The OF on It's a New World, the opening track of their new Escape Goat album. Equal parts Modest Mussorgsky and Richard Rodgers, it opens the curtain to one hellacious and adventurous album, the rock side teeming with jazz and art rock--- Zappa and, of all bands, The Flock slipping like a dense fog into what is maybe not a completely new world but one we have neither seen nor heard for awhile. First time I heard it, I did not hear the depth of what they were doing, but I loved Richard Rodgers (if you are a music fan, how could you not get Slaughter On Tenth Avenue, fer chrissakes!) and Zappa and, yes, The Flock, which cleared more than one dance floor back in the days when people actually danced, as weird as the dances were.

Then, just to throw you off a little, they segue into a choogling rocker, probably the band's best chance to gain an audience beyond us deep-track freaks.  Damn Dirty Hippy steps into a funk/Sopwith Camel jam which makes your head spin a bit but not too much. It's the sax, I think, and great sax it is.

Track 3 (Escape Goat) kicks in, seven minutes of intense jam and then a longer but more sedate and even structured tune (Bottom Feeder) which would sound absolutely fantastic on acid or mescaline (especially with light show). Double Shift is a short interlude (2:56) of mainly guitar which is intriguing and then its is Cat Squeezer Blues, which had better be as good as it is (it is) with a title like that. Dig the mouth harp. You know, I thought that Refrigeration Leak was a filler because after all it is only 49 seconds, but it stands on its own, short as it is, and is perfect Van der Graaf Generator fodder lead-in to the brash thirteen-minute ender, Weezils, who by the sounds of it are ripping some more flesh.

I want to go on and on about these guys but that would involve days or weeks or even months of my time interviewing family members and childhood friends and various derelicts, days spent on the road for what are sure to be long and grueling tours, background checks and a whole string of sleuth-worthy activities and, truth be told, I have neither the time nor money.  It is my hope that the ones who would love it are already heading to the Green Monkey Bandcamp Page to listen and those of you who don't want to go, well, continue listening to your Beatles and Rolling Stones and Who albums, if not your Beyonce and Kanye West. Yawn. By the way, if you do click through, do yourself a favor and check out Gary Minkler and Green Pajamas and King County Queens and a whole shit pile of great stuff. If you want recommendations, send me a note.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

It Crawled from the Basement--- Green Monkey's Attempt to Set the Record Straight

I can tell you in one short sentence what most of the world knows about Seattle music. There were The Sonics and then there was grunge. Right after that I think the world ended. Sure, there were other bands out there, but it is mostly white noise to those who think they know everything, which would just about cover everybody in this me-me-me world. Let's be honest. Sonics to grunge is an easy leap for lazy people and if the Ugly American is nothing else these days, he/she is lazy.  Let us talk.

Before grunge, the Pop Scene didn't hit everyone as hard, true, but that doesn't mean there weren't some great things there. The most notable of the Green Monkey crew is probably The Green Pajamas whose Kim the Waitress impressed a few people on release but who gained more of a following from the Material Issue cover and video circa 1994. Over the years, they have become a force, releasing a string of albums both as a group and as individuals. Head Monkey Tom Dyer has included five Pajamas' tracks in this collection, reason enough for a closer look at this package.

There are tons of others (42, in fact, besides the Pajamas' entries), most worth the music, all worth the history. Danger Bunny's For This holds a special place in my heart not only for the raw vocals and jangly guitar of Joan Maneri and the James-Bond-y bass but also because the drummer, George Romansic, is one of the nicest guys I've ever met. The track holds up on its own, but it never hurts to have that personal link.  (The following song is not on the compilation but will give you a good idea of Danger Bonny's sound.  You can stream the various tracks by clicking here)

The others I remember anchor the collection very well--- The Walkabouts, Capping Day, The Fastbacks, Prudence Dredge, and Arms Akimbo--- but the real thrill is discovering those songs I'd never heard from musicians I'd never heard of, like The Purdins, Bombardiers, The Hitmen, and Swelter Cacklebush, who should get a Grammy nomination just for the name. The styles run the gamut from Bar R&B to Pop Punk to Power Pop to Folk Rock to Rock & Roll but they have one thing in common throughout--- a basic core of Pure Pop. It was the thread which held Green Monkey together and has been a love for Tom Dyer all of his life. Reactivating the label, especially with music so much a part of Seattle's scene at the time of recording, is a dream come true not only for Dyer but for the musicians and fans of the music as well.

Leave it up to Dyer to make the package even more special (man, I'm sounding like a Pitch Man) by putting together an amazing insert booklet which runs down not only the history of the label (from Dyer's viewpoint) but track-by-track remembrances of the bands and the songs included. Full color, plenty of photos on slick paper with thumbnails of the picture sleeves which graced the original releases. Liner note fanatics will wear the pages thin as they thumb through while listening to the tracks, intrigued by the insights and information pertinent to the bands and the releases themselves. Outside of the glory days of vinyl and the albums which had copious liner notes, you have to believe me when I say it doesn't get any better than this.

One thing that always impressed me about Tom Dyer is that he was always positive. He started out with an idea he liked, recorded the bands he liked, tried to do the right thing at every step and, on the whole, succeeded. Maybe not in terms of finance and not always in terms of art, but he did the best he could with what he had at the time and it is a blast to follow the music from a time lost in Seattle's past.

If you were in Seattle when this was going on or have any interest at all in the scene at the time, this is a must to hear if not buy outright. If you weren't, you need to hear this anyway. Not only is it a capsule of time and music, it is damn good music. This pretty much was Seattle, pre-grunge. This compilation brings it back with a rush. Sure, the world could have lived without Green Monkey and their artists, but it would not have been the same. Not even close.

Frank O. Gutch Jr.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

Eric Lichter--- Elks in Paris

If Eric Lichter had no talent at all, you would have to give him credit for being smart. Thing is, he is loaded with talent. He spent a few years anchoring the rhythm section of Seattle band The Life before becoming a Pajama (a Green Pajama, in fact) and in the Pac NW that's one hell of a recommendation. Over the years, he has honed his skills as a songwriter and singer which makes him a threat on many levels (he is best known as a drummer).

The smart? When he filled his steamer's trunk with songs and considered a solo album, he was smart enough to tie up with one of my favorite producers of late, Ken Stringfellow, who in addition to his work with the re-formed Big Star and his original band The Posies, has put together or played on albums by the likes of Hannah Gillespie (whose All The Dirt album made my best-of list for 2011 and still knocks me ass over teakettle every time I hear it), Neuman, The Disciplines and Red Jacket Mine while putting out a solo album (Danzig In the Moonlight) which made my best of 2012 list. If I was a songwriter and ready to go it alone, Stringfellow would be my first choice too.

Lichter brought ten songs to him that were album-ready--- ten songs remarkable in their simplicity yet ready for treatment. Solid songs. Outstanding songs. Songs which I hesitate to label Pop, though they are, for fear of having some of you stop reading right here. Trust me when I tell you that by the time Lichter and Stringfellow finished with them, they were both more and less than what you might imagine. They are more than songs, even. They are works, and if they fall short of art, they are works which resonate in my head and soul, bumping other favorites aside during walks and drives. More than once I have caught myself struggling to remember where I had heard something only to realize that it was Lichter. It says a lot to me that without thinking I want to know where I've heard one of his songs. Believe me when I say that I know where songs I don't like come from.

If asked, I would be hard pressed to pick favorites from Elks in Paris. Over a number of listens, each song has filled a slot as favorite. Lately, it has been Tell Me One Thing, its beauty as much in odd chord changes and minor chords as anything, the harmonies chilling in an odd sort of way. It reminds me a bit of some of the lesser known Marmalade songs which radio in the US ignored back in the early seventies, the song structure just beyond the formula for airplay. Right now, it is a real favorite, far beyond the confines of this album.

I Still Insist has me thinking Alan Bown, and if you've not heard their version of All Along the Watchtower, you should. If someone told me that Lichter had listened exclusively to the The Alan Bown! album while writing the song, I wouldn't bat an eye. Posh is Pop at its purest, simple melody and chorus making it what we would have called back in the day “AM gold”. You couldn't pick a better song than A Plan So Beautiful to kick off an album like this--- easy rocking and produced to perfection, the background vocals adding just enough on the chorus to make it magic. It reminds me a bit of Rich McCulley, another Pop-rocker who really knows his way around a song.

You know who would love this album? Every one of my old girlfriends. The ones who loved Carole King and Jackson Browne and Linda Ronstadt. And no, Lichter doesn't sound anything like any of them. I think it's because on Elks In Paris, the songs are the thing and Lichter brought some absolute beauties to the studio. Songs that get stuck in your head but you don't mind because they are songs you like hearing and humming and singing (even singing along with). I mean, any one of these could be a hit, at least in the old days. They're that good.

You know what I really like about Ken Stringfellow? As a producer, he knows when to produce and when to get out of the way. Something tells me he did a lot of both on Elks. I would have liked to have been privy to the many conversations leading up to the completion of the album. It is a process, you see, and I have always been fascinated by it. A producer walks a fine line because, in the end, the final product belongs to the artist. I guess that's why they call albums like this collaborations. There is a lot of both Lichter and Stringfellow here. I can't imagine either one having walked away displeased.

You know what I think? I think the real winners here are the people who find this album. It isn't easy, you know--- discovering new music. In the digital age, it is just short of daunting. Perhaps it is time to undaunt yourself. Elks is the perfect album to start with.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.) 

Maxi Dunn--- Edmund & Leo

I am obsessed with this album. I am so obsessed that I have deleted at least ten starts to what will eventually become a review, mostly because Edmund & Leo is so much more than I expected, even after fully absorbing Dunn's last outstanding release, The Neglected Gambit. It is so much more, in fact, that I want to send a copy to every writer in existence just to share the music. I want to put together a band and an elaborate international tour complete with full fifty or hundred voice choir so people could hear Dunn in a setting worthy of this album. I want to swamp radio, Internet and otherwise with reviews, and put together fully professional videos for music video freaks. Unfortunately, that takes money and money is in short supply around the old homestead these days. But if I had it, I would. Swear to God.

Why? Because when the music is this good, you want to do something. Back in the old days you could tuck an album under your arm and head to a friend's house to trade turns on the turntable. You could tell people about music and, amazingly, some of those people would listen. You could give albums as gifts and sometimes they were accepted gracefully and maybe even eventually coveted as much by the person to whom you gave it as by yourself. I miss those days when I hear albums like this because I know that many of my old friends would listen and at least try to hear a semblance of what I hear. What do I hear? A lot.

If I didn't know better, I would think Edmund & Leo (the song) an intro to the album as a whole, but Dunn denies it. She pointed out not long ago that it was different than the rest of the album and I get that, but only to a degree. It does have that intro feel to it but by the time you get to the closing track, Meteor Shower, I get the feeling that Edmund is an intro to Meteor Shower's outro, of sorts. Bookends to the whole work, as it were.

Packed between those two songs are ten stunners (which makes twelve total, just in case math is not your strong suit). Ten beauties, ranging from the very folk rockin' Change the Record (with twelve-string riffs to bring the sixties back from the dead) to the song with an absolute killer chorus (Buffoon Man--- I tell you, it sends shivers up my spine) to the just short of Broadway Tuxedo Cat to the Beach Boys-y Everything to that outro capper, Meteor Shower, a real show-ender if ever there was one.

Dunn has outdone even the output of The Neglected Gambit, which was an album of which anyone would be proud. Song after song, the album builds and builds until the curtain drops (in my head, with the band still playing and the music going on and on and the crowd digging every beat and off-beat as the energy dies for lack of fuel). There are equal parts rockin' live band, orchestra, and session band in the mix and maybe a little Ziegfeld Follies kick here and there, as well.

But this is what separates Edmund & Leo from the pack: production and/or arrangement. This album is so well put together it takes my breath away. Every song, every movement and every damn note is right where it needs to be to put this over the top. The sequencing of songs alone freaks me out and when you get into how they stacked the voices and the instruments--- man, it just doesn't get any better! I have no idea how many hours Dunn and co-producer/magic man/sideman Peter Hackett put into this, but it must have been hundreds. The voices, all Dunn's, are used to magnify the music--- in duets and trios and quartets and choruses and almost choirs. They are everything from the full-on angelic choir to the doop-doops and oo-wahs and last for a whole chorus or only one note. Hackett, who plays every instrument except drums (handled very ably by Damon Roots), is masterful in his simplicity, though at times pushing the guitar and amp to wuthering heights.

If I was teaching a class on arranging or producing, I would use this album as an example. Every time I hear it, and I've heard it over a hundred times thus far, I hear something new. Something not necessarily buried but just deep enough in the mix to add to yet not distract from the song. Voices. Instruments. Sounds. I remember talking with Max Wisely and Bill Phillips of Cargoe about the making of their self-titled album for Ardent Records back in the day. I laughed as they told stories of snapping belts and coke bottles and ping pong balls. The good artists and producers do whatever it takes to get the sound they need. That's what Hackett and Dunn have done here. No stone unturned.

Yes, I am obsessed with this album. This is good stuff. Amazingly good. Good enough to be guaranteed a Top Ten slot in my end of the year list. (and it was they year it was released--- 2013) No, I don't need to wait. I can hear it. Click here. Listen closely. It may take you a few times, but you will hear it too. When you get it, buy it. Play it for your friends. Put a leash on it and take it for walks, I don't care. Hopefully it will be an antidote to always looking backward to the music you've already heard way too much but just can't seem to shake. This is an album which could be the first album of the rest of your life.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

Bright Giant--- Kings & Queens of Air

I remember hearing the opening of Women when I first received Bright Giant's self-titled 2009 EP, an electronic collage with what sounded like a tea kettle preparing to scream, a cross between low whistle and phlegm-like gurgle clothed in choral harmonies and ambient sounds building in intensity until the first chords buried the collage beneath power chords and a plodding but driving beat. You know how you hear something once and it embeds itself in your soul? Women did it. All five songs on the EP knocked me out, in fact, and I have taken these guys under my wing--- a project, ,so to speak, because music this good deserves to be heard and, indeed, needs to be heard. You can quote me.

I could go into great detail pointing out the subtle differences between the EP and the new album, Kings & Queens of Air, but you need a dry treatise as much as I need a punch in the neck, so I'll give you a break. The vast majority of you have probably not heard the EP anyway (do yourselves a favor and take a quick listen here), in which case comparisons are moot. Suffice it to say that the songs are more raw on Kings & Queens, that the beat is more prominent as a force (probably due to a more sparse sound on many of the tracks), and that feedback and electronic blasts, a definite plus on the EP, have been given an upgrade.

In fact, if the album does nothing more (I don't know why I say that, because it does), it reinforces my faith in feedback as music. Some of my favorite moments in rock have come via feedback, controlled or not--- the extended feedback which supports the chorus of Illinois Speed Press's P.N.S. (When You Come Around) is welcome in my head any day, perfect background for the harmonic lead-in to the double guitar lead on the break; the occasional snorts and grunts from variousYardbirds tracks keep them at the top of my all-time favorites list; and of course there is Jimi Hendrix (no explanation necessary here, eh?). Let's face it, sometimes there is no better sound.

Welcome to Kings & Queens of Air, an album of raw, crunchy fuzzed-out over-amped guitar driven by zealous drum beats and bedrock bass. And it is not all loud and raucous, even though that is the largest part of it. But we'll get to that later. First, let me tell you that the song I liked least when I first started listening is now the song I like best--- Sandbox, a two-minute-plus runaway truck powered by jolting guitar and pulsating feedback at the end of each verse. It is about as base as you can get, even the vocals a bit distorted, but turn it up and it drives a stake right into you. Did I say I liked it best? What am I thinking? That would Katie Come On, a piledriving stew of overamped attitude crammed into a mere 1:43, during which Noah Mass sounds like he grew up on a mess of Manfred Mann stew (Mick Rogers was one of the finest rock guitarists out there in the seventies and had a style all his own--- check out Meat and Look Around on Glorified Magnified--- the guitar is outstanding). Mass stumbles upon Rogers' sound and that of a handful of my other favorite guitarists as he busts his way from song to song, breaking out for the occasional solo but always there in the background tossing out squeaks and squawks and simple riffs to make a point. If someone expected The Moody Blues, it would sound at times chaotic and even messy, but to the rock 'n' roller it is a well-orchestrated mess and music adventure at its best, at the very least.

If I made that sound like every song is a cranker, that is hardly the case. For one thing, the band brings forward a remixed and maybe even re-recorded version of the anthemic Forget-Me-Nots from the EP which is a bit slower than most of the other tracks and almost choir-like in its ending (think Angel's Flying With Broken Wings) and is just downright impressive. Coraline Rose uses simple guitar hook and floating vocal “oo-oo-oo”s over wall-of-sound chords on the chorus to drive home anthem once again and my mind's eye can see lighters being held above the heads of every geek in the arena while the power chords lay down that wall (Obviously, I was not a fan of the lighter thing. I hated “the wave” too). It's a beauty.

But once again, let's talk feedback. I was curious, so I sent an email to the band's Josh Davis asking who was responsible. He said “(Noah and I) both play old amps which are feeding back constantly.” So it must be a constant battle to control the sound? I don't know, but the final result must mean that in the constant wrestling match the guitarists are winning because I have seldom heard snarks and blats and rheee's hit the highs hit here. To my ears, it is the sound of the sirens. No, not the sound of sirens--- the sounds of the sirens. There is a difference.

I'm sorry, but I have to stop here a second for a good laugh. The vast majority of people who read this might think Bright Giant a band of barbarians reeking havoc armed with guitars and amps, but they are in fact a rock band looking into a hard rock and rock 'n' roll tent, feeding on the same courses as early or mid Rolling Stones and Black Crowes and blazing their own path through the maze. Because I can't really describe it, I have a tendency to be a little verbally melodramatic here and there, but let me assure you that if it makes you take note it is worth it. This is good stuff. Really, really good stuff. In places, even great stuff. I love these guys. They are right up there alongside Research Turtles on my list of artists I would shove down your throat if it would only make you listen. Want to take a listen? Okay. The last five songs are the EP--- the earlier ones are from Kings & Queens of Air. Or maybe not. Hell, start anywhere. It's all good. Click here. And turn it up. Then buy it. Or else.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

Bright * Giant--- Bright Giant EP

Jesus! How long ago did that first Black Crowes album come out? And whatever happened to Drivin' & Cryin'? I would swear to God that these guys were those guys' younger brothers if I didn't know better and as good, if not better. From the dyslexicly unbalanced fade-in of Women to the extremely Black Crowes-esque No Flies On Me, Bright * Giant melds the best of those two bands with their own subtle in-your-face style on five of the best rockin' tracks you'll hear this year.

While the above video shows a process, it does not show the power Bright * Giant generates. Built on bedrock of solid drumming, booming and sometimes fuzzed-out bass and crunching rhythm guitar, the music is the Hard Rock version of Power Pop, lodging simple hooks in your head that will be hard to dismiss. The almost five minutes of Women slams into the faster paced Songbird like a car backending a truck on the freeway (listen for the buried “Aiyee, aiyee, aiyee” after watching the video and you get an idea of the range of choices a band must make during the production process) and that sets up the manic song/talk of Jesus, the Devil & Me, a step off the deep end of the gene pool. They enter the realm of anthem with Forget-Me-Nots, a slightly slower and much more intricately pieced together composition, complete with outstanding full chorus buildup at the end. Then it's early Black Crowes all over again, rhythm and voice dominating hard rock hook and distorted guitar.

You remember those albums that had “Record Loud to be Played Loud” banners printed on the back? File this sucker with them because it is like a car gaining speed on the open road with the driver unaware. The longer it plays, the louder you want it.

Don't like EPs? Well, these five songs just may be your exception. Better five solid, well laid out tracks than five great songs spliced between six others and these are as solid as they get. My head tells me they are the springboard to a long and fruit fly career. Sorry. Couldn't help myself. Buy this album. Seriously. Huh. Couldn't help that, either.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

Jim of Seattle--- We Are All Famous

No we aren't, Jim of Seattle, but if you keep this up, you certainly will be.

I had no idea what this was when it came. I knew it was from Green Monkey Records, of course, and I knew it had the highest recommendations of head monkey Tom Dyer and his henchman and my good friend Howie Wahlen, but you have to figure that a lot of that comes from being on the label. Then again, the fact that Dyer heard something in We Are All Famous he found worth releasing says one hell of a lot right there. Howie? I've learned I have to trust him or run the risk of missing music I do not want to miss. Still, this is not exactly what I expected.

From the cover alone, I knew the songs would be more on the fringe. No one puts together artwork worthy of a Monty Python or Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band and then slips classic rock or Broadway or even modern classical in the jacket. Look closely and without thinking, try to guess what kind of music is on this album. You can't, right? Then again, maybe you're closer than you might think. Theatrical? Odd? Is it a rock opera? Is it a soap opera? Hell, it could be circus music judging by the cover and, not surprisingly, it is, if only for a short interlude.

What it is is either a rock opera pieced together very carefully and in the minutest detail, or it is 19 experiments in music or perhaps musical theater woven together with the skill of one who suffers from OCD. I am leaning toward the former because the more I hear this, the more I hear genius. It is a wild but controlled genius, an ear for sequencing so many pieces of music in just the right order. Granted, without the music, the sequencing would be wasted. I do believe Jim wasted not a drop.

From the carnival intro of Overture through the folk/psych and sixties farfisa rock of Everybody Now to the Oingo-Boingo-ish deviltry of Laboratory Rat, this album begs a complete listen. Give it one and you get equal parts fringe rock with classical interludes and the occasional cross between glee club and Hi-Los which practically sounds like recordings from a monastery. The small compositions, for they are worthy of that designation, fade in and out seamlessly, the distance between one and the next timed to perfection.

I'm going to tell you right now that while you may find favorite tracks on We Are All Famous, listening to them individually takes away from their true impact. Jim obviously worked extremely hard to make this album flow from beginning to end in such a way that each track sets the next one up in the best way possible. This is only a portion of the “genius” to which I earlier alluded.

So I sit here listening for what must be the 20^th or 30^th time, coffee cup at hand because I need caffeine to make my own words flow enough to just keep up. If you were sitting here with me, you'd be gulping coffee too. This is amazing stuff.

I wish I didn't have to say “you have to hear this to believe it”. It stops most people dead in their tracks. But I have to. This is way beyond what I expected.

Normally, I try to steer clear of personal messages in reviews, but Jim, my apologies for taking so long with this. It has taken me this long to even begin to understand the whole of We Are All Famous. And if, as you predict, The Martians Are Going to Eat Us, I hope they hold off for some time. I need more time. At least a thousands listens worth.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)