Lay some Bread on Davy!

I’m finding that one unexpected part of the aging process is reliving every half-decent pop culture trend of my youth. Musically, I feel stuck in some prepubescent summer of ’74 pool jukebox rut of pleasant mediocrity. It makes sense. This is the era when major label releases of surprisingly interesting material could fly under the radar, get tossed into the cheapest bins at used record stores – you know, the ones that sit on a table in the sun, dog-eared covers and missing inner sleeves be dammed – and await the adoption of a hopeful, budget-conscious rock nerd. A lot of great albums that otherwise would have been lost to the ages have been discovered through this process, such as Big Star’s #1 Record, which beginning in 1980 or so made its way from the sun-baked bargain bins of used record stores to the vaunted wall slot, reserved for overpriced collector’s items. Today, countless bands have sprouted from the hopes of stumbling across the next 25-cent copy of a forgotten late-period Association or Roy Wood album. This brings me to the latest from The Clientele and The Polyphonic Spree.

God Save The Clientele answers the question, What would The Monkees’ Davy Jones sound like fronting an indie pop band in 2007? The album-opening “Here Comes the Phantom” must buckle the knees of modern-day Marcia Bradys. The indie pop scene has been working toward the fulfilling the wish that Bread actually released more than three great soft-pop songs for years. Think of all the quarters that have been spent at used record stores in hopes of scoring that one great Bread album. The Clientele manage to turn out an album that sounds as consistently great over the course of an album as those scant great Bread songs that make only that band’s greatest hits album worth dropping a quarter on! “I Hope I Know You” and “Isn’t Life Strange” sound as if Elvis Costello spent a few weeks writing with David Gates himself to achieve this bargain-bin fantasy. Hell, I’m almost willing to think that Bread really were America’s answer to The Zombies all over again.

True believer!

The Polyphonic Spree, that 40-piece collective of brightly colored robes and Kool Aid-sipping marching band freaks, sets itself a tougher task on The Fragile Army, trying – once more – to marry the symphonic pop delights of ELO to the feel-better sentiments of landmark ‘70s self-help tome I’m OK, You’re OK. The results are as muddy and unsatisfying as the many Roy Wood and Wizzard albums I’ve dropped a quarter on in hopes of finding one more whacked-out gem like Boulders. Like the worst of George Harrison’s solo works, instrumental breaks are constructed not so much to highlight expressive flights of musicality but to allow for the shimmying and hand-raising of all those robed backing singers. Damn flutes flutter at every given opportunity! Some songs start out perfectly cool, like “Younger Yesterday”, before getting bogged down by their up-with-life platitudes. Hey, I love life as much as the guy in the chartreuse robe, but let how about giving the life of the song itself some space? Other tracks, like “We Crawl”, identify the depressingly fine line between Eno and Styx. I went back and listened to some ELO albums, a Queen album, and the one-man recordings of Wood and Todd Rundgren. Do 40 musicians really contribute to the sound and ideas of The Polyphonic Spree, or am I correct in thinking their records sound smaller and shorter on ideas than any of a half dozen Elephant 6 releases made by a 10th of musicians? “Too much of nothing,” sang Bob Dylan, “can make a man feel ill at ease.”

I’ve spent a lot of time with two would-be badass albums over the last month: Grinderman, the boys’ night out stooge-fest by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, and the Heartless Bastards’ album, Stairs and Elevators. Both albums come out of the gates looking for a rumble, which is fine by me in these 8-piece, grad school folkie times.

“Gray” kicks off the Heartless Bastards album, throwing down a 2-chord gauntlet and making full use of the throaty, 4 Non Blondes’ chick-like lead vocals of dynamo Erika Wennerstrom. The first time I played it in my car I kept inching up the volume, feeling certain I’d reach new song nirvana. Damn, a chorus into the song I felt like pulling up to some asshole at a red light and pummeling him for the sport of it! As the song went on and the inevitable scorching solo section presented itself, however, no one stepped to the fore. OK, was this a deliberate act of post-punk economy and reserve? I tried to play along with the new economy, but every time one of these back-alley songs, such as “New Resolution” and “The Will Song”, came on and I anticipated a stock Johnny Thunders lead part or a Ron Ashton-inspired fuzz-wah solo there was nothing more than a few empty measures. I was reminded of my long-held belief that rock trios are usually a sign of a dysfunctional and socially inept set of musicians. In the case of Heartless Bastards, however, the powerful lead singer is a rudimentary and lone rhythm guitar player. Her drummer and bassist are adequate and committed but not enough for support in a dark alley. Somebody get Ms. Wennerstrom a lead guitarist who can provide that extra muscle that this band’s music so badly requires.

Grinderman, on the other hand, is a visceral blast, an aesthetes’ toy chest of sexuality, brutality, sinning, fuzz-wah solos, and raunchy humor. Leave the women and children at home, my brothers, as well as the poetry, the screenplays, and the piano! Cave sports a badass Fu Manchu for this short album, and his bandmates wear the full he-man beards of their penal colony forefathers. “Get It On” opens the album with Cave’s Mr. Mojo Risin’ voodoo preacher schtick and chain gang backing vocals from his bandmates. It’s more of the same in the album’s single, “No Pussy Blues”. In this song, when I expect to hear an orgasmic guitar solo I do! The album maintains this late-80s Aussie garage vibe through songs like “Electric Alice”, “Honey Bee (Let’s Fly to Mars)”, and “Depth Charge Ethel”, the latter the most fun song I’ve ever heard from Cave. Despite all the macho artifice, this quartet’s ready to rumble.