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By
Erik Hage
No Outlet
No
Outlet, Volume II (Mandala Hand)
Just
when one thinks they’ve lapped up all of the sterling roots
and Americana the area has to offer, along they come, with
local steel-guitar man supreme Kevin Maul and his men delving
even deeper into the good dark stuff, way down to the sounds
packed against the heartwood. Link Wray’s “Rumble” is an example
of some of the most menacing few chords ever put to vinyl
(plied for all its cinematic menace in Pulp Fiction).
The original has so much heat—sears so nastily—that one best
not attempt it. (Even the inimitable Duane Eddy’s version
sounds to my ears like he’s merely dicking around with it.)
Legend has it that the song—an instrumental—was widely
banned for its suggestions of sex and violence. Against all
good advice, Maul and company take it on anyway, and God damnit
if Maul’s lap steel doesn’t find a bit of sleazy, searing
purchase that numerous standing guitar players couldn’t quite
get to. Elsewhere, No Outlet pay tribute to more gentile forces:
the New Orleans bounce of Toussaint’s “Got Me a New Love Thing,”
the jumpy, proto-rockabilly blues of Arthur Crudup’s “Dig
Myself a Hole” and the smooth, folk-tinged rock & roll
of the Beatles’ “The Word.” Drummer Dale Haskell, fretless
bass man Tony Markellis and Maul all nimbly trade vocals here,
proving themselves more than just instrumental dynamos. Haskell
also contributes more than a handful of strapping roots originals.
No Outlet are a trio and a whole lot more on this excellent
album.
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 Clogs
Lantern
(Brassland)
This quartet of multi-instrument-alists create chamber music
that draws from folk, classical, cabaret, and soundtracks.
As with similarly diverse acoustic ensembles like Tin Hat
Trio and 3 Leg Torso, they wed sympathetic musicianship to
compositional structures, honoring all aspects of the endeavor.
For their fourth album, guitarist and ukulele player Bryce
Dessner has added electric guitar to his arsenal, but otherwise,
all other sounds could be played just fine during a power
outage. Rachael Elliott’s bassoon contributes a gently exotic
component, especially in tandem with Padma Newsome’s violin
and viola (not to mention mandola and melodica). What makes
these dozen tracks so compelling is that Clogs are equally
enamored by both certainties and mysteries. The pieces run
the gamut from the open-ended slow build of “Fiddlegree” to
the alluring “Kasburger,” with its simple, emotive chords,
washing into one another like tired, icy waves.
—David
Greenberger
 Skerik’s
Syncopated Taint Septet
Husky
(Hyena)
Skerik, the tenor saxophonist who leads this exceptional Seattle-based
group, is an agent provocateur of jazz, a fearless conceptualist
who steers a gang of similarly subversive swingers into uncharted
territory where “outside” and funk meet pop. The Meters cohabit
with Henry Mancini in Syncopated Taint’s universe; everybody
here writes, from Wurlitzer genius Joe Doria to trombone magician
Steve Moore to, of course, the sweet-toned and tantalizing
Skerik. The tunes rock; even in “Syncopate the Taint,” a cacophonous
stew indeed, the pulse never becomes unmoored. That tune is
joyous, traversing wild blowing, Craig Flory’s double-time
baritone sax underlining Doria’s skirling organ, all kinds
of falling apart and coming together. “Taming the Shrew” is
another place altogether; Flory’s bari gooses Doria’s dainty
Wurlitzer while the other horns take shadow spots in a sophisticated
dance. The music is vividly pictorial.
I’m not quite clear what points Skerik and his Seattle colleagues
are trying to make, but I’m sure their agenda is political,
with titles like “Go To Hell, Mr. Bush,” “Fry His Ass” and
“Irritant.” Improvisation so visceral and brave is inherently
political; bet on it, Skerik and his buds aren’t comfortable
with the status quo. Skerik also figures in “Coalition of
the Willing,” a great Bobby Previte disc just released on
Ropeadope (which released Syncopated Taint’s first album).
Skerik first came to prominence in Seattle band Critters Buggin,
named to make fun of a phrase the destructive head narc Harry
Anslinger once applied to jazz, which anti-stoner Anslinger
considered far inferior to “good” music. May Skerik continue
to roil the jazz waters. This is one of the coolest albums
of the year.
—Carlo
Wolff
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