|
 Bring
It On
Butthole
Surfers
Humpty
Dumpty LSD
(Latino Buggerveil)
If
you moved in certain underground circles during the mid-’80s,
you would have had a difficult time avoiding the Butthole
Surfers, who toured nearly nonstop for close to four years,
leaving the road only briefly to record some of the decade’s
most impressive and important independent releases. The Surfers
also recorded hundreds of hours worth of material during their
halcyon years that never found a viable commercial outlet,
excluding the rare bits that trickled out every now and then
on tribute albums, early punk compilations or limited releases
on the band’s own boutique label, Latino Buggerveil Records.
Come 2002 and the Butthole Surfers have revivified Latino
Buggerveil to reissue good chunks of their formal back catalog—and
Humpty Dumpty LSD, apparently the first in a series
of vault-clearing exercises planned for the upcoming year.
This 16-song compilation features cuts recorded between 1982
and 1994, five of them rare collector’s-item-type tracks,
the rest having heretofore never seen the light of day. Despite
the varied pedigrees and sources of Humpty Dumpty LSD’s
songs, however, the album coheres exceptionally well, playing
like the great lost Butthole Surfers album that should have
followed 1987’s Hairway to Steven, had the group’s
classic twin-drum lineup of the ’80s persevered beyond that
point.
The breadth of the Butthole Surfers’ vision is impressively
illustrated on this sweeping compilation: 1982’s “Just a Boy”
and “I Hate My Job” document their punky roots, “Night of
the Day” and “Hetero Skeleton” lay out their near-musique
concrete approach to sound manipulation, “One Hundred
Million People Dead” demonstrates founding singer Gibson Haynes’
mastery of his digital-delay vocal system, and “DADGAD,” “Day
of the Dying Alive” and “Ghandi” prove their jam-based, improvisational
mettle. Toss in a boss cover of Roky Erickson’s “Earthquake,”
the heavy electronics of “Space” (recorded in 1984, years
before they’d be accused of selling out by incorporating sequencers
and samples on their breakthrough albums, Electriclarryland
and Weird Revolution), and “I Love You Peggy,” a searing
“girl done me wrong” number featuring wobbly guitar and deranged
vocals by cofounder Paul Leary, and you’ve got one of the
best independent albums of the year—or of any year between
1982 and 1994 for that matter.
—J.
Eric Smith
Primal
Scream
Evil
Heat
(Columbia; British import)
Primal Scream, one of the great rock bands, don’t make it
easy. The Glasgow group work hard to communicate their anger
sonically, but don’t emphasize the verbal; Scream demand you
submit to their sound, that you drown in it over and over,
and it often isn’t pretty. Two years ago, Scream released
the fierce, and fiercely political, Xtrmntr, arguably
the best rock album of 2000, on Astralwerks, an American label
better-known for much softer offerings. Early this month,
Scream released Evil Heat, a high-energy, heavily layered
collection spanning the Krautrock of “Autobahn 66” and the
reverent, churchy “Space Blues Number 2,” on British Sony.
Whether this import will be released domestically remains
unclear. What’s clear is its urgency, complexity and ambiguity.
Like other Scream albums, it mixes rant and rave, vocals and
instrumentals, homages and explorations. Not as political
as Xtrmntr, Evil Heat is more cosmic, and it
doesn’t include “Bomb the Pentagon,” a controversial single
Scream released before Sept. 11. The album’s guests include
Robert Plant, whose harmonica wails, deep in the mix, in the
stomping psychedelic blues “The Lord Is My Shotgun,” one of
the albums’ toughest tracks; supermodel Kate Moss, on a plush,
twitchy remake of the Nancy Sinatra-Lee Hazelwood hit “Some
Velvet Morning”; and Jesus and Mary Chainmaster Jim Reid,
rejoining early JMC mate/Scream vocalist Bobby Gillespie on
the nasty, punky “Detroit.” Half the tracks were produced
by Kevin Shields, My Bloody Valentine’s mastermind; the others,
including the pile-driving, technoindustrial single, “Miss
Lucifer,” were produced by a gang of Brits and Dutchmen, foremost
among them longtime Scream guitarist Andrew Innes. Formed,
appropriately, in 1984, Scream scramble the sound of things
falling apart with the sound of things coming together, daring
you to wonder whether their message is one of Armaggedon or
aspiration. They’re dangerously, thrillingly expert at both.
—Carlo
Wolff
Brian
Wilson
Pet
Sounds Live
(Brimel)
There are few artists who could offer up a live performance
of a classic 35-year-old album by their former band and have
it come off as an utter triumph. Brian Wilson presented Pet
Sounds in its entirety in concert in London at the beginning
of this year. Backed by a 10-piece band, these are faithful
performances of the original 13-song set. Pet Sounds
arises here as a great repertory piece—there’s a full and
complete dramatic curve to the original work, carefully constructed
as a suite (albeit with the inclusion of “Sloop John B,” the
one nonoriginal, which was pressured onto the album by other
forces).
Given the well-documented shipwreck of a psyche that has troubled
Wilson since the height of the Beach Boys’ fame in the mid-’60s,
his return to the stage in the ’90s has been movingly transcendent
for all who have borne witness. This performance underscores
just what a sanctuary the creation of music has been for Wilson.
His voice may strain here and there, but the compositions
and their arrangements are dazzling mini-symphonies. This
is contrasted with Wilson’s between-song patter, which, while
well-meaning, is a stilted litany of slightly tilted showbiz-isms,
making it clear that social interactions have never come easy
for him. This is warmly recorded and passionately performed,
and it is indeed a treat to hear this level of artistry spring
to life anew on the stage.
—David
Greenberger
Check
Engine
Check
Engine
(Southern)
Indiana’s Check Engine are a side project featuring members
of the (slightly) better-known Sweep the Leg Johnny, one of
the harder-touring, harder-playing bands of the Midwestern
underground. Check Engine’s self-titled debut album, however,
sounds nothing like a casual toss-off lark during Johnny downtime:
from opener “Where’s My Social Worker” through to the closing
“Pain Don’t Hurt,” Check Engine is a smashingly well-written
and well-played affair. Merging angular, aggressive guitar-sax
workouts like those pioneered by 1969-era King Crimson with
Pere Ubu-styled avant-garage improvisations, and a strident
dueling vocalist attack that evokes Mission of Burma’s best
work, Check Engine is one of the more challenging and
interesting records to cross this listener’s desk in quite
some time. Since this album’s release, Sweep the Leg Johnny
have gone active again (releasing their own record as well),
so it’s unclear whether there’s a future for Check Engine
or not—although there damn well should be, since the potential
documented on this disc is awesome.
—J.E.S.
|
Columns
& Opinions
