Tag Archives: J Mascis

Whatever happened to the distorted guitar?

I never hear really layered distorted guitar sounds on modern indie records – it’s completely out of style. If you want to hear that kind of thing, you’d have to go back to older records, or to bands that began in that era and haven’t shed all vestiges of that sound, and few of them are nowadays operating at an artistic peak.

Like a good recorded drum sound, the pleasures of a well engineered distorted guitar sound lie in the physical response it creates through texture.

Distorted guitar is an incredibly textural sound source. Distorted chord-based rhythm parts occupy an enormous amount of sonic real estate across a huge frequency range, partly due to the fact that their heavily compressed nature make them essentially a steady-state presence within a mix.

The combination of extreme sustain, low transient quality and huge frequency range makes distorted guitar extremely malleable within a mix. You can essentially manipulate a heavy guitar signal with downstream EQ the way a Hammond organ player can manipulate her sound with the drawbars.* The best practitioners of the fine art of layering distorted guitars (for me, that’s people like Kevin Shields, Jerry Cantrell, Billy Corgan and J Mascis – I was never a fan of the scooped, no-mid-range sound of ’80s and ’90s metal), along with engineers and producers like Dave Jerden and Butch Vig, used this knowledge to create an almost orchestral richness to their guitar sounds.

They could craft sounds to be hard or soft, aggressive or comforting, sharp or ambient, through the combination of different guitars, amps and processing when layering duplicate or complementary voicings over several tracks. Those who took it furthest would split one guitar performance over two or three amps (selected for their characteristics in different frequency ranges), then switch guitars and repeat, then play a complementary part and repeat again. All in the analogue realm, too, meaning that bouncing of tracks would be required in order to keep going once real estate on the 2-inch tape was used up.

Outside of metal (which if I’m totally honest I don’t listen to all that much), this is kind of a lost art now, which makes me a little sad. The tools have changed, too: digital modelling amps, reamp boxes and amp simulation plug-ins are as common if not more common among the musicians who are still grappling with the beast that is distorted guitar as valve amps and analogue effects pedals. Modern mix topologies aren’t hugely kind to bands that deal a lot in distorted guitars, either. It’s enough to make me a bit wistful, thinking back to the days when a rock band wasn’t a rock band unless their guitars were just blasting out a sea of white noise. Ah me. The years go by so fast.

 

*Much of what I know about the science and art of recording distorted guitars, I owe to a recording engineer and producer called Tim Gilles, who was known online as Slipperman. Slipperman’s guide to recording distorted guitars, which consisted of a series of forum posts and podcasts, was a hugely informative, frequently digressive and entertainingly foul-mouthed bible for me 10 years ago when I was trying to learn the basics of recording and devouring every source of knowledge that was cheap or free. Wherever Slippy is now, I wish him well.

Dinosaur Jr @ The Roundhouse, 23/03/18

When Dinosaur Jr spluttered to a halt in the late 1990s after touring the unenthusiastically received Hand it Over, it seemed unlikely that 20 years later the band would be celebrating a decade, and four strong albums, back together in its original form. If they’re not Exhibit A in in defence of the idea of old bands reforming (I’d maybe cite the Go Betweens, who I think made their best album right before Grant McLennan sadly passed away), they’ve certainly proved that a group can get back together and rival their best work.

Having never seen them back then, and always being short of money in the early years of their reformation, I’d never seen Dino play live, although I did catch a J Mascis solo show a couple of years ago, and I thought it was about time I made the effort. The gig was originally scheduled for December last year, but J Mascis had a throat infection and the band had to cancel. So last night, finally, I went to the Roundhouse to be deafened by Mascis’s mighty wall of Marshalls.

In the event, the band weren’t the all-out sonic assault I’d read about in Our Band Could Be Your Life and sundry other places. It was perfectly safe to be without earplugs, though I found that keeping them in attenuated some of the high frequencies from Mascis’s guitar and made Murph’s snare drum more audible. Certainly they never got into My Bloody Valentine territory, which is kind of what I was expecting.

So today, with hearing intact, thinking about the gig, I feel like the band put a shift in, but something didn’t quite take off for me. I think fundamentally, Dinosaur Jr are a small-room band. So much of the pleasure of their music is the physical sensation of the J Mascis guitar sound and Lou Barlow’s distorted bass (which is strummed more than anything), and hearing it in a large room changes your relationship to that sound. It’s very noticeable that the band make their records in Mascis’s home studio and they seem to use small iso rooms to track drums and guitars, which makes their records sound very close and upfront.

Still, while I never felt immersed in the music in the way I’d hoped to, the band played well. They opened with Thumb from Green Mind, which is a very different experience live from the Mellotron-based studio version with the weird drum sound (what was going on there? It sounds like a drum machine. It couldn’t be, could it?), and followed it with three strong songs from new album Give a Glimpse of What Yer Not. I was particularly happy that Barlow and Mascis swapped instruments and Lou got to take a lead vocal; if you’ve been on my blog before, you’ll know that Lou’s my guy.

Watch the Corners from the last album was one of the set highlights (Mascis’s solo at the end was great), then they went back to the mid-1990s for Out There and Feel the Pain. Those aren’t, if I’m honest, favourites of mine, but the crowd loved them, especially the latter. In fact, the audience was pretty energetic throughout (first time I’d seen anything that could be described as a mosh pit at a gig I’ve been at in about a decade and a half), and Feel the Pain got them pushing and shoving like it was 1993. One clown kept trying to crowdsurf, even as he kept being dropped to the floor. There’s always one.

Then came a pair of key early tracks: the mighty Sludgefeast and Raisans, from You’re Living All Over Me. They sounded as weird and heavy and claustrophobic as they ever had. With some key exceptions I’ll get to, I respond to early Dino much more than the group’s major-label material, made after Barlow was fired. Mascis isn’t the world’s most expansive melodist, so the twisty-turny structures of the early songs make them more compelling to me. It provides the interest that for me isn’t there on something like Out There.

But there is one mid-1990s Dinosaur Jr song I love. Start Choppin’. And so when Mascis hit that oddly Nile Rodgers-like guitar intro, I was delighted. They did a good version, but this was one of those occasions where I’m so into the studio recording that any live version that doesn’t copy it exactly is going to disappoint me slightly. The tempo seemed a bit too fast, and Mascis’s solo didn’t have the tension and release of his studio effort, which begins as noise and then takes flight when he suddenly breaks into a glorious melodic section that shows off the flashier end of his technique.

Budge and Freakscene went over as well as you’d expect them to, and were delivered coolly, with no fuss, then there was a real treat as they finished the set with Forget the Swan, from their debut, Dinosaur. Mascis-penned but Barlow-sung, Forget the Swan is one of their best early songs, but it’s always been better live than on its anaemic studio incarnation. I wasn’t expecting them to play it, and they pretty much nailed it. Barlow’s delivery is of course massively more assured than it was in 1985, and he and Murph were brick-wall solid as Mascis wailed on top for four minutes or so to end the set, leaving his guitar screaming as the band walked off.

The versions of Tarpit and Raisans during the encore were a little perfunctory, as in honesty, they couldn’t top the way they’d ended the regular set.

So while it was maybe a notch or two below what I’d hoped for, a lot of which I’d put down to the venue just not being right for them, I enjoyed finally seeing them play, and I love the fact that Dinosaur Jr are still together with Barlow and Mascis are working side by side when for years there was such animosity (at least on Lou’s part), and that they’re making records that stand proudly with the work they did in their youth. So few other bands can say that.

Day of the Dead, Disc Two – some thoughts

Disc Two begins with Kurt Vile & the Violators, with J Mascis from Dinosaur Jr, taking on Box of Rain. Vile goes for faithful recreation rather than reinvention, and mostly gets away with it. Rob Laakso on bass evidently knows Phil Lesh’s part inside out, but Kyle Spence on drums is disappointing, two- and four-ing his way through the song in perfunctory fashion, with hardly a fill as evidence of enthusiasm. Still, it’s a success, in no small part due to Mascis’s guitar and unmistakable backing vocals.

Rubin and Cherise, from Garcia solo record Cats under the Stars, is tackled by Bonnie Prince Billy, who does a great job with a long story song built on a tricky foundation. He sounds completely in control of and engaged by the material, and the band do an impressive job. A definite highlight. The Lone Bellow do the same workmanlike job on Me and My Uncle they did on Dire Wolf. Moses Sumney’s peppy reading of Cassidy with Jenny Lewis is very nice; he puts himself so much at the service of the song that the recording doesn’t give much of a hint of what his voice can do. Nevertheless, it’s nicely done and I admire his egoless performance.

Lucius, a 5-piece indie pop band from Brooklyn, have the unenviable task of covering Uncle John’s Band, one of the most beloved songs from one of the Dead’s most beloved albums. They make the song totally their own, basing it mainly around a synth bass and the two singers’ harmonies, before unexpectedly taking the song to the disco after the first chorus. It’s a brave reimagining, and one of my favourite things on any of the five discs.

Sonic Youth’s Lee Ranaldo was a Grateful Dead fan before it was cool, so it’s good he’s here. My only regret is that his 12-string take on Mountains of the Moon, from Aoxomoxoa, didn’t allow him a chance to go deep into Jerry territory on his Jazzmaster. At any road, by going back to the Dead’s most psychedelically creative period, it serves as an effective curtain-raiser for what follows.

The centrepiece of disc two is Dark Star by Cass McCombs and Joe Russo. It’s a fittingly chilly, spooky reading that segues into Nightfall of Diamonds – the traditional Dark Star jam, here titled after a lyric from the song’s chorus and played by the same musicians. If there are places where the project’s house band (sundry Devendorfs and Dessners in various combinations, supplemented by a few others) seem a bit conservative compared to the Dead, on Nightfall of Diamonds they play more primally and really channel the spirit of the band. Dark Star/Nightfall of Diamonds is one of the best things on the whole album.

Transitive Refraction Axis for John Oswald, a piece by Tim Hecker, may need a bit of explaining. John Oswald is a Canadian composer who developed a style he called plunderphonics:

A plunderphone is a recognizable sonic quote, using the actual sound of something familiar which has already been recorded. Whistling a bar of “Density 21.5” is a traditional musical quote. Taking Madonna singing “Like a Virgin” and rerecording it backwards or slower is plunderphonics, as long as you can reasonably recognize the source.

The plunderphonic style was designed to be mischievous, though it can be somewhat sinister, since the results are often so abstract and unlike pop music. In 1994, Phil Lesh contacted Oswald and asked him to apply plunderphonics to the Grateful Dead’s music. Oswald went into the Dead’s vaults, and began arranging and juxtaposing snippets from live performances of Dark Star from different concerts, different decades even, into two hour-long pieces of music: Transitive Axis and Mirror Ashes. The amazing thing about them is how Oswald dropped the prankster aspect of his work: although not a fan going into the project, he treats the group’s source material with respect, reverence even, and put together something that, amazingly, sounds like a plausible real time event for huge stretches.

If Oswald was a non-fan, Hecker is an avowed Dead sceptic; a hater, even. Transitive Refraction Axis for John Oswald is what it says it is – a piece of music made under the influence of and out of respect to John Oswald, rather than the Grateful Dead. It’s diverting enough, but it doesn’t seem to really belong here. It’s here because Hecker is friends with Bryce Dessner, and this was a way of allowing Hecker to be involved.

I had high hopes for TV on the Radio’s Tunde Adebimpe taking on Playing in the Band with Lee Ranaldo on guitar, and while it’s not quite what I hoped it would be, the jam section does have some really cool sheets of guitar noise at the back of the mix that I like a lot.

Brokedown Palace by the Arcade Fire’s Richard Reed Parry with Iowa-born singer-songwriter Little Scream and, more intriguingly, The Band’s multi-instrumentalist genius Garth Hudson illustrates what is for me the key problem with many of the less successful readings on Day of the Dead – the addiction to sonic bigness.

I’ve hammered away on this nail many times over the years and probably you’re all bored now, but modern production as subscribed to by the majority of contemporary bands (and the National are wholehearted followers of contemporary engineering and mixing fashion) squashes instruments flat, particularly drums, with heavy compression in order to make the mix as loud as possible. This means that when arrangements get dense, as Brokedown Palace does at the end, with all the extra voices, there’s nowhere for the music to go, in much the same way as if I stand with my face up against a window, and you push me from behind, there’s nowhere for my face to go – instead, my features distort. You can have a big sound or a big arrangement, but in the zero-sum game of digital audio, you can’t have both.

It’s a disappointing end to the disc, but about half of it is very good indeed. My picks from Disc Two: Dark Star/Nightfall of Diamonds, Uncle John’s Band, Rubin and Cherise, Box of Rain.

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At some point, Phil Lesh stopped playing cool bass guitars. This one, though, this was cool

Underrated Drum Tracks I have Loved 2015, Part 10: Yeah We Know – Dinosaur Jr

Hi all. So we’ve come to the end of 2015’s Underrated Drum Tracks. I hope you’ve liked them. If you had half as much fun reading them as I did writing them, well, I’ve had twice as much fun writing them as you did reading them. I’ll be back at the weekend with something very non-drummy.

Let us now praise Murph.

J Mascis is the alt.rock guitar hero and Lou Barlow the bass player who stepped out of Mascis’s shadow to become an acclaimed songwriter in his own right, so Murph has played the stereotypical bassist’s role in Dinosaur Jr: the steady Eddie, the reassuring, dependable presence. The guy who’s pivotal in making it all happen but who you don’t always notice.

Murph left the band after 1993’s Where You Been, and Mascis took over the role of studio drummer for the last two Dino albums during the band’s first run, Without a Sound and Hand It Over. As is so often the case, you notice what a musician brings to the table most when they’re not there any more. Those two albums had some fine songs on them (Hand It Over‘s Never Really Bought It is a classic), but I miss Murph’s playing constantly. Mascis has nothing like the same authority behind the drums, he hits the brass too hard and he pushes the backbeat (hey, maybe I don’t like his playing because it reminds me of everything I worry that I’m doing wrong in my own playing).

Great rock music is about drums first (sole exception: Neil Young), so Dinosaur Jr are a great band only when powered by Murph. It’s true today; it was true in 1987. In Our Band Could Be Your Life, Michael Azzerad’s survey of the American post-hardcore scene, Lou Barlow complains that Mascis never appreciated the time and effort that he and Murph put into becoming a solid rhythm section for him. The book was written during the years of Barlow/Mascis animosity, and his complaints may have been overstated, but it’s true that something did click into place between he and Murph in the gap between You’re Living All Over Me and Bug, which perhaps came from the extra time they spent rehearsing as a duo. Their finest moments as a rhythm section (during the band’s first stint) are arguably all on Bug.

Chief among them is Yeah We Know, a virtual showcase for everything that’s great about Murph. The verse part is an obbligato for toms, snare and crash cymbals, repeated in full four times, which is replaced by a straighter 4/4 rock beat in the chorus, albeit one with very tightly composed snare fills every few bars (the patterns are repeated verbatim in all choruses) and a rumbling tom fill starting on the sixth bar of each sequence that climaxes with a hugely reverberant snare flam (the most artful production touch on the whole album). Murph takes something of a backseat during Mascis’s solo, merely repeating his established chorus patterns, but then comes his shining moment: a glorious middle section where Murph plays his most powerful, but most complicated, tom and snare patterns in tandem with Mascis’s wah-wah riffing and Barlow’s grinding distorted bass. Murph calls on some of the ideas used elsewhere in the song (laying off the hats, making heavy use of the rack and floor toms, using the crash cymbals to accentuate strong beats within the snare drum pattern), but taking them as far as he can. It’s Dinosaur Jr pretty much distilled to their essence, one of the most exciting passages of rock music I’ve ever heard.

Murph is so unsung, it’s untrue.

murph_lou_jamThe indispensable Murph

C + E – Lou Barlow

When I’ve been listening to an artist for a long time, eventually I stop wanting great albums and grand statements from them. There comes a point where I know what I think of them, have a good handle on their catalogue and only really need from each new record one or two songs that stand comparison with their best work. That’s all – a couple of songs to add an evolving iTunes playlist. In the last 10 years, Barlow’s solo debut, Emoh, gave me Legendary, a new and better version of Morning’s After Me* and Holding Back the Year. Thanks, Lou. On to the next one. Goodnight Unknown had The Right and The One I Call. Those will do nicely. Newie Brace the Wave I only acquired this morning, but it sounds very promising, and C + E already feels like one for the ages.

It’s always great to reconnect with Barlow’s music, to hear it as I heard it in my high-school years. It’s worth reiterating (for younger readers, if indeed I have any) that in the 1990s lo-fi was not an aesthetic choice so much as a practical necessity if you were working outside a traditional recording studio environment. Machines like the Tascam 414 and 424 (I still own one of both, though my dad is kindly warehousing them) allowed you to create multitrack recordings in your bedroom, but with such a low tape speed and four tracks crammed on to a quarter-inch cassette, the noise floor was high and the high end response limited. It didn’t matter. You could make records in your bedroom. The idea is now commonplace. In the early 1980s, when Bruce Springsteen used the newfangled Tascam 144 to create demos he would eventually release as Nebraska, it was something close to revolutionary.

Barlow – restlessly, relentlessly creative once J Mascis turfed him out of Dinosaur Jr – probably had no realistic choice but to go the home-recording route. Recording all his songs and tape loop experiments in a for-hire studio would have been pretty darn costly. As an alumnus of one of the most beloved bands in American indie rock he was always going to find a label interested in putting out his stuff, but how helpful was it that he could deliver them a record without any recording cost? Even once Sebadoh evolved into a real band around the time of III, Barlow’s portions were still home recorded. Anything released under the Sentridoh banner was home recorded. Early Folk Implosion was home recorded. The “Lou Barlow” records he’s made in the last 10 years have been recorded in his home studio or in a similar spirit, quickly and unfussily, in mid-range pro facilities.

This quick-and-unfussy vibe is exactly what his fans respond to. Of course, just because you’re recording at home on a Portastudio, doesn’t mean that the recording is a live performance with no overdubs and no punch-ins and no fixes and that there really was a live performance and this is it and golly gee isn’t this so unmediated and intimate and real?

But damned if it doesn’t feel that way sometimes.

Listened to objectively, C + E has its sonic problems: the vocal is loud in relation to the guitar; the ambient, roomy sound of the vocal has a clangy quality to it that’s not totally pleasant. None of this matters. The feeling the song creates makes all the rest irrelevent. C + E feels like a moment in time, a musician at his most unguarded.

That’s why the people who care about Lou Barlow (or Elliott Smith, or Robert Pollard, or any other home-recording auteur) care so much: because the music is so unvarnished, you feel a deeper connection to it, to the person who made it. Maybe it’s delusory to feel that way, but the illusion created is a powerful one.

Listening to Brace the Wave, and the extraordinary C + E, I’m struck over and again by the same thought. It’s great to hear Barlow, aged 49, still doing what he’s always been best at: banging on his guitar alone in a room, tearing at your heartstrings.

3 ages of Barlow
l-r Lou Barlow, Gavin Rossdale, Jerry Garcia**

*The original was from Colonel Jeffrey Pumpernickel, a multi-artist concept/compilation album (featuring lo-fi indie rockin’ vets like Mary Timony, Guided by Voices, Grandaddy, Quasi and the inevitable Steven Malkmus) about a military man with severe allergy-induced hallucinations. If that sounds too unbearably cute for you, be assured that Barlow brings some genuine pathos to his contribution, and that its origins as one chapter in a larger story don’t stop it being an effective standalone track on Emoh.

**I’m teasing of course. l-r Barlow in the late 1980s, the late 1990s and recently

Still no Clapton – 5 More Favourite Guitar Solos, Part 1: Start Choppin’ by Dinosaur Jr

When I was 15 or so, my three touchstone guitarists were Jonny Greenwood, Joey Santiago and J Mascis. All three were respected lead guitar players, but they made their reps by employing cool textures and melodies rather than a constant stream of slurred sextuplets. All three made a lot of noise a lot of the time – bound to appeal to any 15-year-old grunge fan – but all of them could turn out a tune, too. And none of them played a pointy guitar. This was – remains – important stuff. I can’t think of any guitarist I really admire (possible exception: Page Hamilton from Helmet) who plays/played a superstrat. They’re just not cool.

Mascis’s first solo on Dinosaur Jr’s 1993 single Start Choppin’ remains my absolute favourite of his. I’ve memorised every second of both of the song’s solos, but the first one is the real classic, the one that shows the full range of techniques at his disposal: messy oblique bends and vibrato unit abuse (the guy played a Jazzmaster, remember – the vibrato unit on a JM is only for the brave or the foolish), but also a great ear for melody, an instinct for phrasing and the ability to speed up and down the fretboard if the mood took him.

He starts off, in typical Mascis style, with ear-grabbing noise: an old Chuck Berry-style lick turned into something huge and nasty by the addition of an enormous bucket of gunky fuzz. It isn’t until you think his solo is going to collapse in on itself entirely and take the song with it that he pulls out the fancy stuff. That short passage after the rhythm guitar switches back to the main riff and the drummer switches to 16ths on the hats is masterly, and shows that Mascis has it in him to compete with the real technicians if he wants to; it’s just that he rarely does. He has a style: Neil Young, plus distortion pedals, plus dexterity. This is why the guy is still high profile enough for Fender to release not one but two guitars bearing his signature, a full 22 years after his band’s commercial heyday.

dinosaur-jr-start-choppin-blanco-y-negro
Angry Johnny’s awesome artwork for the Start Choppin’ single

Sebadoh

Yesterday I picked up tickets for Sebadoh’s London show later this year. I’ve never seen them before and Lou Barlow was and remains a pretty major influence on me as a musician, so I’m fairly psyched about this. I caught the New Folk Implosion line-up at Reading in 2001 and they were really good, but that’s the only Barlow-related gig I’ve ever seen. The ‘Doh pulled out of Glastonbury 1999 (as did Elliott Smith, curse my luck), which was the only previous time I was going to see them. I avoided the resissue-promo/nostalgia tours. So this is it. Jason Loewenstein, new drummer Bob D’Amico and Lou Barlow, at Dingwalls. Yeah, looking forward to it.

So I’ve been listening to Sebadoh since Thursday, more than I have in a long, long time.

When I’ve been listening to an artist for a long time, eventually I stop wanting great albums and grand statements from them. There comes a point where I know what I think of them, I feel like I’ve got a good handle on their catalogue and all I really need with each new record is one or two songs that stand comparison with their best work. That’s all: a couple of songs to add an iTunes playlist. Barlow’s solo debut, Emoh, gave me Legendary, a better version of Morning’s After Me (the original was from the Colonel Jeffrey Pumpernickel multi-artist concept/compilation album) and Holding Back the Year. Thanks, Lou. On to the next one. Goodnight Unknown had The Right and The One I Call. Yeah, he’s still got it.

Once you’re in this mindset, it changes the way you hear the back catalogue. You get less concerned with creating lists and taxonomies and Top 5s, and more with the overall shape of an artist’s career. You become aware, perhaps, that there are different accomplishments in music. I reckon Barlow’s one of the best songwriters of the last 25 years or so. He’s probably never written a genuinely great song (a Heard It Through the Grapevine, a Strawberry Fields Forever, a Someone to Watch Over Me – something of that calibre), but he’s written dozens of really good ones. I’m not sure whether that’s a greater achievement than managing to focus all your talent into one flawless song. The pop fan in me says it isn’t; the rock fan says it is. No surprise there.

If he ever made a great album, I think it’s the Folk Implosion’s One Part Lullaby, a sorely underrated record I’ve talked about here before. The nature of Sebadoh as a band, with its shifting line-ups and sometimes strained attempts to run itself as a democracy, always made it unlikely that they ever would make a sustained, consistent and great work of art. Lou was too likely to mawkishly overshare or indulge in another anti-Mascis rant; Eric Gaffney was too likely to come unglued (working out what distinguishes a good Gaffney song from a bad one is an entertaining, hilariously difficult enterprise) and unleash an Elixir is Zog rather than an Emma Get Wild.

For me, and I think many long-time fans, this is the point of the band. Barlow’s songs don’t work without Gaffney’s, or Loewenstein’s. Repeat sentence, change the order the names appear in. Listening to the band is like listening to the White Album writ large; the whole is greater than the sum of the parts, and the best stuff is made better by rubbing shoulders with the questionable.

But still, somefans are strangely apt to respond positively to one small era of the band’s history and disregard the rest. III is the oft-cited early 1990s lo-fi sprawlathon that launched a thousand home-taping imitations; Bubble & Scrape the last hurrah of the Gaffney era; Bakesale where the band turned up the drive on the guitars and Jason matured into a songwriter capable of providing an energetic, humorously aggressive foil to Barlow. But these fans, whether they champion III, Bubble and Scrape, Bakesale or, in those rare cases, Harmacy, will all agree that The Sebadoh was a stinker (I actually like it a lot), and they’ll usually have little time for what came after/before their favoured era, sometimes repudiating it entirely. The band have achieved elder-statesmen status now so the consensus opinion is mellowing a little, but 10 years ago there were a lot of former ‘Doh fans who didn’t want Barlow around reminding them of the confused awkward teenager they used to be when they listened to this stuff.

For me, that’s not what this band was about. If you like Sebadoh, how can you not appreciate Jason Loewenstein, who’s been a far more effective long-term foil to Barlow than Gaffney ever was? A punk-rock kind of guy with a useful sideline in smoky ballads, latter-day band recording engineer and all-round decent dude, Loewenstein got stronger and stronger as the band went on. There’s no one record containing top-level work from the three principal songwriters who have been members, either because they weren’t in the band at the time, or because they had only just joined, or because they were just a kid drafted in at a moment’s notice. Many things made Sebadoh great, not all of them present at the same time, and so there’s no defining Sebadoh record, and neither is there a best one.

Sebadoh__1_

Early Sebadoh: l-r Eric Gaffney, Lou Barlow, Jason Loewenstein

Chad Channing, honorary Hall of Famer; on Nirvana’s other drummer not being inducted to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

I’ve avoided talking about Nirvana on this blog this week. Every other site on the internet was running deep-and-meaningful Kurt Cobain retrospectives, and I didn’t want to seem like I was doing it just to get clicks. It’s hard for me to write sensibly about Nirvana, anyhow – more than any other band, it was Nirvana that made me pick up the guitar, play music, write songs. It’s because I heard Nirvana when I was, what, 12 or 13 that I’ve spent twenty years playing music, thinking about music and studying music. I can’t condense all of that into 500 or 1000 words. Every time I try it defeats me No, they’re not the best band that’s ever been, but their music was the catalyst for me. I don’t know where I might have channelled my energies if I hadn’t have been blown away by Smells Like Teen Spirit in high school. Possibly I’d be more employable.

The only way I can write about them is to go small, stick to one little issue. So here’s a post on Chad Channing, who wasn’t inducted with Nirvana to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Of course the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is unnecessary. Music fans create their own pantheons, and that’s absolutely as it should be. A surprising (to me) number of my favourite artists are in it, but an important minority are not, never will be. It’s nice when they recognise people I think are really important, and it doesn’t bother me when they don’t. The R&RHoF was founded by Ahmet Ertegun. He may have been a singularly smart businessman, but he also never stopped being a music fan, and so on the whole the HoF does a reasonable job of spotlighting the greats, even the less well-known, less commercially successful ones, and they’re pretty canny about who they pick as representative of ‘Rock and Roll’ (Popular Music Hall of Fame would have been an apter choice of name), revealing Gene Simmons as the unimaginative, dunderheaded bigot he obviously always has been. It’d have been nice to see him and his lame-ass band permanently excluded, just for Simmons’ reaction.

Inductions of band with multiple line-ups, though, is a genuinely tricky issue. Very awkward with Blondie a few years ago. No induction, too, for the Bobs – Welch and Weston – from Fleetwood Mac in 1998 (although gratifyingly the late sixties guitar trio of of Green, Kirwan and Spencer were all inducted). Inductions for vocal groups such as the Drifters, for whom Wikipedia lists 27 past or present members, are even more difficult for the Hall of Fame to cope with. The last few weeks saw a lot of back and forth over whether Chad Channing would be inducted with Nirvana. Channing was, by many counts, Nirvana’s fourth drummer. But let’s keep it simple. Dave Foster and Aaron Burckhard never recorded with the group. They’re out. Dan Peters (on loan from the then-on-hiatus Mudhoney) cut one song with them. The same as Andy White did with the Beatles. Anyone want to see Andy White added to the list of Beatles members? No? OK, Dan Peters is out too, then. Which leaves Dale Crover, Chad Channing and Dave Grohl. Crover toured with Nirvana, recorded with them too, but always on the understanding that it was a side gig; his day job was with the Melvins. Others would make a case for him. Being more hard-headed, I wouldn’t.

Channing, though, he should have gone in. It was very tough on him not to include him. He played on the majority of Bleach and a bunch of non-album tracks that ended up on Incesticide and on the With the Lights Out box set, 21 in total by my count (although I’m no completist and there may well be a bunch more I don’t know of). That’s a greater number than any drummer barring Dave Grohl. So in the absence of a proper induction for Channing, it was cool of Grohl to spend a minute of his speech talking about Chad, drawing people’s attention to the fact that a lot of the drum parts he gets most credit for are actually performances of parts that Channing devised. He handled a difficult situation gracefully, and I find it kind of hard to believe that he or Novoselic had a hand in Channing’s exclusion.

So, Chad Channing, honorary Hall of Famer, then. Let’s get a handle on him by taking a look at some of his parts.

In Bloom
I’ve been telling people for years that In Bloom was a Chad Channing drum part played by Dave Grohl. OK, Grohl might have played it tighter and more powerfully, but credit where it’s due. Bootlegged versions of the Smart session (also known as the Sheep session, recorded in Madison, Wisconsin, with Butch Vig, before Grohl joined the band) are out there if you want to hear them. Channing plays very well.

It’s an intriguing part. The hats are played in 16th notes, the kick mirrors it with its stuttering two-beat pattern at the start of each bar of the verse, while the snare is in quarters. In effect, the right hand and right foot are continually pushing the song forward, while the left hand pulls it back. Channing’s also responsible for the mighty tom fills in the intro (16th notes again) and for the inspired 8th-note triplet snare rolls in the choruses. Grohl brought the mighty snare roll (a full bar of 16th-notes) that takes the song into the chorus to the party – in Channing’s version, it’s only half the length, so the part is somewhat collaborative, but basically it’s Chad’s.

It’s a truly iconic part among drummers. The song would be immediately identifiable to most listeners from the drums alone. That’s a really hard trick to pull off while also playing for the song and refraining from showboating. But everything about the drums on this track is integral to the overall effect. For this alone, I’d have seen Channing inducted with the rest of the band.

School
There’s already bootleg footage of J Mascis sitting in with the surviving members of the band on this one the other night. It’s great.

School is typical of Channing’s playing on Bleach: loose, swinging and full of little details. He had a behind-the-beat style, sometimes at odds with the playing of Krist Novoselic, who’s more likely to ahead of the beat than behind it, but it’s all part of the signature feel of the album, which is claustrophobic and heavy in an oddly precarious way, like it might come apart at any moment.

School is not a simple part. After a 16th-note verse, with two kick patterns that alternate, bar by bar (and which Channing played with a double pedal, I think, although Grohl used to play it with a single pedal), the savage switch to a half-time feel would defeat many drummers. Channing switches to it via a triplet snare roll – a good choice for such a big change. His Bonham-esque whole-kit roll halfway through each chorus is a highlight, as is his increasingly frantic playing in the song’s middle section, before and during Cobain’s guitar solo. Not coincidentally, the tempo begins to speed up wildly here. It’s not particularly controlled, but it’s hugely exciting.

Negative Creep
More double-kick fun in this one. In truth, I’m not a big fan of double kick playing generally. Too often it tends to lead a sort of martial stiffness, leaving the music very straight and rigid. Negative Creep is not rigid. Channing didn’t base his whole style on double kick. He used it for little touches in grooves that otherwise could have been played with a single pedal (Grohl adapted the part, missing out the mini rolls on the kick). It’s cool and quietly inventive.

Between Channing’s galloping kick drum, and Cobain’s increasingly hysterical vocal, it once again sounds like it’s about to fly off your turntable at any moment. But that’s part of its charm. The abandon was a key part of what attracted a lot of people to this band.

 

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Nirvana, 1989, l-r Kurt Cobain, Jason Everman, Chad Channing, Krist Novoselic

No Hendrix, no Clapton, no Vai – five personal favourite guitar solos, part 2

It occurs to me that from the title of these posts, people might think I don’t like Hendrix or Steve Vai. Far from it. I like Hendrix plenty, and I don’t dislike Steve Vai although I wouldn’t want to listen to the majority of his music. I have less than no time for Clappo though)

2) The Tourist – Radiohead (solo by Jonny Greenwood)
If you played guitar in the late nineties, you worshipped at the altar of Jonny Greenwood. Radiohead were one of those bands that transcended tribal boundaries. Metal kids liked them. Grunge kids liked them. Punkers liked them well enough too. It seemed like everyone who was into rock music, and certainly everyone who played it, liked them.

For guitar players, the interplay between the group’s three guitarists (Greenwood, Ed O’Brien and Thom Yorke) was one of the chief reasons. The other was Greenwood’s furious lead guitar, which was in the tradition of such post-punker players as Keith Levene, John McGeoch, Johnny Marr, J Mascis and Robin Guthrie, and eschewed fast scalar runs and blues licks for textures, noise, dissonance, modal melodies and sheer squonkiness. True, he made use of oblique bends and octave chords – which in lead guitar terms were popularised by Hendrix and Wes Montgomery respectively – so he wasn’t inventing a new grammar of lead guitar out of whole cloth. But he was adventurous, dissonant, unconventional, angular and popular. There are hundreds of thousands of people my age who learned the Complete Works of Greenwood as 16-year-olds. Levene and McGeoch were great players, but in comparison, they are unknowns.

My favourite piece of Greenwood guitar comes at the end of The Tourist, the closing track on OK Computer, when his raging guitar solo shatters the uneasy calm of the song’s previous three and a half minutes. It’s a moment as raw and exciting as his infamous muted grunts just before the chorus of Creep. It’s often said by folks who dislike fast guitar playing that if you can’t sing along to it, then it’s not a good solo. You couldn’t sing along to the solo on The Tourist. It’s not without melody, but the importance it places on tunefulness is way below that which it places on noise, on jaggedness, on impurity of form (remember that The Tourist mixes up bars of 12/8 and 9/8, so the song’s very form resists the deployment of easy riffs and phrases). It’s like some sort of unstoppable eruption.

For a generation of guitar-playing kids, the solo on The Tourist was just the final piece of awe-inspiring guitar playing on an album full of them. And not that Radiohead haven’t made good music since, but the disappearance of Jonny Greenwood the guitar hero is a continuing source of regret to many of us.

jonny

Hurray for Jonny!