Tag Archives: Tanya Donelly

Yet More Live Gonzos, part 2: This Hungry Life – Tanya Donelly

When researching this album, I came across a website of travel memories by Steph and Craig Smith, who were at the second night of recording, and they graciously agreed to talk to me about the experience, and allowed me to use some of the photos they took that night. Their recollections were invaluable to me when writing this piece, and I’d like to thank them again for sharing their time and memories with me.

Over two hot and sticky August nights in 2004, a small audience gathered in the lobby of The Windham, a disused historic hotel in Bellows Falls, Vermont. They were there to witness a special live performance by Tanya Donelly, former Belly singer-songwriter and lead guitarist in Throwing Muses and the Breeders. Over the two evenings, Donelly performed three sets, all of which were recorded, with two of them consisting of entirely new material except for a cover of George Harrison’s White Album masterpiece Long, Long, Long. Selected takes from those two sessions were released as her fourth solo album, This Hungry Life, in 2006.

In a recent piece, I looked at Jackson Browne’s Running on Empty, which consists of tracks recorded live in concert, in motel rooms, backstage and even on the tour bus. But we didn’t really spend much time comparing live recording with the typical studio experience, either as it existed then or now.

In a studio environment, tracking often becomes a near-scientific process of totally separating sound sources, allowing for completely independent processing and editing of all of those isolated individual tracks, during both tracking and mixing. Even if the band aces a take and no edits are required, if all the sound sources were recorded in the same room without separation, you wouldn’t be able to process one sound source without changing the sound of the others, at least subtly: if I wanted to brighten the overheads on the drums with some EQ, it would boost the treble on all the guitars, too. For this reason, while musicians may play takes together live while standing in the same room, they usually do so while wearing headphones and with their amps all isolated from each other in separate booths or behind screens. Musicians who play acoustic instruments need to be in a separate room (usually small, acoustically treated “dead” rooms called iso booths).

In the 2000s, this began to change due to the advent of the digital audio workstation (DAW, recording software), which allows for high-resolution digital recording not necessarily in a dedicated studio environment or with all the expensive analogue technology that pro studios routinely employed.

I’d venture to say that nowadays most artists of Donelly’s stature record much of their music at home with Pro-Tools, Logic, Cubase or some other recording software, heading into a professional facility at the start of the process to track live drums (if any) and maybe at the end to mix the record on a pro-level desk and/or print the mixes to half-inch tape. Projects get passed around between band members, who add their parts remotely using their own home recording set-ups*.

However, sixteen years ago in 2004, the full impact of DAW software was yet to be felt within the music industry, and most veteran artists like Donelly would still have been used to recording almost entirely in studios, if on smaller budgets than they’d have had 10 years previously.

What Donelly was doing in Bellows Falls was rather different to either the traditional studio recording experience or the emerging trend towards home recording (albeit that on-location recording was made easier by the advent of digital technology and This Hungry Life was almost certainly recorded digitally). Having all the musicians play live together with no separation between sound sources limits the possibility of independent editing or punch-ins to fix small flubs, and an audience there to witness any mistakes is a long way from the controlled environment of the professional studio. Working that way is pretty brave, and may be seen as more than a little eccentric.

So why do it? Many musicians – perhaps most – will tell you that the downsides outweigh any potential benefits. Those people, on the terms they’re arguing, may even be right.

But the pressure of needing to perform and be great in the moment – so you don’t blow things for the rest of the band, and so you entertain the audience – can force everyone to raise their game. Musicians, especially seasoned ones, are often most comfortable recording the way they’re used to playing at gigs and rehearsals – everyone in a room together, with lots of non-verbal communication such as eye contact to help everyone navigate complex sections. Perhaps the majority of musicians nowadays do prefer incremental, additive recording strategies, but there are still a cadre who like doing things a bit more old school.

Donelly seems to be one of those who do thrive on the pressure of recording live and needing to get things right there and then. This Hungry Life was not the first time she’d done something like this. She and her former band Belly had recorded their second album, King, live at Compass Point studios in Nassau, with just a few overdubs. This lent it a vintage, somewhat messy feel in its early 1995 context of highly produced and clinically mixed pseudo-alternative records such as Throwing Copper and Collective Soul. This Hungry Life was simply the same idea as Donelly had had with King taken a few steps further.

I asked Steph and Craig what it was like to be present at that Saturday session, as I was particularly interested to know whether it felt like a gig that was being recorded or a recording session that happened to have an audience:

It felt more like a recording session. There were strict rules for the audience; we couldn’t take photos during the songs or do anything that might possibly make a sound. We were instructed to allow a moment of silence after each song before applauding, so that there was no bleed-over into the song itself. The weather was extremely hot and the air conditioner was too loud to run during recording. So this meant there were breaks after every couple of songs, so that people could go outside to get some fresh air and so that they could run the air conditioning for a few minutes to try to cool the room down. So it felt more like “takes” of songs rather than a cohesive set. That being said, they did all 10 songs, then circled back to do additional takes of songs that needed it (“Littlewing” being one). Plus these were brand new songs that nobody in the audience had heard before (with the exception of the folks who had attended the prior night, of course).

Steph also took me through the layout of the room itself:

The room was very small but elegant. There were blue velvet curtains on the windows and a blue velvet curtain separating the main room from the bathroom area. There was a bar in the rear corner of the room. There were six rows of chairs set up, accommodating around 50 people. There were a couple of tables in the back of the room. We were seated in the third row.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAAmps, mikes and cables at the Windham

Steph’s memories of the night accord with my experience of listening to it. There’s a definite charge from the fact that this was happening live, but overall it’s still a carefully controlled sound (props to the recording engineer Brian Brown). Indeed, certain songs, lacking audience noise and applause, either before or after, make it difficult to tell it was recorded live at all, the biggest giveaway being the sound of Joan Wasser’s electric viola.

If you’re going to record live, it helps to have a crack team of musicians at your disposal, and Donelly did. Her band at the Windham sessions comprised Rich Gilbert (Human Sexual Response, Frank Black, Jack White) on pedal steel and electric guitar, Dean Fisher (Juliana Hatfield) on guitar, Joe McMahon (Smoke or Fire) on double bass, Arthur Johnson (Come) on drums and Joan Wasser (Rufus Wainwright and Antony & the Johnsons; she also records her own songs as Joan As Police Woman) on viola and backing vocals. Buffalo Tom’s Bill Janovitz also sang backup.

These are folks are all capable of playing expressively and powerfully, or pulling back to something restrained and minimal when the moment demanded. The songs on This Hungry Life saw them doing plenty of both. Kundalini Slide and the joyous River Girls alternate between gentle verses and passionately forceful choruses, while the cover of Long, Long, Long is a very creditable attempt to replicate the spectral wooziness of the Beatles recording. Steph spoke fondly of the exuberant NE, which opens the record with a reference to New England’s unreliable weather (“It’s June, and I’m still wearing my boots”), and Littlewing, which is built on a cool bowed double bass part from Joe McMahon (and isn’t a cover of the similarly titled Hendrix song).

My favourite, though, remains the title track. This Hungry Life is a song of extraordinary empathy and wisdom. Written in the aftermath of the invasion of Iraq, the song begins by surveying the wreckage of a world on fire (the title of another song on the record):

Night falls and the rain comes
And the rain goes
And the moon is a stain when you’ve lost something.
And you wait and you wait
And you wait
For the end or the girl or the song
Or the boy or the faith
Or the leader who won’t bring you shame
And you wait and you wait
And you wait.

But crucially, it offers the hope that we, in whatever small way we can, might be able to make a difference, even if only in our own lives and the lives of those closest to us:

This hungry life won’t let you out whole
But you can change a thing or two
Before you go.
This hungry life
Might not leave you with much,
But you can change your story
And throw a hand up from the mud.

Donelly had seldom taken on such big themes in her work without the use of metaphor. She talked often in her days in Belly of her attraction to fairy tale and fable, which allowed her to find ways to explore the world in her songs without staying in the world of the literal and material. There’s no fairy tale in This Hungry Life – it’s one adult addressing another, simply and directly, a small moment of solidarity and understanding and hope that things may one day be better. It’s depressing how relevant This Hungry Life still feels (anyone else waiting for a leader who won’t bring you shame? I know I am), nearly 15 years down the line.

It’s a remarkable performance from the band, too. Johnson keeps a quiet pulse with brushes, while McMahon’s double bass reinforces the little suspended riff on electric guitar that recurs throughout the song. Both parts are perfect as unobtrusive accompaniment. It’s Gilbert who really shines, though, dealing in texture rather than melody, never distracting from Donelly’s vocal, or the supporting harmonies from Wasser and Janovtiz. It’s a delicate spell that the band cast for the song’s six minutes, but it’s a powerful one.

This Hungry Life (the album) won’t be to everyone’s taste, and seems to be a little bit forgotten in Donelly’s discography, for reasons perhaps unrelated to the way it was recorded. Some fans will miss the refinement of a true studio recording, though I suspect those who liked Belly’s King more than Star would find this one appealing too. My one gripe with the way the album is presented is the inconsistent way Donelly and Brown handled the applause from the audience, which is an issue Steph and Craig raised while talking to me about the record:

The applause and audience reaction on the album is a bit of a curiosity to us. They probably could have omitted the applause altogether to get more of a studio feel, or they could have left more of it intact to give more of a live feel. The way it stands now, the audience reaction is present but the levels are way down (sounds like a soundboard bootleg). I fall on the side of thinking that they should have put more audience in… double down on the enthusiasm the crowd expressed after hearing these new songs in such an intimate setting. Whereas Craig is surprised that they included it at all, as he was under the impression from the first that they were going for a studio feel and we were just observers who would have been in the sound booth if possible.

I feel similarly to Steph that, since they decided to include the applause, it would have been nice if it had been more prominent. Equally, I see where Craig is coming from – having asked the audience to wait a second or two after the last chord faded out before applauding, they could easily have left the applause out altogether. The way it’s mixed on the album is a rather unsatisfactory half measure.

That said, it’s a minor flaw and it doesn’t really spoil what’s still a really interesting album, especially if you’re interested in live recordings; this is a way of working that virtually no one practises anymore. And if you do hear the record, you’ll probably find half of its songs sticking with you. While, like Steph and Craig, I find other Donelly records more satisfying (Beautysleep is my favourite among her solo albums; King is my Belly pick), the title track alone makes This Hungry Life one to hear if it passed you by on its release in 2016.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERARich Gilbert, Tanya Donelly and Dean Fisher, tuning up, I reckon

*Obviously, Covid-19 is forcing everyone to work this way, but it was already a prevalent recording strategy for musicians looking to maximise budgets. Sending files between musicians via Dropbox or WeTransfer and having everyone record separately saves on travel expenses, studio costs, accommodation and F&B. I’ve made almost an entire album with Yo Zushi this way during lockdown. One song contains a live basic track of drums and acoustic guitar we made in the same room last November – the rest has been done remotely, with files sent back and forth via WeTransfer.

Miss America – Mary Margaret O’Hara

Mary Margaret O’Hara’s debut album, Miss America, is a one-off in a literal sense.

Released in 1988 by Virgin, four years after the bulk of the recording had been completed, Miss America remains O’Hara’s only studio album proper. Eleven songs and 44 minutes long, it basically carries the entire O’Hara cult (mythos, even) on its back. Fortunately, it’s strong enough the bear the weight.

O’Hara’s sound remains singular. It doesn’t sound like 1983 or ’84, when it was recorded, or 1988, when it was released, or any time at all, really. She and her band went down avenues that had thitherto been unexplored by any musician, and no one has since followed her down, for all that she’s been cited as an inspiration by musicians including Kristin Hersh, Tanya Donelly, Perfume Genius, Jeff Buckley, Michael Stipe and that despicable bigoted old fool Morrissey.

Circumstances surrounding the making of Miss America remain a little misty. Production is credited to guitarist Michael Brook, but Andy Partridge from XTC is known to have worked on the record briefly. Some versions of the story have him leaving after a day, finding O’Hara too difficult to work with; others have her shit-canning him and engineer John Leckie because Partridge disparaged her band and Leckie was a follower of Rajneesh, of which O’Hara disapproved. Joe Boyd has said that most of the tracks were recorded and co-produced by him at Rockfield Studios in Wales in 1984 (he doesn’t say whether the co-producers were O’Hara, Brook or both).

What we do know for sure is that Virgin didn’t like it, insisting that more songs be written and recorded, and that the record’s release was delayed for years. But while Miss America is undoubtedly unusual, it’s hard to imagine that the finished record was light years away from the demos, or that those demos hadn’t displayed O’Hara’s unorthodox vocals. Why Virgin ever thought that O’Hara had cheated them out of a hit by going all strange on them, God only knows.

Listening to Miss America, it is hard to tear yourself away from the vocal performances that so aggrieved Virgin. Van Morrison is the usually cited point of comparison, and there’s something to that; both singers are interested in getting past literal semantic meaning. Both enjoy playing with the sound of words, altering stress and rhythm, pushing the beat as far as they can until the vocal almost sounds unmoored from the music that surrounds them. Both singers love to play in what would usually be the space between lines.

Unlike the jazzy Morrison, who reportedly sings live as the band plays, O’Hara’s method was to wait until the backing track had been recorded to her satisfaction – and the band’s playing throughout is impressive; superhumanly clean and precise – and then riff on her written melodies and lyrics. No take recreated the previous one. Each song was a process of discovery. On her most febrile performances (Year in Song, say), it’s possible to hear her stumbling on a new idea that she can work with for a few bars (her rasped “I’m not ready to go under”; the metamorphosis of “joy is the aim” to “is the aim, eh, joy?”; “pretty soon too much”). Even compared to Van Morrison at his most free, it’s questing, visionary stuff, utterly removed from the usual work of the popular-music singer.

While her more exploratory performances may be the defining element of her artistry, there are several lovely country-torch songs at the record’s still heart, songs that Patsy Cline or late-’80s kd lang could have recorded: Dear Darling, Keeping You in Mind and You Will Be Loved Again. It’s the play of these songs against the tougher material – My Friends Have, Year in Song and the deathless, wonderful Body’s in Trouble, which I must have listened to 15 times in the couple of days I was writing this – that makes Miss America such a three-dimensional classic, and that explains the ardour of her fans, who may have given up expecting O’Hara to make another record, but probably haven’t quite given up hope.

Miss-America

Pneuma – 50 Foot Wave

In the mid-1990s, the economics of the record industry caught up with Kristin Hersh. She couldn’t afford to keep Throwing Muses on the road and the band weren’t selling enough records to justify the effort and expense of making them under the old model. Her solo albums, on the other hand, were very useful money-spinners: cheap and quick to knock out, and cheap and simple to tour behind. Have guitar will travel. Cheaply.

But eventually she reconvened the Muses for what longtime fans assumed would be one last hurrah, a self-titled record released in 2003. A belligerent-sounding effort, only marginally sweetened by the presence of Muses co-founder Tanya Donelly on harmony vocals, it contained many of the elements she would bring the following year to her new band, 50 Foot Wave: asymmetrical song structures, knotty time signatures and elliptical melodies.

Hersh has written (in her memoir, released as Rat Girl in the US and Paradoxical Undressing in the UK), that she has heard music in her head since a car hit knocked her off her bike in 1985 and her head slammed into the ground. In the mid-2000s, the songs she was hearing called for a different approach, particularly percussively. They needed greater aggression, more power, less finesse. David Narcizo, a player with impressive marching-band snare drum skills but fundamentally a guy with a light touch, was replaced by Rob Ahlers, who plays with enormous power and what sounds like desperation, as if his drums need to be constantly beaten off with sticks lest they do him some kind of physical injury.

Golden Ocean, the band’s 2004 debut full-length, was a shock in an age when so much popular rock music aped the loose-limbed grooves of British post-punk and the first side of David Bowie’s Low. Frantic and scabrous, 50 Foot Wave were unapologetically about power, energy and attack. Hersh, her voice long since abraded into an old-lady croak (a croak that, if I’m honest, limits the appeal to me of hearing her in acoustic guitar-and-vocal mode; it’s not a subtle instrument), frequently broke into raspy screams as the snare drum took a vicious beating. To give you an idea of the tone of Golden Ocean, Pneuma – one of the best things on the record, but by no means the only standout – hinges on a breakdown section where Hersh drawls “You know what?” three times over guitar feedback, as if beckoning the listener to come closer to her, before screaming, “Shut the fuck up!” But while the music was somewhat difficult – loud and confrontational, and with frequent hard left turns in structure and rhythm – it was the best record she made in the noughties, the more welcome for being so unexpected.

50ftwave1l-r Hersh, Muses/50 Foot Wave mainstay Bernard Georges, Rob Ahlers

Belly @ Kentish Town Forum, 21/07/16

I don’t write about every gig I go to, but of course I had to post some thoughts about this one…

Belly were one of my favourites when I was a teenager. I loved both of the band’s albums, Star and King, and listened to them hundreds of times. I loved Star‘s mix of beguiling tunes and unsettling fairy-tale imagery, and King‘s intimate, band-in-a-room vibe. But as I didn’t hear either record until after Belly had already broken up, I didn’t have a chance to see the band play live – until they announced a reunion tour earlier this year. I picked up my tickets pretty quickly.

Belly’s slim canon was something of a blessing in the context of a reunion show. The band played for two hours, with a short intermission and no support act (hallelujah), so there was nothing I really wanted to hear that they didn’t play, and no key text (other than maybe Angel from Star and the title track from King) that was omitted. The band, laughing and joking between songs, were clearly having a blast and thankful for an audience that still cared twenty years down the line.

They’re still a tiny bit rusty (they played a couple of warm-up shows in Newport, RI, then came over here for the British leg of the tour; by the time they go back to the States, I expect they’ll be up to full speed), but they played really well. White Belly from Star (much underrated song, that – there’s a whole novel in the lines “Made a mistake on a fire escape in San Francisco; worked my way back in a hallway in LA”) was an early highlight, Red got the crowd jumping (time signature changes confounding most of them), Gepetto was a joyful sing-along and Full Moon, Empty Heart showed Tanya Donelly’s voice is no less elastic than it was in her twenties.

To my delight, personal favourites The Bees and Thief (both King era, the latter a B-side) both got an airing. The Bees (played halfway through their first set) was a bit of a moment for me, actually; it was during the first verse that it really came home that I was watching a favourite band play a favourite song for the first and probably only time. If I had to pick one stand-out moment, that’d be it – even more so than the obvious live favourites and singles (Dusted, Feed the Tree, Gepetto, Now They’ll Sleep, Super Connected, Seal My Fate). Pat, the old friend from high school who lent me his copy of Star all those years ago, felt similarly about eerie gothic melodrama Low Red Moon, one of the centrepiece tracks from Star, which the band played halfway through their second set and absolutely nailed. Chis Gorman on drums was on particularly commanding form on that one, holding the band to a perfect tempo and giving his snare drum an authoritative pounding; at the song’s end, Donelly turned to him and made some sort of gesture of appreciation. It was typical of the warm spirit of the whole evening.

It wouldn’t be a Songs from so Deep gig review if I didn’t mention the sound mix. It was, I guess, adequate. The drums were solid and powerful, partly due to Chris Gorman, who as I said gave his drums a determined thumping throughout, but his brother Tom Gorman’s guitar didn’t fare so well – it was a murky and barely discernable presence for the entire first set, and an uncontrolled feedbacky presence for the second (he was playing a Gretsch semi-acoustic and every time he stopped playing, it started to feed back). It was far from the worst live mix I’ve ever heard, but I was very worried during the opening track (Puberty), as only the drums and Donelly’s vocal were audible. Thankfully, things improved a bit for the rest of the first set, and some tweaks seemed to be made during intermission, so the sound didn’t hamper my enjoyment of the gig.

With reformed bands, I try to go in with no expectations. It’s worked pretty well this last couple of years, where many of the gigs I’ve seen have been forty- or fifty-something muscians getting the old band back together and playing their old songs. But still, I’d have been disappointed if the show had been only OK. It was much, much better than that.

78Well-preserved Belly

The Ride – Joan as Police Woman

Joan as Police Woman’s first album came out in the summer of 2006, and was the last album I bought* while sharing a house with friends in Ladywell. A few weeks after it came out, I moved back to Southend.

Real Life is a record that’s appropriate to starting a new phase in your life; it seems to have come out of a new phase in Joan Wasser’s. The record’s key lyric (in the title track, which opens the record), “I’ve never included a name in a song/But I’m changing my ways for you Jonathan”, insists that the singer is in a new and better place.

Certain reviews of Real Life made an inevitably big deal of Wasser’s relationship with Jeff Buckley, but to view her through the prism of one relationship is reductive. Over a lifetime many things will happen to most people, and all leave their mark. Real Life is sometimes a serious listen, but it’s also cautiously joyful, playful, meditative, defiant, comforting and sexy. The world is not without  good singers, tight bands, stellar songwriters and (even now, albeit only occasionally) records that sound as good as this, but the range of emotions contained on Real Life’s songs is the album’s distinguishing feature. It’s what gives it an unmistakeable authority.

Much coverage was also dedicated to Wasser’s time playing with Antony and the Johnsons and Rufus Wainwright. Both at the time were still pretty high-profile artists, so it was understandable, if lazy. But her own work was substantially different to both, although Antony Hegarty guests on I Defy, an album highlight. Instead, Real Life is essentially a soul record with an indie rock sensibility, and when the two strands of Wasser’s work are intertwined so completely as to be indivisible, that’s when the album is most itself. The straightforward rock songs, Eternal Flame (not the Bangles’ one) and Christobel, hint at Wasser’s past in the Dambuilders and her time backing Lou Reed and Tanya Donelly, but Feed the Light, with its uneasy vocal harmony and squealing noises, and Save Me, with its heavy groove and half-whispered, half-yelped interjections of “Save me!”, are where the Real Life is differs from the Norah Jones and Corinne Bailey Rae records that it may sometimes superficially resemble. And of course, both Jones and Bailey Rae have moved a long way from their starting points of MOR jazz and trad. soul revivalism respectively.

But for all this, my two favourites are the ones most obviously derived from 1970s soul: Anyone (“I’m ready to start to be ready…”) with its languorous 6/8 tempo and dominant horn chart, and The Ride, a beautiful, hushed ballad based on electric piano and the sympathetic playing of original bandmembers Rainy Orteca (bass) and Ben Perowsky (drums).

The Ride is one of those perfect songs you only get once every few years. When Wasser’s voice glides from a sleepy alto to its highest register to sing the final chorus, it’s the sound of someone throwing caution to the wind and declaring themselves. It’s exhilarating and moving and triumphant.

Real Life was a stunning record, beautifully recorded by Bryce Goggin: lush and spacious, deep and rich, competitively loud but with drums crystal clear and retaining their punch. It’s one of my favourite records of the last decade, and one I still listen to frequently now.

joan

*From Morps, the record stall in the now closed Lewisham model market
**A post about Bailey Rae’s alt. rock past and time signed to heavy-metal label Roadrunner may one day happen
***He’s played with a huge range of artists, from John Zorn and Joseph Arthur – who guests on Real Life – to Clem Snide and Charles and Eddie

King by Belly

Belly have reformed. Let’s start there.

I didn’t expect that to happen. I got the impression from Tanya Donelly’s somewhat sporadic musical activity in the last ten years that she was done with the music industry, and that she’d soon fade from public view altogether, as implied by the title of the EP series she’s been working on for the last few years, Swan Song. I was totally cool with that. There’s something dignified and graceful in getting out and choosing to stay out.

But there are plenty of precedents for reunited bands doing great work in their second phase: Mission of Burma, Dinosaur Jr, The Go-Betweens, Alice in Chains, even, with a different lead singer. So if Belly are going to come back and do it for real – a new album as well as a tour – sign me up. I’ve got nothing but respect for them – I hope they have a blast and make some decent dough doing it.

It’s somewhat over 21 years since the band’s second, and so far, final album came out. King is one of those records that has stuck with me a long time. I first heard it in 1998, after the band had already broken up, and it stayed on heavy rotation on my stereo for a couple of years. Nowadays, as with most of the records that if pushed I’d pick as my favourites, I don’t really listen to it. But the announcement of a new tour (tickets on sale tomorrow – if I don’t get any, you’ll probably hear my anguished cries) made it inevitable that it would soundtrack my journey to and from work today.

I’ve written about the record very briefly before but let me recap, even more briefly. King was recorded by engineer/producer Glyn Johns at Compass Point studios in Nassau. Johns had worked on Let it Be, Let it Bleed, Stage Fright, Who’s Next and Led Zeppelin (just to take the five biggest titles from his discography). Working with a guy like that was an extremely unusual move for an alternative rock band in 1995, when every record label just wanted Andy Wallace or, if he wasn’t available, one of those Lord Alge brothers with that new-fangled drum sound of theirs. Johns was as old school as it got, and his work on King made it stand out a mile.

Johns encouraged the band to record the album live: two guitars, bass and drums, all together, all bleeding into each other. Even the vocals. “Any band that can play a gig can play live in a studio,” he’s said. “There was no backup plan.”

This was not standard industry practice in 1995, and in 2016 is practically unheard of. When you record this way, every microphone contains ambient sound as well as the direct sound of whatever instrument the microphone is primarily picking up. Bass goes into the guitar mics. Drums go into the bass amp mic. Everything goes into everything else. Fine, if the band can play well. But because nothing can be edited independent of any other sound source, it’s a method of recording that forces you either to not make mistakes, or to make them and live with them.

King is full of mistakes. It’s a document of band, and a band that were, for all their many virtues, not Steely Dan. Donelly’s voice cracks. Chris Gorman’s drums threaten to fall apart on Seal My Fate and Silverfish. Gail Greenwood hardly gets on a one in 45 minutes. Real-time fader and pan-pot moves are plainly audible.

It sounds great. I wouldn’t want to hear it mixed any other way.

This sound is perfect for the set of songs Donelly had written (largely in collaboration with Tom Gorman). Less surreal and sinister than the songs on Star, King tracks like Judas My Heart and The Bees still demonstrate that quality of prime-era Donelly: a gorgeous, indelible melody coupled with a lyric that seeks to hide its vulnerability behind images and symbols, the urge to be plainspoken and honest fighting with the urge to protect oneself. Thus The Bees can contain lyrics as imagistic as:

Now the bees behind my eyes sing beware

and as plain-spoken as:

I steal a piece of your diary
I don’t think that looks like me
Am I so cold now that I’m older?
I tell you stories
That doesn’t mean you know me

At this point, the record’s slower, more interior-looking songs – The Bees, Seal My Fate and Silverfish – are my favourites, but if sparkly, guitar-heavy pop is more your thing, King has plenty of that, too. Red, Super-Connected and Now They’ll Sleep are all neglected White Album-ish classics, and the title track is a grindy, initially unpromising grower that halfway through suddenly becomes something else entirely.

Star is the record that Belly will be remembered for, and it’s obvious why. Its best songs are extremely portable. Taken out of their context and played on the radio or placed on a iTunes playlist, Gepetto and Feed the Tree sound just wonderful. Star has some great second-tier material, too. Dusted. Slow Dog. Sad Dress. White Belly. I love them all. But King? King is timeless. King is its own thing. Nothing was like it then, nothing is like it now.

belly stephen dirado

Belly on the beach in Nassau during the recording of King, 1995)

Pod by the Breeders

Hi there. It’s the day after the UK general election today, and I have to admit, I didn’t feel a great deal like writing anything other than a long, angry rant. But that would just have made me feel worse without actually changing anything. Instead I decided it’d be a good idea to write about something I genuinely don’t have a bad word for: Pod, by the Breeders, a subject I’ve been holding in reserve for a month or so. On another day, my write-up might have been more exuberant, but this is what I’ve got in me today.

A couple of years ago a bit of a, um, splash was made about the 20th anniversary of the Breeders’ second album, Last Splash. That’s the one with Cannonball, Divine Hammer and Saints on it. I remain unconvinced by Last Splash. I’ll go into bat for Divine Hammer and Cannonball, even if I personally have no wish to hear it again. The cover of Drivin’ on 9 is a career highlight for Kim Deal as a singer. No Aloha and New Year I’ll keep. That’s five out of 15. The rest I’d struggle to say anything about, good, bad or indifferent.

Pod, though. Pod sounds stranger and more wonderful every year. I never stop going back to it. And if I ever needed an excuse to write about it, it’s 25 years old this year.

OK, Mr So Deep, you say. Pod. The one with Tanya Donelly on it, recorded by Steve Albini? Pretty obvious why you like that one more, isn’t it?

Well, I can’t deny my fondness for those two artists. But Pod is Deal’s album. Literally so, as the plan that Donelly and Deal cooked up for the Breeders originally is that they’d make an album of Deal songs before then making a record of Donelly songs (they demoed some of the material that Donelly ended up using for the first Belly record, Star). Deal sang lead and wrote or co-wrote every song on Pod except the cover of the Beatles’ Happiness is a Warm Gun.

There’s nothing else like it; the closest I’ve heard is the Breeders’ own Title TK, but that’s a weak brew indeed compared to Pod. There’s a hint of the Pixies (still Deal’s main band at the time, and would remain so for another year or so after Pod’s release) in the way the songs put classic AB form in the service of some unlikely, surreal, subjects. The way that Deal’s and Donelly’s guitars play around each other sometimes recalls the interplay of Kristin Hersh and Donelly on Throwing Muses records (like Deal, Donelly had one more record with her main band left in her at this point).

But even with those precedents, it’s a singular album. The arrangements are sparse – there’s much less of that steady-state distorted guitar that you get on Pixies records – and the record is very “live” sounding: there’s background chatter audible at the end of songs, and all the way through the quiet, spoken intro verses of Metal Man; a spontaneous-sounding outro jam extends When I Was a Painter by over a minute (a long time when the record only lasts half an hour); Deal’s voice breaks into a squeal on Oh! and is left uncorrected. Overdubs sound few, and it wouldn’t surprise me if there were none at all.

It’s far from passionless, but it is somewhat detached-sounding. Indeed the album’s most compelling music comes from the tension between Deal’s frequently blank delivery and the themes and ideas that the lyrics hint at but never fully reveal. While dark, the effect is always just short of menacing, since Deal and Donelly are not sparing with hooks. I’ve remarked before on how Donelly’s work with Belly played in the space between the lulling and the nightmarish. Deal’s songs on Pod work similarly. Perhaps this influence ran from Donelly to Deal because it seems to have departed from the Breeders when she left; it’s entirely absent from Last Splash and is only occasionally tangible on later records.

It goes without saying that Pod sounds great, too. Spacious and powerful. With the mixes left relatively sparse and the guitars frequently hard-panned, Pod is as good as it gets for fans of the Albini drum sound. Britt Walford, on loan from Slint and playing under the pseudonym Shannon Doughton, sounds enormous. And what drummer doesn’t want to sound enormous?

If you’re unfamiliar with Pod and have any fondness for the indie rock music of that era, you are missing out on one of the finest records of its type.

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The Breeders in 1992, circa Safari: l-r Kelley Deal, Tanya Donelly, Josephine Wiggs, Britt Walford, Kim Deal (the Deal sister are identical twins, so if I’ve got them the wrong way round, do forgive me!)

Happy New Year (a clip show post)

So, we’re nearly at the end of Songs from So Deep’s first full year! I’m still finding it really rewarding to do this, the number of people finding the blog continues to grow and there are still things to talk about. So it’s looking good for 2015.

One of the things that remains really interesting to me (actually that’s a bit of an understatement) about doing this is seeing which posts prove popular. The majority of my most-read posts come from 2013, which makes sense, as they’ve been on the site longer, and as I don’t tend to write about much contemporary music (though more now than when I started), it seems natural that the posts would have a long tail. My not-very-well-written post on Bobby Caldwell’s What You Won’t Do for Love is still my most-read post, suggesting that a lot of people love this song as much as I do and can’t find much info on it elsewhere on the web.

But some posts I write that I think are an awful lot better than the Caldwell one only get a tiny fraction of the traffic. So for my last post this year, I thought I’d maybe point you in the direction of a few posts from 2014 that I thought were pretty good (by my standards at any rate) on subjects that people just don’t seem to bother Google with.

Enjoy New Year’s Eve, whatever you have planned, and I’ll see you on the other side!

Graham Nash David Crosby by, well, Graham Nash & David Crosby

Unsatisfied – The Replacements

Glowing Heart – Aoife O’Donovan

Let’s Stay Together – Al Green

Moon Over Boston – Tanya Donelly

Merrimack River – Mandy Moore

The Persistence of Sentiment – Mitchell Morris

Turnham Green – Colorama

Summer Breeze – The Isley Brothers

You Used to Drive Me Around/review of gig at The Islington – Jon Auer*

*Jon was kind enough to link to this from his Facebook account, which was the highlight of my year as a blogger. It gets in this list on a technicality as it is in truth one of the most-read posts on this blog. But the majority of those views came from that link rather than search engine results.

Moon Over Boston – Tanya Donelly

Tanya Donelly is one of my favourite musicians. The step-sister of Kristin Hersh – leader of Boston-area art-punk band Throwing Muses since the mid-1980s – Donelly was the group’s lead guitarist, harmony singer and occasional singer-songwriter for their first four albums, between 1983 when they formed and 1991 when she left after The Real Ramona (which is one of the Muses’ very best records, right up there with the debut). Donelly was also a founding member of the Breeders, and Pod bears heavy traces of her involvement; the group were never quite as interesting to me after she stepped aside to focus on her post-Muses band, Belly.

Unlike Throwing Muses, who continued their honourable labours without ever catching a break, Belly were immediately successful: top-five album chart success in both the US and the UK, top-20 singles, heavy rotation on MTV and radio, and Grammy nominations. Donelly was an inspiration to anyone who’d ever been a second fiddle but harboured ambitions of succeeding on their own terms, and she did it making music that was shiny and inviting, but with a disconcerting aura of strangeness and spookiness, a sound I’ve described elsewhere as like something bad going down in Toytown. Belly were quite a thing.

Alas Belly’s success didn’t last, and the group unravelled after recording a wonderful second album that didn’t strike the same chord with the public that their first had. Donelly took a year or two to come back with her first solo record, Lovesongs for Underdogs, and it was a slightly odd mix, blending the shiniest hooks of her career (Pretty Deep is an alterna-world smash) with some of the disquieting obliqueness that had marked Belly out as something special on tracks such as Swoon, as well as occasional straitforward ballads like Manna, which Donelly had never really engaged in before. The production, though, was pure AAA, which didn’t suit the more idiosyncratic material, but didn’t quite elevate the poppier songs either.

While the Lovesongs era didn’t succeed in making Donelly a solo star the way it seemed designed to, it did produce an enduring favourite of mine. Moon Over Boston was the B-side to the album’s second single, The Bright Light. To my knowledge, it’s the only proper recording of the song, which was written by Gary “Skeggie” Kendall, a guitarist, promoter and Boston scenester from the 1980s and ’90s, formerly of the bands Tackle Box and the Toughskin. Probably cut live with the full band, like a proper jazz side, it’s a spot-on recreation – produced by Kendall and long-time Boston hero Gary Smith – of a certain type of small-band jazz record, with exactly the right kind of warm saxophone sound and all the proper passing chords; it’s even got the old-school, free-time intro. It’s a beautiful record, and Donelly’s voice is surprisingly adept at this sort of tune, sounded not unlike Blossom Dearie. I’m convinced it could become a standard if someone were to make a romantic comedy called Moon Over Boston and feature this as the title track. Maybe I should get to work on a screenplay.

Donelly stepped away from music in the mid-noughties, and trained as a post-partum doula. However over the last year or so, she’s recently put out a sequence of EPs, the Swan Song series, a title which she says doesn’t indicate imminent retirement. Hersh, meanwhile, powers on. The most driven musician I can think of (see here for some of her backstory), Hersh will make music as long as she’s got two working hands and a voice. Next month, I’m going to get to see Throwing Muses play in London with Donelly guesting. Let’s just say I’m looking forward to that one.

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Mania – Throwing Muses

 

I was flying, flying through the air, thinking, So this is what this feels like.

As the pavement came up toward me […] a thought occurred. You’re about to hit your head harder than you’ve ever hit it before, so maybe you should… you know… go limp.

I lay in the street, feeling the brand new sensation of a lot of blood leaving my body, then tried to unfold myself. Lifting my left leg, I noticed there was no longer a foot at the end of it.

Then a woman appeared from nowhere and leaned over me. She was wearing mirrored sunglasses. What I saw in her glasses was bizarre: I had no face. The front of my head was hamburger and blood with two blue eyes staring out.

When I turned away to look for my missing foot, the woman grabbed what used to be my face and turned it toward her. ‘You were hit by a car!’ She spoke loudly and slowly, carefully articulating each word. ‘You’re gonna be fine!’

Why is she talking to me like I’m foreign?

 

Kristin Hersh, Paradoxical Undressing, 2010

 

In 1985 in Providence, Rhode Island, an eighteen-year-old Kristin Hersh was knocked off her bicycle by a well-known local oddball, referred to in her book only as ‘the crazy witch’, who drove off without stopping. In hospital, Hersh realised she was hearing things that other people were not. Loud, abstract sounds, a bit like heavy machinery. Slowly these metal noises became tonal and organised. She was experiencing auditory hallucinations, and progressed to hallucinating whole songs. Strange songs, fragmentary songs, songs with funny out-of-key chords, jarring tempo changes and tunes that took a while to decipher.

Hersh began presenting these songs to her band Throwing Muses, already together for four years and a fixture on the local punk scene. But her behaviour was getting strange: she couldn’t sleep so spent most of her nights breaking into swimming pools and doing lengths until she was too exhausted to stay awake any more. She had boundless energy, so much so that her bandmates were concerned about her inability to slow down, let alone stop. She wanted to know everything, see everything, live everywhere. Eventually she was informed that this was classic manic behaviour and was diagnosed as bi-polar, a diagnosis she struggled to accept. She was given a cocktail of powerful drugs and electro-convulsive therapy. She stopped taking the drugs when she fell pregnant a few months later.

The song Mania, then, was written by a woman who knew whereof she spoke. Fast and unrelenting (unlike many early Muses songs, it barrels along at the same tempo for its whole duration), Mania was her most vivid, if not her most lucid, musical reflection of her mental state. It’s not easy listening – at this remove it’s hard for me to recall how hard I had to work as a 16-year-old hearing Hersh for the first time to get inside this music and make sense of it. I had no reference for it, knew of no one else who sang songs like this, this thing, with its frenetic country-polka rhythm in the verses, crazed Subterranean Homesick Blues-style vocal delivery, and unsettling breakdowns where Hersh declares ‘shocking is therapy’, before screaming ‘electrify your head’. Hersh is unique, a one-off, undervalued and inevitably taken for granted.

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Throwing Muses have breakfast, 1989: l-r, Leslie Langston (bass), Tanya Donelly (guitar, vocals), Kristin Hersh (vocals, guitar), David Narcizo (drums)

The early Throwing Muses records (their eponymous debut, second album House Tornado and third album Hunkpapa) are the best documents of this frantic and unsettling period in Hersh’s artistic career. 1990’s The Real Ramona was a transition, a more considered, conventional record with pop hooks and more ABAB song structures. Nevertheless it retains enough of Hersh’s spiky originality to be compelling in the way a proper Muses record is.

After Ramona, Hersh’s stepsister Tanya Donelly left the band, making a record with Kim Deal as the Breeders (Pod, a classic) before forming her own group, Belly. With their more approachable but pleasantly strange sound – like something bad going down in Toytown – Belly achieved instant commercial success in its first year, the photogenic Donelly even being approached to appear in a Gap ad. Star reached number 2 in the UK album charts and sold 800,000 copies in the US, and Feed the Tree was a number-one Modern Rock hit single. These were indeed heady times for semi-popular indie rock artists.

But surprisingly Hersh’s commercial peaks were ahead of her too. The bombastic and rather hollow Red Heaven from 1992 reached number 13 in the UK album charts, and 1994’s University peaked at number 10 (in the US it fared less well and Sire dropped them). Most impressively, Hersh’s solo album Hips and Makers reached number 7 in the UK album charts, which for an entirely acoustic mood record with some pretty unconventional songwriting seems scarcely believable today.

For me, Hersh hasn’t recaptured the greatness of her work between 1986 and 1994. That her voice has become ever hoarser and throatier doesn’t help, and nowadays she frequently writes compelling tunes she can’t adequately sing. But apart from that, something that I essentially can’t define is missing from her work since the late 1990s. I’m trying to work out what it is at the moment by reacquainting myself with the early Muses stuff and Hips and Makers, before moving on to her output since 2000, all of which I have but none of which has ever really connected with me. I’ve got tickets to see the Muses in Islington later this year, which I’m looking forward to hugely, but I wish I could have seen them in their pomp 25 years ago at the Town & Country. That would have been quite a thing.

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Throwing Muses on the beach, 1990: l-r, Narcizo, Hersh, Fred Abong, Donelly