Tag Archives: The White Album

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.

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

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Beetlebum – Blur

Popular is a blog on Freaky Trigger by Tom Ewing that reviews every British number-one hit single in chronological order. Ewing started writing it in 2003 – with Al Martino’s Here in my Heart from 1952 – and is now up to 1997. It’s a hell of a project, allowing you to see the context in which a hit becomes a hit, and how it is defined by the hits around it. Over time Popular has become less about Ewing’s reviews and scores, insightful though he is, and more about the debates in the comments section, which is one of the healthiest and most positive on the net (by which I don’t mean that everyone is positive about every record, but that it is remarkably civil, with little time wasted on slanging matches and cheap point-scoring).

I’ve posted there occasionally, but less since I started writing over here. I’ll contribute even less in future, I imagine – while I was at university in the early noughties I listened to the radio very seldom and had little idea what was number one in any given week, and as time went on my estrangement from chart music became almost total.

Right now we’re still in an era I remember first-hand and took an active interest in, even if not all the records are to my taste. The song currently under discussion, Blur’s Beetlebum, is oneI’m very fond of. I’d say it’s Damon Albarn’s masterpiece, even – one of the few times this most dry and cerebral of songwriters succeeded in engaging the brain and heart at the same time.

The two Blur singles that immediately precede Beetlebum, Stereotypes and Charmless Man (released less than a year before Beetlebum), are the dregs of Blur’s Britpop period. The Great Escape isn’t a record I know well, but I do know it well enough to know that there were better songs on it that weren’t as singles. Hearing those ugly – indeed charmless – songs at the time, it felt that that the band, and more particularly Albarn, was at the end of the line with that sound. The jeering, garish aggressive sneeriness of them, while bracing, is cheap and cynical beside, say, Jarvis Cocker’s more thoughtful deconstruction of English class and aspirationism. And as for its success as pop music, well, it’s easy to see why Oasis’s (What’s the Story) Morning Glory was vastly more popular in the long term. Blur had to change.

They did.

Beetlebum was the start of Blur’s second act, in which laddish-geezer Albarn became serious-and-eclectic-songwriter Albarn. It wasn’t necessarily what all his fans wanted from him, or for him, but it did open him up to a different audience than he’d had previously (me, instance – Blur remains the only Albarn record I’ve ever parted with money for, and will likely remain so). But it wasn’t Albarn’s new perceived honesty and soulfulness that sold me on Beetlebum – I don’t know how much honesty or so is really in it. Pulling off the appearance of straightforward intimacy may have been just another of his aesthetic coups. Nor was it the many nods to White Album-era Beatles, few songs from which I knew at the time.

It’s the sound of the record, the textures, the comforting ennui, the sleepiness of the verses, and the way, as Ewing notes, the “surly, choppy verses that ought to flare into rage on the chorus, but instead bloom into sleepy, burnt-out neo-psychedelic harmonies”. It may be easy to forget now, but the quiet-loud, quiet-loud shift in a song’s dynamics was so standard a part of US alternative rock and indie that, since this was obviously a more US-influenced record than anything heard from Blur before, while listening to Beetlebum for the first time, a majority of listeners probably did expect Graham Coxon to step on his Pro-Co Rat and Albarn to start shouting. The chorus’s shift into falsetto, the scrappy semi-clean guitars and the ‘ooh’ block harmonies, then, was unexpected, audacious even.

Not all of Blur was so successful. The only other songs I have much interest in hearing again now are Country Sad Ballad Man and, very occasionally, Song 2 and Essex Dogs. Many of the album’s other songs fall flat: M.O.R., a straightforward Bowie-in-Berlin rip, is embarrassing. Chinese Bombs proved that, whatever else they could do, Blur’s rhythm section couldn’t rock. Theme from Retro had a dub echo and an organ and not much idea what to do with either of them. But Beetlebum is a glorious success, Blur’s finest record bar none, and still the most compelling thing Albarn has done with any of his projects.

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