Revisiting Rollerskate Skinny

When Paul McCartney's younger brother broke into show business later in the 60s, he did so as "Mike McGear." After Kevin Shields' band My Bloody Valentine broke into the British charts two decades on, little brother Jimi stuck with his surname. But in the intimate Dublin rock scene, the association with MBV dogged him and his mates, who in 1992 formed Rollerskate Skinny, They languished less lauded than Mike McGear's The Scaffold, who at least had their one-off novelty hit.

Named after Holden Caulfield's praise of a girl who was "rollerskate skinny" in The Catcher in the Rye, the quartet brought an ambition rivaling the Beatles to their two albums. All Music Guide's Tim DiGravina compared their pair of full-length albums to a combination of Beatles melodies, MBV feedback and experimental song structures akin to The La's, Killing Joke, Flaming Lips, Mercury Rev and Echo and the Bunnymen, Rollerskate Skinny captured the neo-psychedelic, post-punk and indie guitar moods of their contemporaries. But the four men rejected easy choruses and catchy repetition.

Instead, Shoulder Voices, co-produced by Guy Fixsen (who engineered MBV on Loveless) featured odd pop filtered through chiming miasma and clattering dynamics. Alternating delicate tunes with aggressive roars, Rollerskate Skinny refused to play along with their peers, who often toned down their idiosyncrasy to get aired on stations beyond the college radio, critically admired, fringes of that era's alt-rock. While spot-the-influences tempts critics, this band sneaks around any fence-me-in.

A few albums rush out of the starting gate and then settle down halfway down the track, ambling into the finish line fifty-odd minutes later, hardly recognizable as whatever or whomever had started them off. This pattern distinguishes both recordings. Beggars Banquet distributed this band's 1993 debut. 

Its first five songs rattle along with threats and chants. Jimi Shields integrates the traditional Irish bodhrán drum into "Lúnasa," which mixes in the ominous percussive beat under a tribal melody. Recalling an earlier, inventive and overlooked Dublin ensemble, The Virgin Prunes (there the relation is to U2 rather than MBV in civic genealogy), that song conveys an intelligent nod to the island's folk roots, enriching the noise rather than smoothing it out. "Bring on Stigmata" finds Shields' vocals echoing and wailing as keyboards churn, credited to Shields and Ken Griffin. Meanwhile, Ger Griffin (no relation) supports with unpredictable guitar. Stevie Murray's bass thunders under "Bow Hitch-Hiker," the last combative contribution among the eleven songs. For, after the first side's sonic attack, the second side settles into pleasantry, akin more to later Mercury Rev or Flaming Lips. As with those bands, this music provides decent pop-rock, but it's no match for those outfits' once-amplified, addled first few albums. Luckily, Dave Fridmann, producer and tamer of both those American bands, was not on hand to dampen down whatever Rollerskate Skinny had turned up to 11, at least for a while.

Apparently, the constant references in coverage of the band to brother Kevin led Jimi to quit before 1996. That year's follow-up Horsedrawn Wishes found the band reduced by one, relying on session drummers. A leaner Rollerskate Skinny thickens the layers of instrumentation, creating even denser and more challenging harmonics. The band's confidence shows. With co-producer Aidan Foley, they reached a clever apex in exploiting well whatever Warner Brothers had shelled out for studio costs. 

Perversely or intentionally, the band also delivers album two on the same template as the first. Until the end of the seventh entry, the three musicians, now all playing what the liner notes reveal as the guitars and keyboards (which Jimi had mastered on Shoulder Voices), shine. "Speed to My Side" is the tune AMG reviewed as marrying Beatles shimmer to MBV shudder. It saunters like opera, rising and falling. These skewed songs float and dip, cresting and dipping over waves of volume as texture. Rollerskate Skinny stack up the voices and pile on the momentum, if for half the tracks each outing.

"Man Under Glass" has the members vowing their hate of the sun, or maybe the Son. This bobs over a mad flurry of mechanical tinkering, over rhythms capable of crushing the wary or inspiring the saintly. The music swerves and spins. The bands listed above may offer rough similarities, but the determination to resist the usual rock styles makes them again akin more to humbler if sassier misfits such as The Virgin Prunes. In a city where U2 reigned, it must have been a daunting challenge to go against the flow and to insist, as Rollerskate Skinny does twice for a stretch each album, on audacity.

Why each album glides after soaring may not need any answer more profound than rest after exertion. Their energy dissipates gradually, as sides two bring a listener back to firm ground. But the best moments remain in the unsettling, giddy, surprising and woozy rides that precede the landings. 

The members went on after the band's demise following their second album to the usual side projects. Dave Fridmann inevitably weighed in as co-producer of Jimi Shields' Lotus Crown. Their Chokin' on the Jokes (1997) resembles Fridmann's main bands, but it also tilts upon a shoegazing foundation on which Jimi builds up engaging and offbeat songs. It also suggests that Ken Griffin may have been Rollerskate Skinny's mastermind, rather than Shields. For Dead City Sunbeams, the project of Griffin's alter ego Kid Silver, managed on JetSet to rouse critical applause just before the millennium.

Ken then created a collaboration with Aspera, Philadelphia neo-psych veterans, as Favourite Sons. They released a few Iggy meets The Strokes or Echo-plus-The Church records, after all moving to Brooklyn. Finally, The Radio (2004) generated Ger Griffin's dream-pop back in Rollerskate Skinny's hometown. It's a shame that streaming services do not enable audiences over two decades later to enjoy all of Rollerskate Skinny. For now, Lotus Crown and Shoulder Voices survive as bits and bytes.
(Spectrum Culture in re-edited form as part of its Revisit/ Rediscover music feature series 6-6-17)

The Black Watch's "The Gospel According to John": Music Review

Active since the mid-80s, The Black Watch blends the British and New Zealand indie-pop moods of wistful reverie with the frenetic reactions of The Cure, House of Love, and Echo and the Bunnymen. As with many of its peers, this ensemble continues with its lead singer-songwriter guiding a changing lineup. Tallying as full-length recording fifteen, spanning thirty years of its discography, John Andrew Fredrick and band return with one of the best albums from this reliably satisfying outfit.

Recent releases from The Black Watch tended to linger over delicate moods. These highlighted Fredrick's introspective lyrics. Given his career as an English professor specializing in literature of at least two centuries ago, these meet exacting standards. Now, the archly and typically playfully titled The Gospel According to John preaches assertive vocals over intense guitars. Reminiscent of post-punk sounds in Liverpool and Down Under, these well-sequenced eight tracks dash past vividly.

Brian Jonestown Massacre's Rob Campanella favors a punchy, propulsive production. "Whence" blasts the disc open, glides into acoustic cruise control, and then reverts to the heights. "Way Strange World" prefers a funky nod to recent Brooklyn-based "alternative" moves, combined with an Ian McCulloch-style croon. This ambiance sustains "The All-Right Side of Just O.K" as a blurrier take on this type. "Story" slows only to kick in similarly. A subdued "Jealousy" soothes mid-stream. Whether one delights in Southern Californian Fredrick's preference for British-accented articulation or not, the results will please listeners who admire the legacy of intelligent, textured, and convincing song craft.

The final stage of this sleek record accelerates. "Orange Kicks" plays a precise spoken-word delivery off of riffs which manage to sidestep themselves without tripping up. A hushed and brusque downbeat as "Oscillator Redux" ushers in the whirling sprawl of the orbiting "Satellite." It closes this accomplished effort with a spinning declaration of yearning, over winningly chiming propulsion. (PopMatters 5/8/17; Amazon US 5/12/17)

Heatmiser's "Mic City Sons": Music Review

 

Like Faces and Rod Stewart or Roxy Music and Bryan Ferry, Heatmiser and Elliott Smith faced a quandary. When a talented singer-songwriter fronts a band with equally compelling musicians, how does he balance his burgeoning solo career with the demands of his formidable bandmates? Does he save his best songs for his own albums? Does he break with those who helped make his reputation, or can he work with them on his own albums under his own name?
 

After releases on the Los Angeles-based indie label Frontier, Portland-based Heatmiser had progressed since forming in 1991. Dead Air and the EP Yellow #5 blended grittier, downbeat songs from singer-songwriter-guitarist Neil Gust with his Hampshire College classmate Smith's delicate, downbeat songs. These tended towards introspection, as well as gloom and suspicion, so Heatmiser created a tense mood. Gust's lyrics skirted around tawdry gay sex in nasty places, while Smith's narratives plumbed addiction and depression. The band’s early records wallowed in post-grunge gloom.

While another Portland band, Pond (a deft, overlooked trio), was signed by Sub Pop in the post-Nirvana frenzy, Heatmiser remained in the margins. Its second full-length, Cop and Speeder, revved up the momentum, delivering the band's finest songs to date, pummeling and careening as Tony Lash's forceful drums locked in with thrusting bass from Sam Coomes. 

Tensions surfaced when Virgin signed the band to a major label. Smith's success on the low-fi Roman Candle and self-titled second solo album sparked jealousy between Smith and Gust. Smith resented being in a “loud rock band” and the band broke up around the release of its third album, Mic City Sons, which ended up getting distributed by indie subsidiary Caroline Records.

When I first heard this album 20 years ago, I knew more about Heatmiser than Elliott Smith. Mic City Sons opens with the kind of winning pop Smith went on to pursue alongside his darker tendencies. "Get Lucky" pitches its arena-rock singalong chorus and cocky riff at the mainstream, yet Smith's characteristic melancholy remains as he promises, "We're taking you to pieces." "Plainclothes Man" follows in more subdued style, and lives up or down to its everyday title.

On this album, Gust is relegated to a lesser role compared to Smith's ambitious filigrees and baroque style, as his Beatles influence began to dominate his persona. But, as a Heatmiser fan more than a Smith fan, I speak for the minority view. Gust digs deeper into the corrosion coating his mood. In "Low Flying Jets," his guitar trebled and echoed rings more memorably than the dirge-like pace of the song, but "Rest My Face Against the Wall" dourly conjures up the act exchanged between men in a dour, dismal place. His voice, like Smith, speaks from pain. 

Matching this tone, "The Fix is In" takes us into Smith's struggles with drugs. Like his solo work at the time, Lash's measured percussion and processed guitars create a somber atmosphere. Here, Smith’s AOR leanings contend with gloom. Gust perks up for the rawer punk-pop of "Eagle Eye" and "Cruel Reminder," whose choruses over reverbed guitars recall the band’s less-heralded work on Frontier Records.

Smith's simple "You Gotta Move" is followed by a Gust track sometimes mistaken for Smith. "Pop in G" inspires the album’s title after a city of microbrews and their drinkers: "{Mic city sons seem to dumb everything down}."  The album sags by "Blue Highway," with Gust coming in second to Smith for narrative appeal but it closes with two strong features for Smith.  “See You Later” and “Half Right," a hidden track that shows off the indie-rock sensitivity that would make his breakthrough. 

After Heatmiser, Gust formed the band No. 2. Oddly, its two albums opted for a softer touch more akin to a grumpy Smith instead of the amplification that better suited Gust’s voice and stories. Lash moved on to the band Sunset Valley before entering production work for noted Northwestern bands, including the Coomes –led Quasi (with Sleater-Kinney’s Janet Weiss). Smith burst into fame and an uneasy entry into late-'90s troubadour prominence before going out like a roman candle. While most listeners may listen to Heatmiser primarily for its tragic co-founder, a closer listen should earn more props for his accomplished bandmates. (Spectrum Culture 2- 24-16 as part of the Holy Hell! --- Turns Twenty retrospective of albums recollected.) 

Randal Doane's "Stealing All Transmissions": Book Review

 
How did the late '70s arrival of The Clash to a nation they loved and who loved them, in Randal Doane's phrase, jostle the privileged perch granted FM free-form radio and long-form rock journalism in American popular culture? Doane attempts to answer this complex topic in a few pages. He matches an affection for what was pitched as "the only band that matters" with a professor's determination to apply theory and scholarship about popular culture to the band's American impact.

FM radio crackled with battles between disco and new wave, Steely Dan or the Eagles. Guitar heroes Van Halen threatened Boston and Kansas. Pre-packaged rock radio in syndication, and then MTV, took advantage of alternative rock trends. The Clash and other punks rallied to break down barriers on air. Doane's examines, circa 1978-81, a brief success by the underdogs against the suits. Even if The Clash was signed to CBS. That band marketed its message as widely as possible. The result (as this reviewer can attest) is that many younger listeners picked up guitars and books, inspired by not only the "molten" noise of early import singles, but the Clash's lyrical range and cultural references.

A dean at Oberlin College, Doane combines academic critique (and its concomitant tendency to lapse into seminar-speak) with livelier glimpses from his formative years as a fan growing up in Stockton, California. He enriches these youthful reminiscences with an imaginative journey. He invents a quest narrative, following the figures narrated over four sides of London Calling as that album's storyline follows dreamers and schemers from the band's hometown across the sea to success or failure in Manhattan. (I note as an aside that the first box-set retrospective issued by the band is called Clash on Broadway, a location which fits both London and New York City, even as it emphasizes the latter.)

Doane straddles the boundaries between fan and critic throughout this study. He analyzes the music industry as a Clash historian, and as an often discrete investigation into the state of American rock radio in the 1970s. He documents the struggle on FM stations between AOR, disco, hard rock, and the new wave upstarts. These were often marketed by Sire Records and eager labels, some indie, some subsidiaries of the majors, who allied with the bands which claimed to challenge the system. Of course, they also aspired to chart success and lucrative tours. This bifurcated presentation, by not only the bands in their clash of ambitions but Doane's staggered structure of his chapters between those on The Clash and those on radio, weakens this as a cohesive thesis. However, considering particular chapters apart from this diffused presentation, Doane's attempt to analyze The Clash within an American moment as the 70s leapt into the 80s provides a useful perspective of the band's impact. It draws upon books by Clayton Heylin and Jon Savage, integrating their research with his own predilection for New York City area rock stations. This case study looks into how they did or did not play the Clash, and rivals or colleagues from both local and British punk and new wave scenes.

This book is enhanced by backline roadie Barry "The Baker" Auguste's introduction. He conveys the changing fortunes of a band gradually if seemingly suddenly, for one behind the scenes, lifted from clubs to theaters to arenas by its third album, London Calling. This book does not delve very far into the mid-1980s phase of the line-up. Instead, Doane sticks to the first three albums, and he shows what worked and what did not on the various domestic and import versions of their incendiary self-titled debut, and the more, uh, diverse, follow-up, Give 'Em Enough Rope, produced by Blue Oyster Cult associate Sandy Pearlman. As for the sprawling triple disc, the what to me felt the never-ending experiments of Sandinista!, brisk coverage is given. Doane marvels at it, as diehard fans tend to do.

Tellingly, he offers no real attention to their more mainstream album, the last one with their steadiest line-up, Combat Rock, and none to the album made by Joe Strummer, Paul Simenon, and new recruits to replace Mick Jones and Topper Headon, the widely disdained Cut the Crap. It would have been intriguing to follow the fortunes of the band: their tours, their radio play, and their LP sales. Certainly one wonders how The Clash, once they topped the charts, dealt with their long-term prospects. It's a relevant example of the music industry's own determination to encourage or ignore a band. Yes, the band's saga during their global roller coaster of the 1980s has been covered before. But Doane stops the story early on, preferring to end while the band anticipated greater fame in the U.S. and beyond.

Given this wistful denouement, Doane's study offers a muted celebration and a cautionary tale of how rock radio and promotion U.S. markets tried to fend off, ignore, or embrace us, then-scattered and once few, fans of punk and new wave. Even if the academic tone slows his pace, Doane places The Clash within their attempt to break into the American market. Best of all, his diligence and scrutiny  reminds readers about when such inventive music, combative attitudes, and intelligent lyrics (well, some of the time) mattered for millions of fans growing up then. Today, the hit-and-miss history of the one punk band which made it big as arena rockers endures. And, professors grow up to be fans, or in my case, reviewers. For, the Clash were the first "real" band I ever saw, in March, 1980, at the Santa Monica Civic. They arrived hours late, but nobody (except for punctual me) seemed to mind. (Spectrum Culture 9-7-14)

The Jean-Paul Sartre Experience's "I Like Rain": Music Review

 
During the height of college rock two or three decades ago, New Zealand's Flying Nun label featured many melodic bands. The Chills, The Clean, The Bats, The Verlaines: these names conveyed attitude. An article followed by a slightly odd noun. With the name The Jean-Paul Sartre Experience, what the listener might expect remained as enigmatic as the off-beat moniker itself from this foursome.

I Like Rain collects every recording released by what I will abbreviate to JPSE. Their three studio albums, plus EPs and singles, comprise 54 songs, usually understated rather than assertive. As with their labelmates, this band combines light pop with darker sounds and dissonant guitars, stirring up the depths beneath superficially sunny tunes. Flying Nun bands mingle quirky lyrics with jangling rock. JPSE starts out this compilation resembling a lo-fi, DIY approach of its NZ peers, if hesitantly.

Founded in 1984 in Christchurch, JPSE two years on, in {Love Songs}, follows this modest mode. The songs chug along pleasantly, but as with many minor bands on their label, without enough gravitas. Bassist Dave Yetton sing-songs too much. His voice, however wistful, lacks force. "Grey Parade," with its ode to the wet climate of their homeland, stands out. "Transnational Love Song" rises above other ditties through its stronger grasp on structure and a memorable, if warped, mood.

These qualities make much of 1989's The Size of Food a better example of JPSE's talents. "Elemental" captures the marine feel of the best of Flying Nun's signature sound, for me one drawing from the ocean depths a heavier undertow of menace, balanced against a lighter, breezier ambiance.
"Slip" begins with Jim Laing and David Mulcahy's twinned guitar drone, before Gary Sullivan's stuttering percussion shatters the steady hum. This song also shows, along a few other tracks, the transformation of songs between their single and album versions, which often differ significantly. This adds value to this compilation, for JPSE reworks some of its most tuneful songs, recognizing their potential for improvement and modification. Production on album two heightens their impact.

Yetton's decision to warble or bury his voice may have hobbled the band's struggle to find a larger audience. Too many songs saunter along, but they lack more than a casual air of geniality to stand out. The songs that endure are the ones that connect Yetton's voice to more aggressive guitars, and Sullivan's drums. They harness the band's songwriting potential by tightening engaging.harmonies.

"Shadows" resembles another band on the label with a curious name, Straitjacket Fits, and Yetton's voice takes their same gentle croon. A perky "Mothers" moves the track sequence along smoothly. "Crush" and "Precious" deserve a place in favorite tracks to save to a playlist. For Pavement fans, a listen to "Thrills" reminds audiences of how much of a debt Stephen Malkmus and company owe to the Flying Nun roster. The stop and start rhythms, the mumbled words, the fragmented snatches of poetry and the knack for songs that one can hum are all here. JPSE kept getting better, mid-career.

This grittier polish rubbed off on album three, just as Pavement was emerging across the Pacific. Hobbled by a lawsuit from Jean-Paul Sartre's estate over the rights to their name, crippled by Flying Nun's financial troubles, three EPs occupied JPSE. However, their third album sat in the vaults.

The band shifted into another indie band's characteristic song pattern. Circa Honey's Dead and Automatic, The Jesus and Mary Chain introduced a heavier electronic and dance beat into their own guitar-driven, hazy dissonance. "Spaceman" on Bleeding Star could pass for a JMC cover.
JPSE moved in another direction, away from lo-fi to a louder, grittier production. The big drum sound common to many mid-80s rock bands echoes here, along with slurred vocals and hefty beats.

The band's best songs appear early on Bleeding Star. "Rain and Shine" and "I Believe in You" combine hook-laden choruses with guitar riffs and that period's love of processed, booming drums. But the album holds up well, especially in its first half. Delayed by two years, its 1993 appearance proved well-timed. Matador distributed it in the U.S., and I can attest as a devoted buyer of Flying Nun imports how happy I was to find it domestically.  But the album failed to break JPSE overseas.

Riven by strife, they soon broke up. Still, great songs lurk at the end of this anthology. "Into You" for me is their best track. Two alternate mixes prove the band knew its appeal too. I Like Rain ends with three songs from the extended single of "Into You." They all could have been contenders on The Size of Food or Bleeding Star. They mix shoegaze with soft pop, and they attest to the talent within this line-up. "Block" begins with a quiet passage recalling Brian Eno's "The Big Ship." Again, the blend of the maritime and the juggernaut, the forceful and the gentle, distinguishes JPSE's music. (9-14-15 to Spectrum Culture. Also Amazon US 9-22-15).

Pere Ubu's "Elitism for the People: 1975-78": Music Review

The archly titled four-LP set Elitism for the People: 1975-1978 covers the formative years of a pioneering proto-punk, art-rock ensemble. This smart anthology conveys  Pere Ubu’s signature combination of Dada poetry and driving beats. The mix of  David Thomas' sometimes dour, sometimes chipper warble over Allen Ravenstine's post-Eno synth blips suggests the early days of Roxy Music: a crooner leading an anarchic line-up that sounds ready to collapse.

Rising out of Cleveland's depressed Rust Belt, the group defied industry norms, confounding expectations of what rock was supposed to sound like 40 years ago. Hearing "Final Solution" or "30 Seconds over Tokyo" on the radio back then was a rare and electrifying event.  Thomas' warped ditties wandered above sax squawks and doomed chords. Compared to then common radio acts like the Eagles and the Doobie Brothers, Pere Ubu beamed down dire transmissions from dark stars.

The bands earliest songs are collected on a disc called The Hearpen Singles. Some of these songs would appear on later Pere Ubu albums, but these early, primitive versions bounce. Thomas unleashes his formidable range and quirky sing-song lyrics on songs that stutter and start and stop. The sprightly rhythm section of Tony Maimone on bass and Scott Krause on drums snaps the songs into catchy melodies that make even the gloomier excursions more appealing. This unpredictable music endures as an exemplar from the avant-garage subgenre Pere Ubu jump-started.

By the time these and other songs were re-recorded for their debut LP  The Modern Dance, the band had begun to tinker with their carefree, defiant ambiance. Released in 1978 on Blank, a subsidiary of Mercury, the album did not fit into the kind of new wave peddled as a friendlier follow-up to punk. Pere Ubu’s off-beat style failed to break to a larger market, and I can attest to how difficult it was to find the album, even in my native Los Angeles.  The band earned critical attention but little airplay, which was a shame, for the irresistible squall of feedback heralding Tom Herman’s ‘50s-inspired riff on "Non-Alignment Pact" is a great rock moment, and the beginning of a slyly sequenced record.

“Non-Alignment Pact,” "Navvy" and the title track all clash with evocations of personal torment. The members of Pere Ubu splintered from Rocket from the Tombs (other members formed The Dead Boys) and the spirit of troubled songwriter Peter Laughner (his "Laughing" appears here) haunted the group, and you can hear it all over their debut. "Street Waves" is as sinister as anything Suicide recorded. The two minutes of "Life Stinks” succinctly convey its title. "Sentimental Journey" features the unsentimental sound of breaking glass. "Humor Me" doesn’t.

This grim mood pervades much of Dub Housing, which came out later that year on Chrysalis. Again, the label and the content seem mismatched. A grainy photo of the apartments where the band lived signals the album's plunge into gloom. It’s a dense production that, like the rest of the anthology, was transferred by original engineer Paul Hamann from two-track analog tapes. Even on the mp3s offered for review in lieu of 180-gram vinyl, its miasma still simmers, the hiss and crackle sizzles. Although most of the songs are brief, they reveal shadows and depth, and lighter tracks like as "(Pa) Ubu Dance Party" and "Blow Daddy-O" totter along more deftly. Thomas' unhinged delivery dominates the proceedings as the band's tight collaboration pushes their music along. The subdued closer "Codex" prefigures the band's future sonic direction into softer, reflective moods.

In concert, the band experimented with these songs, and Manhattan concludes the 35-song collection with a 1977 set from Max’s Kansas City. Brian Pyle's meticulous remasters reveal the limits of live recording of the time, but even then, it sounds as if the band outnumbers the audience. All the same, this documents Pere Ubu's  interaction with its listeners and its challenge to the standard framework of rock. Elitism for the People is a testimony to a band’s campaign to break out of the conventional mold. Cleveland's finest never made it onto the charts. But pitted against arena-rock behemoths, the heft of this intelligent, entertaining, and sometimes sinister band  towered above Top 40 dinosaurs.
(Spectrum Culture, 9-23-15)

Alex Ogg's "Dead Kennedys: Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables: The Early Years": Book Review

Intended as liner notes for the 25th anniversary of this punk album, Alex Ogg's project had to wait five more years for what turns into a longer book on a thirty-eight minute 1980 LP. Legal disputes over songwriting credits, added to the protracted resentment between singer Jello Biafra and his bandmates, notably guitarist East Bay Ray and bassist Klaus Flouride, tested the patience of the author and the Dead Kennedys, past and present. This story, told efficiently by a veteran chronicler of punk, reveals that the American underground in the late 1970s could match the best of the British punks when it came to political commentary paired with feisty music. Furthermore, unlike so many righteous punks before and after the DKs, this San Francisco outfit retained its sense of humor. However, as an Angeleno, growing up a near-contemporary of the band, I challenge Ogg's claim that this was the peak of proto-hardcore. To me, the band's debut resembled the blur and buzz of the Germs' first LP. I'll admit that unlike that short-lived L.A. band, the DKs outlasted Reagan's first term. Ogg as the subtitle shows narrates the start of it all, but he stops very soon after the album's release and their first tour.

How the DKs scaled the summits of the American independent label punk scene so rapidly, Ogg reminds readers, can be credited to their discipline. More on the intellectual influences informing the band members might have answered the question of how they managed so quickly to create two classic singles, "California Über Alles" and "Holiday in Cambodia". Within this milieu, few dared to roam beyond a few "provocative" topics. Most punk bands preached against racism, some against sexism, many against conformity, as expected for spiky non-conformists to conform.

Biafra, raised in Boulder, Colorado, and apparently embittered at delivering pizzas to smug lefty college kids his own age (he dropped out of an equivalent institution early on, the University of California, Santa Cruz, tellingly), decided to widen his target range. He spoke for an overlooked echo-boomer generation, coming of age during Watergate, too young to be hippies, but who had to listen to those not much older ramble on over and over about how great it was then and how dismal it all turned out by 1980, as youth woke up from years of Carter's malaise on the morning after, snuggled or smothered by Reagan's revived or reviled "values".

Although now a balding, gray statesman in cahoots with the state's prison guard union, cutting deals with corporate sponsors, while managing in his return to rule to convey a pale-Green image in keeping with his earlier gubernatorial reign, Jerry Brown for the late 1970s represented to this band a "Zen fascism". Risible though this seems to this Californian critic in retrospect if not to Ogg, who takes this (semi-)seriously from the mouth of Jello, this song roused "the suede denim secret police" who were bent on arresting "your uncool niece". Evoking Nazi imagery if spinning the shock value trafficked in such regalia by certain punk colleagues, "Come quietly to the camp/ You'd look nice as a drawstring lamp" conveys its own uneasy message. Biafra's message, within the jerky anthem's campy medium, either strengthens or weakens its lyrical conceits. The song lives on, covered often.

Its follow-up, "Holiday in Cambodia", has garnered fewer cover versions and parodies. It's a darker song, as its Pol Pot theme dramatizes, and it's more disturbing. It castigates those smug Boulder or Berkeley collegians, those who curry favor with bosses, those who pretend solidarity with the masses. It contrasts this mindset with what would happen when the self-proclaimed progressives of the West go East: "Well you'll work harder with a gun in your back/ For a bowl of rice a day/ Slave for soldiers till you starve/ Then your head is skewered on a stake." Ogg skirts extended exegesis of these two songs, assuming that readers as listeners probably know them well, but he does take pains to, in true rock journalist fashion, tell us about the vintage tube microphones used to capture this song's roar.

Without the churning, Echoplexed, surf-tinged guitar of East Bay Ray, Klaus's doom-laden bass, and drummer Ted's bashing backing, these songs, for all their lyrical baiting, would not have succeeded. Ogg credits Jello's voice as a "human theramin" and attributes a Kabuki-like ranting and wailing for impact. Many listeners to the band, myself included, have found Biafra's self-consciously theatrical delivery trying, but in live shows as on record, the DK's sought to stand out from punk yammering.

Boosted by Geza X's production of "Holiday", these singles remain arguably the band's best vinyl moments. Geza X (member of the L.A. band the Bags, on production he crafted early releases from Black Flag, Weirdos, and the Germs, as well as San Francisco's Avengers) labored to make this song wail, so it's a shame that Jello's wish for him to produce their first album was rejected by the rest of the band. To me, this decision dulls the sonic power of Fresh Fruit, and it feels muffled as a result.

Recorded for $10,000, the album appeared in 1980 on the British indie label Cherry Red. Ogg reminds readers that between the Dickies signed by A+M in 1978 and Husker Du by Warner Brothers in 1985 (and by then, they were not really part of this scene anymore), no American underground band had been issued on a major label. The DKs started Alternative Tentacles to issue their records.

Distributors IRS had balked, due to a distant Kennedy acquaintance, from releasing the album, for the barbed band name (amazingly or inevitably, preceded by a Cleveland band who then declined to go on with the same moniker) led to many double-takes and dead-on-arrival rejections by the record industry. Tracks included hints of musical influences as diverse as Duane Eddy's guitar, Buddy Holly's vocals, MC5's slogans, and Sparks' lyrics, attesting to the band's affection for their childhood idols. It ends with a throwaway cover of Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman's "Viva Las Vegas", made famous by Elvis Presley. True to the LP's prickly, brooding, snarling vibe--part Travis Bickle, part Mothers of Invention--the production was credited by the band to the friendlier of engineer Oliver DiCicco's two cats, Norm. Neither Lester Bangs nor Robert Christgau welcomed the record; the latter critic disdained its "Tiny Tim vibrato". Biafra sneers throughout the entire record, true, but this "sustains" Ray's guitar tremelo; it suits the frenetic delivery Jello Biafra adopts for his stage persona.

The original band was already splintering during the making of the record, with second guitarist and oddball even by DK standards 6025 soon departed. A new drummer stepped in--later to claim some of those songwriting royalties which have earned the ire of Jello vs. Klaus and Ray, one learns if in diplomatic fashion via the long-suffering journalist Ogg who patiently hears each side out as they argue. This underlying subplot, still rankling these early band mates today, provides a telling coda to the ambitions of many in the punk era to make a career out of their passion, vs. the compromises the original lineup fended off in their attempt to remain independent of corporate tentacles and truisms.

"Yakety Yak" compiles quotes about the band and album by celebrities in and beyond the rock scene. A closing chapter by Ogg's co-author of The Art of Punk, Russ Bestley (reviewed by me 22 October 2012), titled "Grafical Anarchy" shows how collaborator Winston Smith (who legally changed his name to that Orwellian protagonist) conspired with Biafra to create collages inspired by Situationists.

The LP cover never got the reproduction Judith Calson's San Francisco Chronicle photo deserved. This was taken during the "White Night Riots" following the short sentence handed down to Dan White after his "Twinkie Defense" for the shooting of Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone in 1979. The front cover shows three police cars on fire; the back cover shot of a hokey music combo led to lawsuits by one of its members, so this image was defaced or replaced on later pressings. This pattern would repeat during the band's career, although Ogg avoids much mention of more litigation.

The political subtext of the band gains some attention by Ogg, but how the members gelled to create these singles and the album from a perspective tinted by their predecessors from the 1950s and 1960s whom other punks might have disdained needed more elaboration. Bestley gives a nod to this crucial continuity as context links what the San Franciscans were doing, with jarring détournement (literally "re-routing): cut-up montages from ads, photos, and pamphlets arranged to shake the viewer up. Smith's Fallout Magazine helped rally recruits to the DK cause, but its contents and range do not earn the coverage that could have explained how printed texts and posters widened the band's DIY appeal. Certainly AT's mail order reach, and diligent product placement in indie record stores, accounted for the international audience the band garnered early on, into their heyday, and up to today. Given Bestley and Ogg's knowledge of these multimedia within political punk, more coverage was needed.

Jamie Reid for the Sex Pistols and Gee Vaucher for the English anarchist collective Crass served as counterparts in this guerrilla art form of collage as cultural critique. This packaging boosted the Dead Kennedys' impact. The band and Smith wrapped its records in striking artwork and album inserts. Among punks today, their red-and-black logo endures, but Ogg and Bestley glide past how those two symbolic colors might or might not stand for the band's principled assertion of anarchy. The band's commitment to radical politics as well as pranks and poses needed more elaboration.

Yet, as Biafra (an eventual Green Party presidential campaigner, he came in fourth in a nine-way race for S.F. mayor in the fall of 1979 to replace Moscone) reminds Ogg, Jello mused on what the DK's might achieve: "imagine if Crass was funny". The DKs were. Whether this ensured their success or failure, you are left to ponder, given the eclectic evidence Alex Ogg, Bestley, Smith, and photographer Ruby Ray present for our inspection. (6-13-14 to PopMatters + edited to Amazon US)

Opal's "Happy Nightmare Baby": Music Review

For over three decades, David Roback crafts neo-psychedelia with a punch, and a sensuous sprawl. Best known for leading Mazzy Star, he co-founded Los Angeles' Rain Parade. They combined indie- punk spirit with the haze of the Byrds and the Doors. Their initial recordings stayed quiet, however, preferring atmospheric yearning over amplified confrontation. After Roback was kicked out of that band, he started Clay Allison in 1983. After a couple of singles, that ensemble changed their name to the more evocative Opal. This was well-chosen, as the jeweled shimmer of that gemstone can reveal transparency or remain opaque. Similarly, the band's sound invited intimacy or turned away from it.

{Happy Nightmare Baby} stands out for its contributions by bassist Kendra Smith. Leaving the band she had co-founded in 1981 with Steve Wynn as The Dream Syndicate, another influential Paisley Underground L.A.-based ensemble, she joined Clay Allison. They recorded a strong first single, "Fell From the Sun," later covered by The Pale Saints. With Keith Mitchell on drums, Roback's new band progressed from a folk-blues blend into a more spacious, looser musical path into eerie introspection.

That's why some of the best songs on their first and only full-length album (SST, 1987) surprise. More assertive, more unhinged, its varied tracks appeal to the upended sensibility that Opal favored as they became confident rather than hesitant. "Rocket Machine" begins with swaggering vocals, crunchy guitar and staggered keyboards. On first hearing this, I swore it was a T-Rex cover. Roback and Smith, who together write two-thirds of these nine tracks, opt for a sinister swirl. One of the standout tracks, its ambitious arrangement succeeds. Taking its time to roam, it deepens its ambiance.

"Magick Power" repeats the title phrase and the riff, as it bores down. Roback's production scatters bits of the guitars, drums, and organ into the background. He keeps the center focused on the clash of percussion and the unruffled chant of Smith. This tension enriches the track, keeping it unpredictable.

"Relevation" features the rambling, slightly country-and-western lope that both Rain Parade and Mazzy Star sustained. It rolls along as one of its shortest songs. Lighter in tone, it ambles smoothly.

"A Falling Star" returns to the glam rock template. Smith's detached vocal challenges the hearer. She waits, speaking between effects-laden guitar, and over Keith Mitchell's tapped percussion. It's over barely after it began. This segues into "She's A Diamond." Anticipating the attitude of Mazzy's Star's vocalist, sultry Hope Sandoval, Smith's delivery again states her confident disdain, this time of a rival for love. Roback chose both his vocalists well; he seems to prefer female singers who hint of danger.

Some of this album recalls the bluesy style of Opal's previous pair of E.P.s. These, collected as {Early Recordings}, explored folksier directions. Mazzy Star took up these often, especially in its latest incarnation, on 2013's eloquent and mature reunion album {Seasons of Your Joy}. These sounds, in rawer form, can be found in Opal's own integration of glam and psychedelia, blues and country, hard rock and spacier excursions. Some may find {Happy Nightmare Baby} tedious if taken in all at once. It suits a reflective or melancholy state of mind, but this beckons as a dark backdrop for altered states.

"Supernova" compresses the insistent, Eastern-tinged guitar and keyboards coupling into a more grating, aggressive tune. Smith's vocals integrate her calm tone into the grittier, more unsettled melody. Roback's arrangement emphasizes a droning background, against a harsher guitar attack. Well-sequenced, this pairing with "Siamese Trap" and its clanging chords and keyboards harmonize. The closing track, "Soul Giver," reprised from an E.P., mixes the organ and guitar, percussion and vocals, into an imperious anthem. These three songs stir the abrasive into the smooth. They invite seduction, yet remain forbidding. Opal's co-leaders write songs that can stretch out and let the groove unfold and wander. Not as catchy as the shorter tunes, they insist on repetition and textured layering.

Still, the concise combination of tunefulness and mystery energizes the title track. Imagine Nico fronting The Doors. Ray Manzarek's keyboard style gains a homage on this song, although I cannot identify whether Suki Ewers or William Cooper plays (both went on to work with Mazzy Star; Aaron Sherer is also credited here, if tersely, and I assume he contributes tabla and/or drums). Both Mazzy Star and Opal stress in photos and presentation only the lead guitarist and the female singer. But both bands benefit from their overshadowed backing musicians. The spare liner notes on their records discourage the acclaim the whole band merits for their subtle or forceful moments enhancing Roback.

The guitarist remains as the only constant in his lineups. Smith left the band during a tour opening for the Jesus and Mary Chain. Sandoval, who accompanied Opal, took over as singer, before the band changed its name once again to become Mazzy Star. That band became much more famous than any of the Paisley Underground. Still, Smith and her colleagues deserve respect for their talents, as this album proves. Smith's sole solo album, cleverly titled {Five Ways of Disappearing} (4 AD, 1995) is worth seeking out for its own enervated appeal. By the 1990s, she was said to be living in a cave in Northern California, raising goats in Humboldt County and playing the pump organ, far off the grid. (2-16-15 to Spectrum Culture)