Jay Reatard: This Weirdo Sitting in the Bushes (Part One)

Releasing music with no less than six bands over a decade points to the song-writing proclivities of Jay Reatard (née Jay Lindsey). Working in almost as many sub-genres of punk as different bands, Reatard has crafted a career and persona of an unabashed loud-mouth who refuses to bow before genre restrictions, cultural trends or record labels.

Slowing his pace of recording only to tour over the last three years, the singer and guitarist moved from underground adulation to broader recognition, even winding up on MTV News at one point.

All of Reatard’s recordings and recent successes, though, haven’t made navigating the music business any more hospitable. Speaking from his Memphis home, Reatard remembers his past, and talks about heading to Hollywood.

 

DJC: It’s interesting to hear your speaking voice, because you sound different on each album.

JR: I just kinda think that it’s an instrument, you know? Whatever the song calls for is the voice that comes out. I don’t really think about it. Even when I go to write a melody, I go to sing it into the recorder for the first time and it usually becomes obvious to me how it should be sung.

 

DJC: On your first solo record [Blood Visions, In the Red Records] it’s striking how British you sound throughout the whole thing.

JR: It’s weird because I never tried to sing in any specific kind of accent. I knew I was putting emphasis on certain syllables or certain words…just for dramatic effect.

 

DJC: The vast majority of songs in any genre are about girls. So was it one girl that you were writing about on Blood Visions or was it an amalgam?

JR: It’s kinda weird people always think I’m writing about girls in a romantic sense. A lot of times my lyrics might be subtle enough that people make that mistake. I’m talking about some cliché - people outside of my little world. And I just generalize it…

 

DJC: “I See You Standing There” isn’t about a girl you know, it’s about the idea of some woman at a park with her kids?

JR: It’s about my views on life…If you’re going to end up being a generic American in your mini-van that drives your fucking kid to soccer practice everyday, I’m always going to be this weirdo sitting in the bushes.

 

DJC: Is it bothersome that folks misread your work? Has that affected your writing?

JR: You can write about anything you want to write about if you present it so simply that people tie it in to things they relate to. Everyone can relate to relationship problems or being pissed off or basic human emotions…It doesn’t aggravate me, it just kinda validates it.

 

DJC: When you were growing up were the Oblivians [a Memphis garage band from the ‘90s] around still?

JR: I saw the Oblivians for the first time in probably about ’95. I was 15 and didn’t really know who they were. They actually didn’t even say who they were and got kicked off stage for being too drunk after three songs…I pretty much got their discography at the time. Before email, there was this mailing address on the back of their records. So, I mailed them a letter and gave them my phone number. Eric [Friedl], the guitar player, called me and he would come pick me up on weekends and bring me to shows…

The Dead Milkmen are (almost) 30

Up until yesterday, I don’t remember voluntarily putting on a Dead Milkmen recording since I was 18. On the way to some college related orientation deal in the ‘burbs of Clevo, whatever compilation tape I’d availed myself to was blasting “Punk Rock Girl.” And that was really the only song that held any sort of cache for me at the time.

Able to appreciate the rolling bass lines on other tracks, the more aggressive offerings were still what drew me in. But since the band is appearing at Chicago’s Riot Fest this weekend, I figured that I needed to brush up on some history and track down some (digital) copies of those albums. It was a wise decision.

Within the burgeoning underground rock thing that was going on during the early and mid ‘80s there were a few bands who didn’t work strictly in punk, but were able to appeal to the genre’s fan base. The Dead Milkmen probably faired the best in ‘the scene,’ even as the Violent Femmes wound up being a much higher profile group – and a great deal more serious. Regardless, the Milkmen ended up inking a deal with Enigma, a Restless Records subsidiary, and releasing its first album in 1985.

Big Lizard in My Backyard sported “Bitchin’ Camaro,” which hit the radio airwaves and for whatever reason seemed to ingratiate itself to listeners. Oddly, though, there are a clutch of songs from the record that not only eschew the bloated introduction that the car song sports, but also include some greater musicality.

“Beach Song” begins with a bass line that’s all but cribbed from Sandinista, but quickly moves into a jangly guitar focused protest of heading down to the beach. And since no one wants to wind up looking like a leather suitcase, listeners would be wise to heed the warning. And yeah, the beach – or the people the go there, more explicitly – do get annoying. But the solo snuck in here does as much to mitigate a horrific trip to the shore as getting drunk prior to heading out there.

The Milkmen’s following album - Eat Your Paisley! – wasn’t received well by fans/critics/people that make ‘taste.’ The second album, though, seems unfairly maligned. It just didn’t match the audacity related by Big Lizard in My Backyard nor did the group’s third album - Bucky Fellini – despite it being generally lauded.

This third effort, though, ratcheted up the comedic factor with “Instant Club Hit” even if the track’s nothing short of obnoxious (and I hope the group doesn’t break out a rendition of it this coming Saturday at the Metro). Elsewhere on the disc, tracks like “Tacoland” don’t show off a new found musical talent, but do include interesting additions to the punk-come-rock construction of the Milkmen. There’s a slide guitar, but it’s not necessarily a mind expanding experience. It’s just there.

Either way, watching forty/fifty year old men playing thirty year old songs might prove entertaining. Maybe. Even if it does, whatever the definition of ‘punk’ is or could be, doesn’t involve shelling out twenty bucks to watch dudes play old songs.

The Subhumans: No, the Dudes from Canada

Probably ever single mention of Vancouver based the Subhumans at some point refers to the Brit band of the same name. It’s certainly not because of any aural similarities, although both do rule in completely different ways.

The Canadian band though has ties to Jello Biafra’s Alternative Tentacles label as well as some shifty eco-terrorists up there in the northwest. I suppose someone in or related to the UK band blew something in political protest, but Gerry Useless got popped for plotting to rip off an armored vehicle in order to finance future disruptive endeavors.

Either way, the music that the Subhumans worked out is and was tied to some ’77 style stuffs as well as an early hardcore sound, but hardcore prior to the genre turning into proto-metal wankery. The groups first full length - Incorrect Thoughts – came out in ’81, but was able to eschew most of the ‘80s styled nonsense that would plague punk during the decade. The album does at points sound like a hard rock record – “Slave to My Dick” being a culprit. That being said, some tracks are reminiscent of the Wipers. I’ll peg it on the fact that the northwest of the US is pretty much the same as the western portion of Canada. But, “Firing Squad” begins with a bit of Wipers sounding guitar before moving into something akin to US Chaos (and if you don’t know who those folks are, find out.)

None of that really matters, if you’re into the music. It is easy to figure that the sturdier portion of the Subhumans’ catalog is represented by its singles that predate the full length. Collected on Alt. Tentacles’ compendium Death Was Too Kind are no less than four singles from the band and some tracks that haven’t been included elsewhere.

The band’s avowed classics – “Death to the Sickoids,” “Oh Canaduh,” – are here as well as some of the songs that would be re-recorded for the first full length. In the versions here, not only is the production different, but the approach to each of those aforementioned songs.

“Slave to my Dick” doesn’t include the cheese ball floor toms to the extent that the album version does. And while the US Chaos check is still appropriate, “Firing Squad” comes off a bit poppier here. I suppose it’s not better or worse, just different. Of course, considering that the versions on the compilation were recorded by the Subhumans up to four years earlier than the album tracks makes the difference, but either way, it’s all gravy.

It’s surprising that the Subhumans have remained a relatively low profile act here in the States, though. DOA, who sprouted from the same scene, are a virtual house hold name – if you live in a “Punk House.” And I’ll venture to say that the Subhumans were a bit more palatable and perhaps even a better band. It’s a different music for a different kitchen (that reference just came out, sorry). But with the band reformed and touring up there in the frozen north, hopefully, they’ll receive a bit more attention.

The Fall in 1985

The Fall was and remains a group in constant flux. I have no idea how many people have come and gone from the ranks of the band, but it’s clear that Mark E. Smith, the band’s front man, has a lyric pouring out of him at pretty much every moment when he’s awake. Who knows, he might even dream songs. But that’s gotta be a lot to deal with as a musician in his employ. And for that reason, I suppose, the rotating cast of players in the Fall could be explained. But beginning in 1983, with Smith’s marriage to Brix (aka Laura Elisse Salenger), there was a moment of stability. Of course, that only lasted for a few years prior to the Hanley brothers – who played bass and drums – departing. Steve would return to play bass for 1985’s This Nation's Saving Grace. That, however, created a redundancy considering Simon Rogers had joined the group to replace Hanley. So now Rogers shifted to keyboards.

Confusing as that all was the Fall has been able to remain a fluid group refusing to turn in an album that comes off sounding half conceived. Of course, some are stronger than others, but in it’s six years of existence leading up to This Nation's Saving Grace the group had released something like ten albums – a few being avowed classics.

Call it post-punk, or whatever, that’s not the point. Mark E. Smith has something to get off his chest and he does it here – again. Some of the tracks are accidents like “Paint Work,” which is all tape edits and manipulations. The homage to Can in the form of “I am Damo Suzuki” is so hap dash offering even as various borrowed rhythms comprise the song. It almost sounds like Bauhaus covering the German band – and that’s not really too bad.

Elsewhere, Smith and company almost reach back to its faster paced, earlier stuff – “Couldn’t Get Ahead” for instance. But in this approach the Fall winds up sounding like a Pere Ubu track from a decade earlier. Well, that’s not fair – perhaps Rocket From the Tombs. There.

Either way, by 1985 the Fall really wasn’t the vanguard of something brand spanking new. It was most assuredly a weird music, but not forward looking like the New York’s Last Exit.

And again, in some other places, Smith comes off as if he’s convinced his band to channel some other, earlier punkers. “Gut of the Quantifier” and its huge, rolling bass line seems dirty enough to come from the Stranglers catalog. It doesn’t, obviously, but the tension created during that song could count as the high point of This Nation's Saving Grace.

Regardless of what was good and what was bad from this effort, though, the disc functions as an appropriate extension of the Fall’s catalog. It won’t blow anyone away – or it shouldn’t at least. But what Smith was able to get down on tape was a music that’s still vibrant and creative, despite being just one of countless albums he would write in a scant few years.

The Members: Punk, Pop and JA

After the surprising chart success of the first wave of Brit punkers that eluded their American counter parts, a crop of new bands began recording after learning a few lessons from those older dudes. The popularity that the reggae tinged works from the Clash received wasn’t missed by these new folks and as a result, some of the groups worked to incorporate much the same approach. It obviously worked to various effect, but with the 2-Tone thing happening at the same time, the musical approach may have been burdensome to the nascent style. It wasn’t dead in the water, but bands like the Members aren’t really anything more than a footnote at this point.

Fronted by Nicky Tesco, the Members sported enough anguished punker enthusiasm to make a mark on the scene, but subsequent to its first single, that just didn’t happen. When the band was formed in ’77, it released the “Solitary Confinement” single the following year. Solely based upon the success of the disc – well, that and the fact that punk had become a marketable commodity – the Members got snatched up by Virgin Records. That label, who dealt a bit in the reggae music, might have seen the band as a potential match to its roster.

“Solitary Confinement” wasn’t JA related, but “Don’t Push” was. Included on the band’s first full length – the studio recorded Live at the Chelsea Nightclub (what?) – the song comes off as a lost track from the Clash, or maybe a demo of “Know Your Rights.” There was also more than a dash of punk in the band’s ska and the tempo here was ratcheted up pretty high, but there was still something more than enticing about it. And by contrast to a great many of the second wave punk bands, both of the guitarists in the Members were capable of shredding.

When the band wasn’t trying to work in those JA sounds it was revving up a combo of punk, pop and a bit of American roots music.“Frustrated Bagshot,” is somehow able to incorporate each as the track begins with a distant sounding acoustic guitar, launches into a punk tempo with its instrumentation stripped down enough to ape a sped up Elvis Costello before tossing in a slide guitar line. The song’s chorus is almost as disturbing as the veering musics, but in a pleasant way.

Despite the batch of enormously catchy tracks included on Live at the Chelsea, the band wasn’t able to capture the imagination of the UK – little lone the States. It seems odd that the Clash and Stiff Little Fingers were able to work roughly the same ground and become figure heads of a movement, whereas the Members have been relegated to having its first disc re-issued by some label called Vivid (who?). Just another reason to think that the record buying public – from any era – as nothing but a group of fickle sheep. This shoulda been a classic. And I guess it still is, but no one knows.

The Nation of Ulysses: PunkhardcoreJazzWeird

Elevated language, usually glowing in nature, accompanies anything written about the Ian Svenonious fronted Nation of Ulysses. It’s not that the group doesn’t deserve such affection thrust in its direction, but the fact that the band is perceived to be something of a political force is a farce. The line about politics was profligate by the band’s lyrics and furious efforts to present themselves as something more than just a musical ensemble. It worked. Today, the Nation of Ulysses is one of the more heralded Dischord bands from the label’s formative period. Again, the adulation is deserved, but not for the reasons that people expound.

Musically, the Nation was ahead of the curve, but lyrically, everything that flies from the mouth of Svenonious sounds like an updated White Panther Party polemic. He’s an intelligent song writer, able to touch on a wide variety of topics and in detail, but to present it all as something new is disingenuous. How the political beliefs of the group were presented, though, is interesting to say the least. Screamed, shouted, blurted and even written in the form of a zine distributed at shows made the Nation of Ulysses a singular group given its aural tendencies. After all, by the ‘90s, hardcore scenes were comprised of well informed miscreants as well.

Separating the group from the like minded hardcore kids wasn’t the yelling that Svenonious related his message in, but the music of his group which included the brother of Fugazi drummer, James Canty. For its second album Plays Pretty For Baby, produced by Dischord label honcho Ian MacKaye, the Nation set about forcing open the tropes of punk and its related music. Svenious may have always considered himself a jazzbo, but this disc sports a track entitled “N.O.U. Future Vision Hypothesis.” During the song’s three minutes, the Nation takes a break from the speed up rock stuffs of other offerings on the disc. Instead what listeners get is a laid back, thoughtful drum beat – if not too complicated – and Svenonious getting all mellow on the horn. Giving listeners a moment to recoup from the inundation of noise and screaming was a good move, but also served to showcase the band’s ability to switch up musical ideas as well as ideological ones.

All but two other tracks from Plays Pretty For Baby can burn a listeners ears, but “Depression III” and “N.O.U.S.P.T.D.A.” attempt to incorporate a beatnik thing that doesn’t work too well. Neither song is horribly flawed. But again, neither reaches the same heights as “N.O.U. Future Vision Hypothesis.” They gave it a shot at least.

The Nation would head back in the studio and begin work on a follow up album only to have guitarist Steve Kroner depart prior to the work’s completion. That could be a plus, because really, how would the band have been able to maintain not just the intensity it touted philosophically, but musically as well? That woulda been tough.

Subsequently, Svenious has performed with the Make-Up, basically a more garage styled version of the Nation, Weird War and most recently Chain and The Gang. Perhaps that first group after the Nation came closest to what was going on – spiritually at least – on Plays Pretty For Baby, but nothing afterwards would capture that abandon again.

A Recollection: Seattle, Wa circa October 2007

Spurred by their somewhat surprising ascension to popularity by an association with the snide hipsters at Vice Records, the Black Lips have toured relentlessly for the past year and change. Despite the fact that the band has been playing for around seven years and released three albums before landing with Vice, fame had not found them. Regarded as one of the most exciting live rock acts touring shite bars, the band persevered and has found an ever expanding audience since the live Los Valientes del Mundo Nuevo. The recent release of Good Bad Not Evil, which is numbingly void of punctuation, has spurred the band to continue on their relentless route back and forth across the country and across the ocean for a visit to Israel. A successful appearance between their two releases this year at SXSW probably didn’t hurt either. Unfortunately for them, a trip to Seattle found the Black Lips sharing a bill that included Dirtnap’s the Girls and Seattle’s finest robot punk, the Spits.

It was easy, after passing the faded tattooed face of the bouncer, who seemingly relished the ability to frisk, confiscate and harass, to over hear whispers of eagerness directed towards the Spits more so than the Lips. The Spits, who took their summer vacation across Europe have been absent from bills in the Seattle area for the past several months. This show seemed as opportune as any for them to restate their avowed Ramones come cough syrup style on Seattleites.

This town can barely contain the hipster swagger and the occasional idiocy that accompanies it. For this reason, firecrackers are an unwelcome mainstay at innumerable shows, this being one of them. While the culprit and his compadres no doubt found explosives amusing, setting them off in a confined and rather crowded venue doesn’t seem conducive to sustaining shows. This was again exemplified by the appearance of a not all too happy looking, muscled, behavioral specialist who mounted the stage and remained there for nearly two-thirds of the Spits set to remove the possibility of another tiny and insignificant, yet obnoxious explosion.

Drawing equally from all of their Self-Titled albums, the meticulous timing and unison found in the Spits’ performance was staggering. Even though each song sported roughly the same tempo, they were each greeted with something just short of overwhelming glee from the audience, who was on the verge of pogoing from moment to moment, but instead employed the hipster-lean.

During the rendition of “Black Kar”, surreptitiously a clearing sprung up on the dance floor. Soon enough the space was filled. But like any good show, the presence of puke, momentarily in that empty dance hall space, signaled what kind of evening it was. If that wasn’t enough, perhaps the puke in the sink that florally greeted each trip to the pisser was.

Even without the swampy fragrances emanating from the Crocodile, the Spits commanded attention, playing “Bring”, from the Dirtnap Self-Titled album, with lines about sniffing glue and blood filling the space between them and the crowd. This song, even with the similarities to others, seemed to further animate the crowd finding a great number in attendance mouthing along. With this heightened excitement, the crowd demanded an encore, was obliged and then obliged again, the band finally exiting when they were satisfied.

The following day, a bit too early for the quartet, the Black Lips appeared at the Ballard location of Sonic Boom Records. Despite the rousting time, the band seemed prepared if not overtly enthused to perform. The singular perspective that this event lent to the band’s life presented itself in the fact that it was acoustic. The drummer, Joe Bradley, performed encased in sunglasses and worked with only a snare drum, single drum stick and tambourine to more than adequate effect. This performance, as opposed to the previous evenings’ set, focused on songs from the past. “Hippie, Hippie, Hoorah”, replete with off time and dissonant eastern lead guitar figure, forced even those cramped into isles between discs to bob and shake a bit. The free booze probably didn’t hurt either.

If drinking wasn’t an idea to suite musical voyagers, sugary cereal and toaster pastries could sustain them while the band, with lead vocalist Cole Alexander coughing between songs, swilling alternately an adult beverage and water, traversed more of Let It Bloom. Flashes from cameras of enthusiastic fans didn’t seem to affect the performers as the bizarre vocals included in “Dirty Hands”, which is garage to ‘50s pop in a way that Zappa’s Cruising with Rueben and the Jets had been. The abbreviated set ended with an offering from Black Lips! as Bradley vocalized in only a fashion that these Southerners are able.

Brit Punk: Pistols and Beyond

The Sex Pistols
These jokers were as much media construction as genuine article. That doesn’t mean that the music wasn’t good, though. Glen Matlock and Steve Jones (who wound up starting a band called the Professionals that might be musically stronger than the Pistols) are really an underrated duo, the latter possessing the guitar talents that many in the early punk scene did not. Regardless of who was good at what – and Sid was good at nothing – this band was able to release just one proper full length before the wheels fell off. It’s a classic. You’ve probably heard it roughly 10,000 times.

The Damned
Releasing the earliest single from a punk band in the UK, the Damned aren’t as hugely famous as the Pistols. The Damned’s first three records, though, represent as strong a trio of releases from a UK band as exist – well maybe the Clash have ‘em there. Either way, the ‘80s weren’t too kind to these folks as they devolved into a weirdo goth group. Stay away from that nonsense, but otherwise, it’s all tasty stuffs.

The Clash
The most varied in its tastes outta this class of bands, the Clash were able to eventually include reggae, ska, dub and funk into its punk. London Calling is generally heralded the most frequently. But the band’s second full length, 1978’s Give ‘em Enough Rope, moves between rock genres pretty adroitly for a group that was formed to just mess around subsequent to seeing the Ramones.

The Boys
Never as big as its peers, the Boys were able to create an amalgam of pop and aggression that came off so clean that it’s hard to understand why it wasn’t a more popular band. There some transgressions – and some out of place metally guitar sounds - here and there with a few lyrics contradicting one another in relation to the band’s allegiance to the Beatles, but all is forgiven. As a side, “First Time” was covered pretty well by the Canadians in Teenage Head – hunt it down.

Alternative TV
Maybe closest to the Clash outta this grouping here, Alternative TV weren’t ever destined to make a huge impact on the genre. Founded by zinester Mark Perry, Alt. TV work around some reggae music as well as its punk. And in an interesting turn of events the group even ran through some demos with Genesis P. Orridge. The result was just a buncha experimental noise with some kraut sounds tossed in, but there wasn’t another punk group that woulda been capable of such feats.

The Buzzcocks
One of the first bands function outside of the London scene, the tightly wound, forward thinking dudes from Manchester released a single that pretty much blew everything else outta the water. It’s first full length album - Another Music in a Different Kitchen – is really all the required listening tied to this group. Later discs, after the departure of Howard Devoto, just weren’t as strong. And regardless of how lame Magazine turned out to be, the songwriting skills he took with him were apparently what made the Buzzcocks.

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