SOME KIND OF MONSTER

Some Kind of Monster, the making-of documentary about Metallica and their newest record St. Anger was supposed to be a good film whether you care about Metallica or not. Noel and I watched it a couple weeks ago, and I sat on the floor for over two hours, engrossed. Seeing the story of frustration, depression, and addiction behind St. Anger gives the album the personal relevance it needs. I’m not a big fan of the band, but the film inspired me to borrow the record from Noel. I wouldn’t have connected with the music on my own or through my individual experience, but knowing the band’s crucible over the past few years through the documentary and the fire they put their art through has forged that connection.

St. Anger‘s energy is fueled by positive, self-searching fury. The album’s sound juxtaposes the chaos of metal with a cut & pasted, ProTools-processed production style. In more ways than one, it has the characteristics of edge, striving, and tension between musical repetition/change that howie&scott’s signs aimed for. Big thrashy riffs are beaten out and given structural room to breathe; a theme is often introduced, varied, and played again, sounding achingly slow against Lars’ quadruple-time drumming. Musically, Metallica is smart and solid but not unorthodox, an extraordinary garage-metal band but not revolutionary. For the first time, the band co-authored all of the lyrics. Dominant is James Hetfield’s wrestling with his psychological shadow self – this is the correct way to hear the exhortation to “Kill” at St. Anger‘s close. It’s Hetfield’s shadow speaking; it’s poetry, “reality” in aesthetic terms only. Note the change from Ride the Lightning and other metal of that era, which took its own mythological exhortations as real.

In the tension between creativity and expectation (whether the band’s own, or fans’, or those of metal in general) a few moments falter lyrically. “Invisible Kid” would sound ten times better if the fourth line of each stanze DIDN’T rhyme with lines 2 & 3, and the chorus of “Purify” might be heard in any given Midwestern dive in a song by any given metal band; we rightfully expect more from Metallica. Yet only “Shoot Me Again” is wounded mortally by its’ cliches; it stumbles down the road without any of the redeeming qualities of the rest of the album.

With St. Anger, Metallica has created a desperate, honest statement of survival. It’s mature in all the good ways: well-played, dealing with real struggle, tempered by experience. Go ahead and be surprised that I’ve made myself its advocate; I am too.

echoes RUMORS

Received some meaningful, informal positive feedback about echoes and nickel today from Courtney Yasmineh. I’d given her a disc (nickel and Shacker’s Knowing Her Best…) awhile ago after hitting her CD release show. Courtney said she’d actually been listening to the disc, and even spun it for her producer, Rob Genadek, and it seems he dug echoes too. The lyrics were a big hook apparently (catchy + quirky), which I felt good about.

In other less-than-official echoes news, I’ve demoed six new rock songs and am in search of a producer (because I can’t do drums at home in Minnesota – not enough gear). I’m talking first with someone through Tapestry, the WCC contemporary worship band, but Courtney’s offered to help locate a reasonable (read: pro bono) backup if the first choice doesn’t work out. So, hopefully there will be new rock’n’roll this summer. I’ll keep working on some more acoustic stuff at home in the meantime. -h

Gilby's "Lunch By Yourself" on Furious Instance

Yesterday’s update included a broken link to Gilby’s “Lunch By Yourself” – the link is fixed now, so GO. DOWNLOAD. IT. (it’s to your left!). Many, many thanks to (in order of email): Nick, Allen, and JT for catching the break and emailing MFR about it. Sending FuriousMail now…

In other news, over 120 mb of BEACH-PUPPY served yesterday! Congratulations, Cory Kibler.

Beach-Puppy to Universe; "Creepy Eepy Available… NOW!"

Mr. Furious Records has released Beach-Puppy’s first recording, Creepy Eepy, today at mrfuriousrecords.com. Download it from the m u s i c page. Beach-Puppy is Cory Kibler from Shacker writing pretty, folky songs.

As if Beach-Puppy wasn’t enough, today we launch the FURIOUS INSTANCE. The Furious Instance is an ongoing collection of songs from artists both inside and outside of MFR. Al Puff Gilbert (“Gilby”) starts the madness with “Lunch By Yourself,” a punk-rock tale of noontime lonliness and hope for its eventual defeat. On the Mr. Furious [blog] is a post from Gilby about the track – and ounces + ounces of cobwebs on music in the archives.

Printable PDF artwork for Beach-Puppy is on the way in coming weeks, as well as “Great Distances” – Bike’s new *bonus track* for How Is That Possible – the second Furious Instance track (howie&scott) and new echoes material. Killer!

a message from: AL "PUFF" GILBY Re: LUNCH BY YOURSELF

“Allen, when we’re gone, you’re gonna miss us. You’re gonna eat lunch all by yourself!” my friend Laura exclaimed as we ate a late-night dinner at Village Inn. I was a junior in high school, hanging out with my soon-to-be-graduating senior friends, and a few of us were engaged in a discussion about songwriting. Upon receiving Laura’s words of insincere discouragement, I was inspired to write a silly chorus on a napkin. Soon after the chorus was complete, I penned the first verse, and recorded a simple guitar/vocals version of the song. Naturally, its lighthearted lyrics and simple rhyme scheme lent well to a Green Day-ish punk sound.

Two years later, I was in a college band, and we needed some
original material. I remembered that silly little song I had started
years before and decided to complete it. I kept the lunch theme in the
choruses, and wrote verses two and three about my transition from high
school to college. We only played the song once in concert, and not
long after that performance, we disbanded. So, over my 2004 Christmas
break, I decided to record the song myself.

Although I did not mean for this song to be taken seriously (many of the lines are tongue-in-cheek), it does have some truth to it. For those of you who share my trouble with hearing lyrics correctly, here they are in written form:

All my senior friends are gone
It is not gonna rock on
When I go to lunch next year
But in all reality
My junior friends will stay with me
But here’s what Laura tells me anyway…

Lunch by yourself, all by yourself
You will hate lunch, you will hate lunch
Lunch by yourself, all by yourself

Senior year is going well
Except for one thing, let me tell
I love this girl, I think she’s really great
But she doesn’t love me back
I think my heart is gonna crack
My appetite is gone again today

I am upset, I am upset
I don’t eat lunch, I don’t eat lunch
I am upset, yes I am very upset

I feel like I want to die
I feel like nothing’s going right
My hope’s misplaced, I’m a disgrace
But the months fly past…

My high school years are gone and I
Often stop and wonder why
I wasted so much time being upset
With the things that now have passed
And the hurts that did not last
At least I think I’ll learn from my mistakes

Now I eat lunch, now I eat lunch
Not by myself, not by myself
Now I eat lunch, yes, now I can enjoy lunch
Soon there will be a girl for me
We will share lunch, we will share lunch
And we will be oh so very happy

-allen

MELODIOUS OWL / OLYMPIC HOPEFULS / FAUX JEAN at the TURF CLUB, ST PAUL, 29 JAN 05

This isn’t a show review, because CJ and I didn’t get in the door. A front-page spread in the entertainment section of Friday’s StarTrib on Hopkins’ high-school heroes Melodious Owl brought a sellout home for the Turf Club. We stood in line, in the freezing cold, for about 30 minutes before it became apparent that we weren’t going to get in. Instead, we spent the evening talking to Kassie Church and listening to The Sugarplastics, Kevin Tihista, and Ted Leo + the Pharmacists.

I still felt good about the show. We each took a bullet for the scene; it’s great that freaky, original local bands can sell out a club. So cheers to Melodious Owl, the Hopefuls, and Faux Jean.

APPROACHING "DE-LOUSED IN THE COMATORIUM," SPOON IN HAND

The Mars Volta hang the entire weight of De-loused in the Comatorium on whether you, as a listener, will accept and connect with a decision made at the end of the album.

De-Loused… tells a story. I’ve read a little about it (which helped me comprehend it precisely “a little”) and slowly absorbed since its release in the autumn of 03. In track two, “inertiatic esp,” we’re introduced to the protagonist, a fellow in a coma (“Coma-guy” for now). He is lost in his coma, travelling through a scary, vaguely sexy, vision-world. It reminds me of the vision quest Homer Simpson took after he ate the Insanity Pepper at Springfield’s chili cook-off. But without the fox-narrator. Coma-guy wanders this coma-world, this vision-quest, for the duration of songs 2-8. In #9, “televators,” Coma-guy wakes to our reality (the one in which you’re reading this [blog]) and, seeing it, chooses to release his hold on it and die.

This is the crux; do you believe the story so far, and do you care? Your answer will determine the record’s worth for you. After several listens I find, somewhat surprisingly, that I do.

If you journey with Coma-guy this far, closing track “take the veil cerpin taxt” will treat you to a higher-level vision. After death, it seems a new journey awaits that is to the coma-world of tracks 2-8 what the coma-world is to our reality (which we glimpsed only in track 9 – the crux). The Mars Volta reveal their vision of an afterlife as an exponential increase in insanity – an even hotter chili pepper, hotter than you even imagined your taste buds could transmit.

I LIKE YOUR SLEEVES. THEY'RE REAL BIG

Many of you readers have seen the film “Napoleon Dynamite.” We’ll agree it’s funny, but I think it’s also a poignant look at the baffling, comic, tragic collision of the weird and the mundane that we experience as life.

Uncle Rico is my favorite, because of his football videos. There are days when I think amateur football videos are to Uncle Rico what Mr. Furious is to me; a futile grasping at glory, a project with meaning in such a narrow context that only Napoleon’s reaction is true, and only a hopeful reading of Kip’s response offers a plausible path forward;

“This is the worst video ever!”

“Duh, Napoleon, like how could you even know that?”

Shacker Makes 2004 Best-of List

One of Shacker’s records (either Knowing Her Best… or The Dimly Lit Room or (though unlikely) Pardon My Pretension…) has received an Honorable Mention on Transit Librarian‘s end-of-year best music of 2004 list. Congratulations, fellows!

Full disclosure: the Transit Librarian is a friend of howie’s. But we still think Shacker earned their spot among artists as diverse as Franz Ferdinand, Air, Wilco, and A.C. Newman.

OLYMPIC HOPEFULS at STATION 4, St PAUL, 31 DEC 04 and "THE FUSES REFUSE TO BURN"

The year 2005 found Kate and I about 10 minutes behind schedule, counting down with my favorite Twin Cities band, in otherwise-dead downtown St. Paul (they’d been sound-checking at actual midnight, but Kate observed that time is arbitrary anyway, valued only instrumentally as we grant it the power to measure). Olympic Hopefuls are undeniably great, plus whip-smart and catchy as hell, becoming an irresistable musical force something like the Cars crashing into Weezer’s Blue Album.

After seeing the Hopefuls a few months ago with the Transit Librarian, I brought expectations generated by the first show to New Year’s Eve and left happy. Live, the band understates everything save their music itself. Showmanship is limited to their matching red polyesther track suits, and stage banter is one notch above nonexistent. Playing and singing away on original hooks and huge choruses, properly sloppier than on record, is enough to satisfy both band and fans. The Fuses Refuse To Burn, tastily layered and perfectly warm-sounding, is the essential album of my first six months in the Twin Cities scene. The show included three cuts that aren’t included on the record (I’m guessing on the titles): “She’ll Get What She Wants”, “On The Edge of Medicine”, and “She (something else I can’t remember)”.

Olympic Hopefuls’ side-project status is almost revealed in their unification of wounded self-deprication (“Shy”, “Whisper”) and optimism of a delerious sort. This collision is seen most clearly in the face of terrible circumstances; “Imaginary” – an ode to a ficticious lover, or “Motobike” in which our protagonist crashes repeatedly, only to ride again faster and faster, singing “I’ll never slow down!” Only musicians with nothing to lose can create such intelligent, fearless pop. Dual songwriters Erik Appelwick (of Vicious Vicious) and Darren Jackson (Kid Dakota) are obviously having a great time being away from their real (?) selves. Their joy from rocking with abandon, and pain from knowing that fulfilling their world-class hopes for love and motobiking skills are one-in-a-million at best, is entirely infectious. I feel both with an authenticity and depth that seems surprising given the bright bounce of the Hopefuls’ music; their freeing lack of gravitas becomes in me enlightened innocence, more poignant by accident than greater effort would ever achieve.

Sometimes the more you tighten your grip, the more star systems slip through your fingers.