Month: April 2016

I Don’t Want To Read About Lyrics, And Neither Should You

I love reading about music, but I find some music writing frustrating. Too many writers overstate the importance of lyrics, but pay lip service—if that—to the music. Lyrics are important, but they only tell part of the story.

Bad lyrics can ruin a song (although really bad lyrics can make a song—who doesn’t love Kiss’ “Calling Dr. Love?”), and great lyrics are in a league of their own. But usually, lyrics are just something for the singer to say. The listener doesn’t focus on the words—anthemic choruses and catchy phrases being obvious exceptions—the listener absorbs them as part of the overall experience. That experience includes things like the natural tensions and release so integral to music; the grooves and melodies; the mix and production; and how well the music is played. You probably have a favorite song that you sing along to, even though you don’t know most of the words.

Who doesn’t?

That’s how most people listen to music, the words are important in that they contribute to the experience, but they’re not more than that. You can argue about the visceral power of punk poetry, authenticity, storytelling, imagery, and politicking—and many people do—but once words cross that line from poetry to lyrics, you have to consider the whole package. Lyrics aren’t poetry—lyrics are the words to the song—and the whole song is important.

But music writers don’t write like that. Their reviews, essays, and interviews are often hyper-focused on lyrics. They praise mediocre talents and lousy musicians who happen to write quality poetry, but ignore true craftsmen and sometimes entire genres. They usually miss the point, misunderstand the creative process, ascribe significance to things that aren’t important, and ask silly questions in interviews.

My hunch—and it’s just a hunch—is that many music writers don’t know much about music. They listen to a lot of it. They go to a lot of shows. They know a lot of musicians and spend a lot of time thinking, talking, and writing about it. But how much do they really know? If you haven’t killed yourself trying to learn an instrument, or spent hours going deaf in rehearsals, or had your brilliant ideas rejected by your bandmates, or played the 1:00 AM slot on a Monday night to an empty house, or agonized over a mix, or done the myriad other things that go into the learning, mastery, and creation of music—do you really know what you’re talking about?

Probably not.

And that’s why they focus on lyrics. Lyrics are familiar ground—they’re in a writer’s wheelhouse—and the writer sounds intelligent analyzing lyrics, probing for deeper meanings, and theorizing about countercultural statements. But that rarely has anything to do with the statement the artist is making. Chino Moreno, the lead singer and principle lyricist for Deftones recently told me in an interview for Premier Guitar, “Being a singer and the lyricist of a band, the difficult part is trying to communicate what it is I am trying to say. But a lot of times I don’t know what I am trying to say. I really honestly don’t.” That’s why he also plays guitar. “The guitar has always been a way to express emotion without really understanding what you are doing, or trying to do, or trying to say.”

KeithKeith Richards said this about songwriting in his book, Life. “That’s one of the great things about songwriting; it’s not an intellectual experience. One might have to apply the brain here and there, but basically it’s capturing moments.”*

And that makes intuitive sense. Listening isn’t intellectual, it’s emotional—or spiritual, or something transcendent—it’s encountering that captured moment. Overanalyzing lyrics misses the point. Music isn’t designed to be intellectualized. It’s designed to be experienced. The writer’s job is to talk about that experience. You have to focus on the details, too—and sometimes that includes the words—but those details are ultimately secondary to the experience.

Richards also said this about writing lyrics: “We also composed using what we called vowel movement—very important for songwriters. The sounds that work. Many times you don’t know what the word is, but you know the word has got to contain this vowel, this sound. You can write something that’ll look really good on paper, but it doesn’t contain the right sound. You start to build the consonants around the vowels. There’s a place to goo ooh and there’s a place to go daah. And if you get it wrong, it sounds like crap.”* It sounds like crap because the words’  musical function is paramount—their meaning is of lesser importance.

Don’t get me wrong, lyrics aren’t unimportant, they’re just not that important. Even Bob Dylan—who was a great lyricist—wasn’t always so careful with the words he chose. As Mark Richardson noted in his review of Dylan’s The Cutting Edge 1965-1966: The Bootleg Series Volume 12. “One of the things [Dylan] inherited from the Beats was a belief in spontaneous writing and trying to take lyrics more as dictation. Which is not to say he didn’t revise—he did, and often. But it’s always been a mistake to put too much emphasis on the details of these words and what they might ‘mean.’ Sometimes they were selected because a turn of phrase was funny, or because Dylan couldn’t think of a better rhyme, or sometimes simply because that’s what came out. Later on in his writing, he’d have discipline, but this is what he sounded like when he was free.”

But too many writers don’t understand that—instead, they just talk about lyrics (sometimes I wonder if they even bother listening to the music, maybe they just read the lyric sheet?). That’s lazy writing and makes everyone dumber. It emphasizes something that shouldn’t necessarily be emphasized, but worse, it pushes the conversation into dangerous waters. Musicians are experts in music, let them talk about that—they probably have something intelligent to say. Musicians are not experts in social movements, politics, and religion—at least, not usually—and I am not interested in their ill-informed, misguided ramblings. Interviews and reviews shouldn’t be places to reinforce dangerous misconceptions. They should be places to teach about music—to learn about the craft, the artistry, its impact and importance; and to discover new worlds, artists, genres, and experiences.

Teach me something—I’m interested, I want to know more—heck, that’s why I am reading.

*Keith Richards, Life, page 277
*Keith Richards, Life, page 267

Neil Michael Hagerty & The Howling Hex: Denver

COVEREXACTYXI didn’t know what to expect when Denver, the new album from Neil Michael Hagerty and the Howling Hex, arrived in my inbox. I didn’t know about Hagerty’s stint in the ‘80s as noise terrorist with underground icons Pussy Galore. I didn’t know about his reign as a ‘90s alternative icon in Royal Trux either. I didn’t even know about his 15-years-and-counting string of solo and Howling Hex releases. Where have I been? Good question. But I was able to approach Denver with fresh ears.

And—hot dog—that was fortuitous.

Denver is a whacked-out, gonzo, gobsmacked tour de force. It’s weird enough to alienate your square friends, yet somehow assessable, enjoyable, and goofy. The album isn’t an experimental art piece you’ll listen to once, appreciate, and then discuss over an expensive cup of coffee. It’s an angular mashup of waltzes, polkas, oompah grooves, garage noise, punk, grunge, and ‘90s-era guitar fun. It’s weird, but in a good way, and is strangely addictive in spite of itself.

Denver opens with “City Song,” a raunchy waltz that feels like a demented merry-go-round. It’s as if the evil clowns took over—they’re all smiles, but something is horribly wrong. That’s followed by “Colfax West,” which has a quasi-polka, oompah feel (and lyrics about coconut latte). Those two songs set the rhythmic tone for the album—an alternating assortment of waltzes and oompahs. Some will complain about the relentless repetition, but I think it’s great. It’s like a theme and variations for the seriously deranged. Sometimes it’s a waltz. Sometimes it’s punk polka gone wrong. And that’s ok.

The album moves at a quick pace—most of the songs are only about two or three minutes long—until you reach “Lookout.” “Lookout” clocks in at six minutes and harkens back to those glorious modulated guitar sounds reminiscent of Hagerty’s ‘90s Royal Trux work (I explored his earlier work once I realized his awesomeness—how could I not?). The dissonant guitar leads skirt the edge of weird and the song builds in layers and intensity. It grows in a way that doesn’t sacrifice the mood or crush the vibe. “Lookout” at first seems incongruous amidst the otherwise manic energy of Denver, yet it’s the song’s imperfect tambourine hits—an odd element to focus on, I know—that best define it. While ostensibly on the backbeat, the tambourine’s vibe is somewhat uncertain. It wasn’t quantized or cleaned up in the studio and retains it’s imperfections. And that is true for the rest of the record as well. In a world of perfect releases, Pro Tools edits, studio plugins, autotune, and endless tweaks, Denver lets the cards fall where they may. It’s quirky, offbeat, and messy, but it’s also real. And that’s why—in spite of it’s faults—it’s so strangely inviting. There’s something seductive about it, especially since it doesn’t take itself too seriously.

Denver has other quirks, too. There is the nod to Black Sabbath—with xylophone accompaniment as an added bonus—on “300 Days of Sunshine.” There are the ‘50s-style doo-wop chord progressions on songs like “Guided Missiles” and the opener, “City Song.” There’s even an oddball a cappella introduction on “Mountain.” And in spite of the quirks, the musicianship is top notch and the guitar playing is superb, especially on songs like “Colfax West” and “Mountain.”

Add those elements up and Denver is an addictive feast of weird. It isn’t bizarro, outlandish weird. It’s an assessable weird. A weird a Eugene Chadbourne-influenced alchemist—sans Shockabilly and the electric rake—might have produced. It’s virtuosic slop. It’s mundane with a twist. And it’s a lot of fun. Your pretentious friends will hate it. Your mainstream friends won’t understand it. The critics will ignore it.

And that’s ok. Denver is a litmus test—use it to weed out the nerds and ward off the dorks.

Parquet Courts: Human Performance

RTRAD810LPjkt_ntParquet Courts have racked up a lot of critical acclaim since forming in 2010. Their albums—like 2014’s Sunbathing Animal and 2012’s Light Up Gold—received glowing reviews and Sunbathing Animal even sold well, peaking at Number 55 on the Billboard 200. They toured the world, played many of the major festivals, and performed on a number of big talk shows. Now they are back with their latest, Human Performance, and the insular indie world is breathless with anticipation.

And—I’ll be honest—I don’t get it.

In a way, Parquet Courts represent everything wrong with indie rock. They have attitude. They have swagger. They write clever lyrics. But attitude, swagger, and clever lyrics don’t compensate for lousy musicianship, inferior vocal performances, and shoddy songwriting. Music—like all art—requires skills. At some point, you have to hunker down and master your craft, something Parquet Courts seem unwilling to do.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying you need to be a virtuoso. The music world is filled with incredible, unschooled, self-taught non-virtuosos. But Parquet Courts are not in that league. Too often on Human Performance, they try to obfuscate their limitations with cool—but cool doesn’t make for great music.

For example, on “Dust,” the album’s opener, and for about a third of the album’s material, they sit on a one chord vamp and mouth intelligent poetry in an emotionless monotone. Sticking to a monotone does mask their inability to sing, but the effect gets old fast. They try interesting tricks, like on “Dust” and “I Was Just Here” the monotone is doubled with a second voice an octave lower. It sounds great, but only goes so far—cool effects aren’t a substitute for mediocrity.

Andrew Savage and Austin Brown split the vocal duties on Human Performance and Brown is the weaker of the two. Savage can at least get worked up and sound like a real punk rocker when the song’s energy is intense enough. He sounds good on the 60’s-ish title track, on the song “Outside,” and pulls off a solid performance on “Berlin Got Blurry” as well. But Brown—at least I think it’s Brown—on songs like “Keep It Even” and “It’s Gonna Happen,” is downright painful. His voice is weak, uncommitted, and out of tune—and it’s that way because he doesn’t know how to sing.

The guitar playing isn’t much better. To be fair, there are moments of brilliance: the dual interlocking parts on “I Was Just Here” imitate the off-kilter genius of Captain Beefheart and sound fantastic. The Spaghetti Western lead on “Berlin Got Blurry” is effective and catchy. But those flashes of what-could-be are mostly obscured by an embarrassing lack of skill, the most glaring example being the Indian-inflected extended jam that ends “One Man, No City.” It’s difficult to listen to—it’s that horrible—and at best sounds like an excited 15-year-old first discovering his instrument (I’m being charitable). The rinky-dink noodling on “Berlin Got Blurry” isn’t much better, which is unfortunate because it’s an otherwise solid song.

Look. I understand. The DIY punk aesthetic is a rejection of bombastic, self-indulgent wank. It eschews formal study, which inhibits creativity and self-expression. That’s the theory. I disagree, but I understand why some refuse to nosedive down the rabbit hole of music nerditude. But there is a huge difference between nerding out on obscure modes and complex chord substitutions versus acquiring the basic dexterity necessary to play your instrument. Parquet Courts need to focus on basics: things like holding a guitar pick, singing in tune, fingering single notes, and vibrato. Those aren’t difficult skills, but they take practice and discipline.

And for my money, that is the tragedy of Human Performance. It isn’t a terrible album. It has some good songs on it. Parquet Courts have their hearts in the right place and an intuitive sense of what should be great music.

But Parquet Courts are severely limited, they get stuck too easily and I doubt they are able to execute the music they hear in their heads. And that’s because they can’t really sing or play their instruments. The album sounds good—they hired pros to do the engineering, mixing, and mastering. The layout and artwork looks good—that wasn’t left to a beginner either. But the music—what the album is supposed to be about—never fulfills its potential and at points is unlistenable. In my opinion, that’s because the musicians never made the effort to do just that—become musicians.