Song of the Week: X - Nausea

[originally posted 4/6/09]
I'm reposting this as I still have Ray Manzarek on the mind. We've already posted his work as a performer, and here we touch on his work as a producer. 

The year was 1977. The town, Los Angeles. The Eagles have replaced the Beach Boys as the pimps of California culture. The Carpenters represent the "get in the back of the Van and get mellow" sound of LA. Gary Wright is performing the truly retched Dream Weaver (worse song ever?) so a bunch of vapid, spandex wearing roller skaters can get their wheels moving down Venice Beach.

Someday in that year. Somewhere in that town. A man acerbically calling himself John Doe walked to a poetry reading in Santa Monica where he met a recent Florida transplant named Christine Cervenka. Neither of our protagonists had a taste for the pop culture music of the day and they quickly started sharing their passion for something different. Later that year they would marry and form a band with rockabilly enthusiast Billy Zoom and drummer DJ Bonebreak. In keeping with his established anti-hero theme, John Doe would name the band X and Christine rechristened herself Exene. The malcontents quickly created a buzz in the small club circuit and caught the watchful eye of The Doors organist, Ray Manzarek, who would get the band a record contract and produce their first album, Los Angeles.

Recorded in January of 1980, and released a few months later, Los Angeles would not only prove to be a huge break from the music norms laid down by the top-selling acts of the day, but it was also quite different than the other California Hardcore bands like The Germs or The Circle Jerks who were also at the vanguard of a new and very important scene. Where bands like The Germs would tout their lack of musical ability as a badge of honor in a virtuoso/Steely Dan crazy world, the members of X actually had musical talent and weren't afraid to show it. And, similarly, X was very different from their British punk comrades as well. Where British punk bands like GBH (Great Britain's Hell) relied on shock value to get their message across, X found their shock value in not being outlandish. It was all in the approach to the music. It was a message of back to basics. 

Los Angeles painted a beautifully grimy view of the world and tinseltown was the canvass. It was a world where violent rape was swept under the rug (Johnny Hit And Run Pauline), where the gritty dark-side of the city of angels turned a wide-eyed girl into a homophobic, racist who flees in fear back to her small town (Los Angeles) and where the material culture of Los Angeles is exposed as soul sucking and self abusive (Sex and Dying In High Society). In their world Los Angeles wasn't the glamour town seen on The Love Boat. It was a town that would make your soul sick. Sick, so sick, that you prop your forehead upon the sink and say "oh Jesus Christ my head is going to crack like a bank."  Where tonight you'll fall asleep in clothes so late like a candy bar wrapped up for lunch. That's all you get to taste. Like poverty and spit. Poverty and spit. Your bloody red eyes will turn to Nausea. A dark song with a relentlessly catchy barre chord riff that moves along with purpose and confidence. A Hammond B3 organ (very, not punk) played by Manzarek pounds away at the listener. You close your eyes and realize you're talking out of harmony now. You can't remember what you said. Cut it out! You feel retarded now. You take the scissors to your head. It's Nausea.

Song of the Week: "California Uber Alles", Dead Kennedys

Listen -- The Dead Kennedys perform California Uber Alles.

If this song doesn't get your blood pumping, then nothing ever will. Our SoTW this week is the Dead Kennedys' political satire, California Uber Alles. Specifically, it is the first version of the song released in 1979 as a single. Penned by frontman Jello Biafra, the Boulder, Colorado native born Eric Boucher who changed his name and geography. The song is satirically sung from the perspective of then Governor of California, the new-agey Jerry Brown. In the song Biafra imagines a not too far off time when "Carter power will soon go away" and be replaced by the commands of "Zen Fascist" Jerry Brown who will force your kids to "meditate in school".

The Dead Kennedys were one of the most important, original and earliest pillars in the American punk or hardcore scene. A scene that was birthed almost entirely in California. As we noted in our earlier article on X, the California hardcore scene created a completely unique movement in music. Far less extravagant and outlandish in appearance than it's UK counter-part movement, the California scene pushed minimalism. But truth be told, the Dead Kennedys were different than other bands in the scene. More political, more humorous, more eager to offend any and all constituencies. Both evangelicals and progressives lined up to throw eggs at a band they found offensive to their sensibilities. The Dead Kennedys reveled in their thumb in the eye of everyone positioning. One need look no further than their name to see proof of that.

In California Uber Alles, Biafra holds nothing back: "Zen fascists will control you, 100% natural. You will jog for the master race and always wear a happy face". But it's the bridge at 1:41 of the song, both musically and lyrically, where the song hits it's high point. Slowed down to a half tempo we start with an ominous single string riff played by guitarist East Bay Ray. Biafra's famous quivering voice (reminiscent of Feargal Sharkey of the Undertones) mixes images of George Orwell, the Nazi movement and hippy cults. It is one of the best movements in a song that I have ever heard: "Now it's 1984. Knock-knock at your front door. It's the suede/denim secret police, they have come for your uncool niece. Come quietly to the camp. You'd look nice as a draw string lamp. Don't you worry it's only a shower, for your clothes here's a pretty flower." Then, "Die on organic poison gas." Nobody was spared from the sarcastic wit.

Some time around 1983 I saw the Dead Kennedys perform in San Francisco at Mabuhay Gardens and then again at The Farm. They were two of the best shows that I ever saw. Not musically so much as from the perspective of a total performance. As the martial drums rolled California Uber Alles to a close, Biafra goose-stepped around the stage with a mock Nazi salute. The racist Nazi-punks in the audience sensing they were being ridiculed stormed the front of the stage and spat upon the shirtless Biafra who wiped the spit all over his chest and face. As the nazi-punks would flail at him and gesture with their middle finger, Biafra yelled out the count-down for the next song: "Nazi-Punks, Fuck Off! 1-2-3!" The battle was on and the stage became a melee. I moved to the back of the very small room and was, to be honest, very scared. I couldn't believe that the diminutive Biafra would invite this type of trouble. But the Dead Kennedys were afraid of nothing and no one. And it comes across in this song. Enjoy.

Song of the Week: The Undertones - Teenage Kicks

Woo Hoo! The first Song of the Week for 2009! And what a doozy it is. Today we find ourselves on a cold, rainy day standing under the awning of the front door of Austin's Department store at #2, Diamond Street in Derry (aka Londonderry), Ireland. It's 1978 and a sparkly Swedish band called Abba controls the number one slot at the music counter with a song called Take A Chance on Me. The sound of disco is ubiquitous, even here in this dark provincial town that straddles a divided country. The girl behind the record counter wears bell bottoms, a tartan scarf that tips her allegiance to the Bay City Rollers and make-up which paints a contrived happy-face in these dark, bloody days of the IRA and the UDA.

As you scan the bins you note to yourself that the music today, like the girl behind the counter, is as plastic as the crappy eight track cases their music comes in. These manufactured bands now make their debut on "Top of the Pops", not in back alley pubs serving pints to frustrated teenagers. Then you see it. A record by a local group of kids. Heck, you may even kinda know that slightly built bass player. Didn't he used to chum around with some lads you used to know. The Undertones?You look closer. "Is that Feargal Sharkey second from the right? Nah, can't be. That fay little eunuch from the church choir back in elementary school?"

You hold the 7" EP between your fingers as you look it over. You give a quick look at the plasticine girl behind the counter dressed up like a clown. You quickly re-fix your gaze back at the record. These boys look like Derry boys. They dress like you. They have your haircut. You even have those same Doc Martens boots. You take the record over to the listening booth and slip on the headphones, put the needle at the far right of the 45 and listen to the crackle of the vinyl. Boo-dum boo-dum. The drums snap the band to attention and the guitars lay down a cool -- not too rushed -- melody. It's not a melody. That's a groove. Yeah. "Holy crap. That voice. That is that Feargal freak singing! Still sounds like a eunuch, he does."

You get it. And you get it immediately. This isn't some rubbish about some bloke named "Fernando." This isn't about dreams weavers or cakes being left out in the rain...whatever that stupid song is about anyway. This is about Derry. This is about you. This is the universal truth: "Are teenage dreams so hard to beat? Everytime she walks down the street. Another girl in the neighborhood. Wish she was mine, she looks so good. I wanna hold her, wanna hold her tight. Get teenage kicks right through the night." Yes! Yes! Yes!

Just 2:26 seconds later you turn and walk out of the listening booth and cut for the counter like a man with a plan. You don't quite look at that girl and you plonk a few schillings on the counter. "The Undertones! I know these blokes. They're real cool. My brother is friends with the drummer." She self consciously giggles and lets out a snort as she does. She turns red and looks down with embarrassment. You suddenly look up and look right at her. The words are running in your head. "I need excitement and I need it bad. And it's the best I ever had." You find yourself saying something not quite true. "Yeah, me and the boys are real good friends. We go way back, we do. Played football wit 'em." The lyrics return to your head: "I'm gonna call her on the telephone. Have her over 'cause I'm all alone." A wave of blustery courage comes over you. She's not that bad, she ain't. In fact, she's kinda cute if you think about it. "I'm going to see 'em this weekend down at Spinners. You wanna, maybe, go wit me?" "Um, uh, yeah", she says in a diminishing tone. "Yeah, might be fun for some kicks."

You wanna hold her. Wanna hold her tight. Them Teenage Kicks are going to get you through the night. Oh Yeah!