emcecil (FMA Admin)

Suicide may have lit the torch in the mid-'70s, but one could argue that by decade's end, its carriers lived on the other side of the country -- in San Francisco.  Sure, L.A. had the Screamers and some other odd ducks.  But SF hosted an impressive number of bent bands who used synths, tape machines and other electrical apparatus to extend punk's mutated left end by leaps/bounds.  Informed by avant garde composers and performance artists, fueled by apocalyptic abandon and paranoid pop twitch, groups like Tuxedomoon, Nervous Gender, the Residents, Factrix, Minimal Man, Chrome, and Pink Section would release timeless slabs of aggresively bizarre noise -- as would the Units, whose Digital Stimulation LP (415 Records, 1980) remains a personal favorite.  The album's a lush and moody salvo if there ever was one, and I was thrilled to ask former lead synth player and vocalist Scott Ryser (right) a few questions about the band and its M.O. by e-mail last week.

In '79, the Handgrenades issued what would become the best UK DIY punk single not actually from the UK: their "Demo to London" b/w "Coma Dos" 45, self-released in an undetermined quantity on the band's unnamed imprint.

The single is a killer.  It was also once a source of profound mystery -- to collectors and wayward punk geeks, at least.  Omitted on the sleeve are the band's roster, their location and where they recorded their material, and the only nuggets of information profferred are a production credit attributed to Bob Levitan and the word "phonographix." Given this anonymity, and in light of the title and subject of "Demo to London" -- not to mention the otherworldly cut-up cover art, production, vocals, and musicianship (or lack thereof) -- many took the band's provenance to be London, or perhaps the outskirts of Manchester.  The flip's manic "Coma Dos" sheds even less light on the single's origin, and the listener's left with a clang-punk artifact of the highest random order, reminiscent of contemporaries like Swell Maps, the Petticoats, Desperate Bicycles, so on, so forth.

Jürgen Gleue is done with music.  He quit sometime in the mid-'90s.  That's when he gave his instruments and equipment away to local musicians in Hannover, Germany.  He hasn't played a note since.

"And now," Gleue said when I spoke with him on the phone some months ago, "I have the comics for recreational purposes."

Much like the songs he recorded in his various outfits -- most notably, the legendary 39 Clocks, and his solo project, Phantom Payn -- his comics are playful, sardonic and, above all else, hallucinatory.  He self-publishes them in runs of 50 or so, then hands them out to friends, acquaintances and strangers in the streets of Hannover. 

"But why comics?" I asked.

"I like the way small fanzines relate to larger magazines, especially in terms of subversion," he returned.

Subversion's always been a big part of Gleue's life, especially in terms of art.  Or as he calls it, "primitive art, a sort of anti-art."  From the early '70s through most of the '80s, he and co-conspirator Christian Henjes/C.H.-39 took immense pleasure in crafting crude, provocative ditties like "Stupid Art" -- noisy and anthemic tunes that borrowed as much from the monkeyshines of Dada as they did the repetition of the Velvet Underground and the rank confrontation and canned beats of Suicide, whose live show directly influenced the Clocks' antagonism.  They played often, despite -- or because of -- threats from angry crowds, cross words from prestigious artists (Joseph Beuys) and a hefty influx of drink and drug.

Such chaotic creative tension couldn't last long.  Impressively, though, their self-proclaimed "psycho beat" endured until '87 or so.  And when the smoke cleared, J.G.-39 started recording moodier solo efforts under the name Phantom Payn.

"It's weird," says Robin Hall, erstwhile vocalist of formative NY punks/no-wavers Jack Ruby.  "But I actually thought we should have hit records."

They didn't, of course.  How could they?  As early as '74, the toothsome quartet was making quite a racket in Lower Manhattan -- too much racket, really, and the Bowery bohemes flocking to see Television and the New York Dolls were unsure of a band that seemed to thrive on sheets of schizophrenic noise.  Robin and his bandmates considered groups like Television and the Dolls distant peers, and they hoped for some sort of recognition in the Lower East Side, but it was clear that Jack Ruby didn't fit.  They couldn't, and didn't want to.

"Bands like Television had their thing, which wasn't what we were doing," says Hall today.  "We had our own way of doing things.  It was more like, 'If everybody's doing that, let's do this.'" 

Contrarian and abrasive as they were, Jack Ruby had something.  Some of their songs sounded familiar -- at least for the first 30 seconds or so -- borrowing riffs and rhythms from the Stooges, the Velvets, the MC5, various hard rock and garage bands.  But there lurked an unhinged, paranoiac collage of amphetemine noise in each of their tunes, due in no small part to drummer Randy Cohen's cracked synth and manipulated sound loops, not to mention Boris Policeband's equally squalid electric viola.  While Hall would sneer through his lines and sniff at imaginary jailbait, guitarist Chris Gray wiggled out strangulated leads, and Cohen and Policeband attacked their respective instruments, building a mountainous scraping cacophony atop what began as a fairly planar rock/roll number.  In some cases, the sonic bedlam would prove too heavy and unwieldy for the song itself to support, and it would disintegrate abruptly. 

My favorite local band, the K-Holes, are currently mixing their as-yet-untitled sophomore LP, due out this coming April.  The second album's sure to be a great follow-up to their excellent debut on Hozac Records, since this local quintent's recent live shows tell of a compellingly primal mix of Scientists-mach-two drudgery, desolate Western twang and incisive punk.  "Window in the Wall," a serpentine number from their upcoming full-length, also speaks of a band that's learned to exercise a bit of subtlety, a gang that's stretched beyond its own boundaries and moved on to grayer, greater pastures.

But, hey, don't let the collected cool of the above fool you -- the K-Holes are still fiery as ever, and New Yorkers can see for themselves this Friday, Nov. 11, at Bushwick's Goodbye Blue Monday, where they'll take the stage with Sediment Club, Monstress, Lobby Art and Geek Skull.

It's Thursday.  It's sunny and it's growing colder in New York.  I'm on the phone with Will Louviere, one of the fellas behind Companion Records.  I've never met Will.  He's never met Stan Hubbs.  Neither have I.  And we can't meet him, because Hubbs is dead.

"It true he died from smoking too much pot?" I ask Will.

There's laughter, of course, though not much -- Will's probably fielded this question one too many times since he reissued Hubbs's private-press rock meisterwerk, Crystal, this past summer.

"Well," he says, "that's up for debate.  No one will ever really know the truth on that one.  But if anyone could, it was Stan."

I'd guess as much.  Ever since reading the outlandish marijuana anecdote in the latest edition of Patrick Lundborg's outsider-rock encyclopedia, The Acid Archives, and ever since I've been priveleged enough to pore over the reissue and thumb through its amazing lyric booklet, it's been clear to me that Hubbs was at least a consummate 'head, a dyed-in-the-wool '60s/'70s relic who nailed down an impossibly hazy and lysergic hard-psych recording in '82 -- years after such music was fashionable or fathomable.  He had to be grinding seeds/stems way back when.

In '79, Leicester's Disco Zombies self-released their debut single: "Drums Over London."  The tune was a strong, driving punk number, a mix of the Buzzcocks' charged pop and Subway Sect's ironic commentary on life in the UK.

But the irony largely fell on deaf -- or dense -- ears.  While the band intended the song as a swipe at nationalist and racist sentiments pervading the UK in the late '70s, many who heard it on John Peel's program misinterpreted its message entirely.  Some complained, requesting Peel remove it from his playlist.  Some embraced the song with little regard for Dave Henderson's acerbic vocal, for guitarist Andy Ross's sardonic lyric, and they took the song as a serious anthem.  Others understood the band's spirited message and appreciated their energetic take on punk, and the Disco Zombies quickly sold through 2,000 copies of their first 45.

 While some bands manage to slag through endless, soulless recs/tours 20-plus years into their existence, Columbus, OH's Cheater Slicks are anomalous in their insistence to continually evolve -- to remain not only a relevant group, but a damn good one after two decades of artful scree.

Indeed, 2007's Walk Into the Sea (Dead Canary Records) spoke of a gang who'd grown sharper in tooth.  Recent tours and weekenders have been just as fierce as ever.  If anything, the Slicks may be better than they were ten years ago, when most others would've already hit their prime, would've run ragged, recycled same old/same old. 

The Embarrassment were an unlikely group.  Formed in Wichita, KS, in 1979, they sounded every bit a coastal or foreign post-punk band, one that might've shaken hands with the Feelies (NJ), Mission of Burma (MA) or Monochrome Set (UK) -- contempo units that shared the same aptitude for nervous, twitchy songs, albeit in much more populous and liberal burgs in the U.S. and abroad.

But the Embos called Wichita home, and their location didn't slow them down a damn bit.  Because if their area didn't have a scene calling for such original music, they'd just build one.  Which they basically did.

"At the time, the local scene -- it was kind of ours to create," explains guitarist Bill Goffrier today.  "And the people who came to see us early on were sort of arty, intellectual types."

Most of those arty, intellectual types came from local universities.  Some were wayward high schoolers.  Some were general outsiders.  A few had their own bands, like the Mortal Micronotz and Get Smart!, who hailed from nearby Lawrence, KS.

Of the three mentioned, the Embos were the first to release a single: 1980's "Sex Drive" b/w "Patio Set."  Their debut 45 was a smart, minimal, oblique slab of double entendres and angular guitar chug.  And it was, like most great r'n'r, an ingenious mix of caveman, troubador and horndog.

I saw 'em explode once.  So did many others.  It was a sold-out show.  May of '09.  Opening for a reunited Chrome Cranks.  Glasslands: place is packed with good-time misanthropes ready for a prime piece.  Foursome lurks onstage, nary an introduction.  Ratchets volume up to red levels.  Volleys out waves of great, green ugly noise.  It laps at the shore of the crowd for all of four songs.  Then Ryan Skeleton Boy whips his bass at a wall, the other two gents drop their guitars, and drummer and all stalk to a dark corner offstage admist a glorious feedback serenade.

"I had people tell me that was our best show," says guitarist/vocalist Kristian Brenchley.  "It was a lotta fun."

Fun, sure.  Memorable, yeah.  Volatile, you bet.  A stellar display.

And an atypical one.  Because beyond premature explosions and mere volatility, the band is actually a sort of machine -- a black paisley mash of Aussie dark-day rock (Scientists, feedtime), '80s Midwestern knuckle-drag (Drunks with Guns, first Vertigo 45) and LES dirt (Pussy Galore).  Their din's bent by the metallic thud of Skeleton Boy's bass, tangled up in a caustic two-way guitar cacaphony of Brenchley and Brett Schultz, grounded -- but just barely -- by Alex Velasquez's thudding drum.  When they're not tossing instruments at concrete walls, when they're just as focused as they are loud and unhinged, WOMAN are probably one of the better bands in the NYC area.  Largely because they dare to keep this area scummy.  Or at least celebrate when it once was.

As evinced by "When the Wheel's Red," culled from their self-titled LP on Bang! Records (2009), this foursome means it.  And they're currently recording tracks for their follow-up album, which, judging from their live show, is going to be a good one.  

Speaking of the live show, these gents are heading to Yurp in October.  Be sure to catch 'em, because since vocalist/guitarist Schultz moved to Mexico City, they don't play as often as they once did.  There's no telling when they might finally explode for good.  Go forth: