Popless Week 33: Purple Entertainment

By Noel Murray
August 18th, 2008

Stray Tracks

From the fringes of the collection, a few songs to share….

The Polyphonic Spree, "Days Like This Keep Me Warm"

This overstuffed, at times overbearing Dallas pop orchestra may hold the record for shortest amount of time between being a beloved cult act to being widely hated. Blame bandleader Tim DeLaughter's concept, which fills stages and TV screens with robe-clad true believers and oppressive twee-itude. As performance art, a little of The Polyphonic Spree goes a long way. But as music, the Spree have gotten a bit of bad rap. For all their broadly imagined instrumentation, the group is really just a power tool for driving home the darkly sunny ditties of DeLaughter, by alternating a big sound—accented by kettle drum, horns and a free-tweeting flute—with placid minor-key psych-folk. At times, the band even recalls the quieter passages of Pink Floyd. The dazed, dreamy "Days Like This Keep Me Warm" for example marries the Spree's typical swept-up, gleefully anonymous "lost in a crowd" feeling with a strong wave of the forlorn. Though he could stand to loosen the reins and let his sidemen push his songs into unexplored territory, DeLaughter has at least figured out how to create dramatic effects. When Polyphonic Spree songs burst into the open, the swell of music is not just exciting, it's encouraging.

The Ponys, "I'm With You"

The Ponys have some commonalities with the early '00s crop of new wave and post-punk revivalists—particularly in the deep, wounded voice of bandleader Jered Gummere—but their influences stretch back further, to the New York rock primitives of the mid-'70s, and the garage-rockers of the late '60s. Their best songs are beholden to the "lovesick teenager" pose that runs through so much rock 'n' roll. Witness the nearly perfect modern love song "I'm With You," a zippy two-and-a-half minute burst of trash-pop about two bratty lovers kissing off the rest of the world.

Portastatic, "Hurricane Warning (Ignored)"

There was a time when Portastatic wasn't really a band, but more a place for Mac McCaughan to hide out when he wasn't forging the tenets of indie-rock with Superchunk. McCaughan worked through his interests in electronica, old film scores, country music and Latin pop on Portastatic albums that were essentially collections of not-suitable-for-Superchunk demos. But with Superchunk taking longer between records, McCaughan has been slapping the Portastatic name on work that sounds more like the music he's best known for: loud, catchy guitar pop. I like the recent Portastatic records, but they sound a little too much like Superchunk-lite to me, and frankly I'd rather have a new Superchunk album (if those guys can ever get it together). Barring that, I'd love to see Portastatic get back to the low-key, mildly experimental indie-pop of the kind heard here.

Porter Wagoner, "The First Mrs. Jones"

Wagoner was ubiquitous throughout my Nashville youth, but I'd always thought of him as one of those bland ol' Opry hands until last year's sublime comeback album Wagonmaster set me straight. I got the chance to interview Wagoner as part of the Wagonmaster push, and in preparation, I bought the well-chosen Australian compilation The Rubber Room, which emphasizes Wagoner's facility with Southern Gothic ballads, spiked with heartbreak, booze and premeditated murder (often enunciated in spoken-word interludes delivered in deep echo). In our interview, Wagoner indicated that he sang those kinds of songs because they were what sold, but while his genteel, warm TV persona didn't seem to synch up with songs like this dark shocker, surely there was something within Wagoner that made him so good at singing about the bad. Certainly there were few country musicians as good at knocking out deceptively sweet songs that culminated in last lines that made listeners go, "Wait…what?"

Portishead, "It Could Be Sweet"

It's to Portishead's credit—and probably has a lot to do with why they're so beloved by their fans—that they're so damned difficult to categorize. I wrote a few weeks about my filing mania, and when it comes to Portishead, I never know whether to slot them in "dance" or "indie" or "modern" or "r&b" or "lite." However you label it, there's something marvelously insinuating about songs like this lithe, almost fragile ballad, which lets Beth Gibbons moan and coo over a spare, supple electronic track. It sounds like a perfume commercial, cast with aging mistresses instead of supermodels.

The Postal Service, "Suddenly Everything Has Changed"

This Flaming Lips cover helps explain The Postal Service a little, and show just why the marriage of indie-rocker Ben Gibbard and electronica artiste Jimmy Tamborello works so much better than it has a right to. In a way, the Lips helped pave the way for this kind of fusion, though Gibbard and Tamborello make it their own, by focusing on the tenuous relationship moments that Gibbard's Death Cab For Cutie has made their stock-in-trade. ("Suddenly Everything Has Changed" is one of The Flaming Lips' most "tenuous relationship moments" kind of songs, too.) I'll cop to some mild hipster guilt for enjoying The Postal Service so much, since I'm not an electronica devotee, and I feel like digging The Postal Service may be symptomatic of the worst kind of dilettantism. So I won't make any claims for the project's innovation or skill—I'll just say it moves me.

Poster Children, "Modern Art"

Here's another one of my "pet bands" from my college years. I saw Poster Children live at a club, opening for some bigger-named band whose name now escapes me—and their explosive, bottom-heavy, semi-scarred power-pop was right in my happy zone. I know that they're something like local legends in their native Champaign, though despite some fruitless time served in Majorlabelville, the band has never broken wide. And in truth, I kind of lost interest in them after their first three albums. But those early records are so snappy that it's easy to hear the potential. With the right tweaks and a smidgen more songwriting talent, these guys could've been the next Pixies or the next Wedding Present.

The Power Station, "Some Like It Hot"

I've noticed lately that the word "overproduced" has started to creep back into the vocabulary of music fans, as a way of explaining their disdain for certain kinds of mainstream music. To me, "overproduced" is one of those terms like "overrated" that should be used sparingly in criticism (if at all), because of its backward-and-forward ramifications. If something is dubbed over-anything, that implies that there's an objectively agreed upon ideal level for whatever that anything is…and I have a hard time buying into that, since there are too many personal factors governing all of our individual tastes. I've used the word "overproduced" myself, and I do think there are times when I don't like some recording or another because the studio process has converted the song into something that doesn't just sound unnatural but domineering. Still, to see "overproduced" applied to some music that is merely heavily orchestrated—like a lot of soft rock and pop—is frustrating. If a sound can be reproduced live, it's not overproduced. Anyway, there's nothing wrong with using technology to create sounds that can't be reproduced live. (Some would argue that's the whole point of going into a studio.) This Power Station cut—produced by Chic's Bernard Edwards and Nile Rogers—gets its energy from the cut-and-paste approach, and from the way every instrument sounds bigger and more vivid than mere amplification could accomplish.

Preacher & The Saints, "Jesus Rhapsody Part 1"

Here's some gospel music for our post-Isaac Hayes world, making The King Of Kings sound badder than Shaft and tougher than Truck Turner. This is a Christ who kicks men's asses, and gets the girl in the end (if he wants her).

Pretty Girls Make Graves, "Parade"

For the most part, Seattle's Pretty Girls Make Graves have worked in the jagged, minimalist medium of postpunk revivalism, at the juncture of emo-punk aggression and arty garage rock. It's a sound with some inherent limitations—primarily a tendency toward the brittle and amelodic—but the band's rhythmically chiming guitar licks, martial drumbeats, and vocalist Andrea Zollo's stunted croon work together to craft exciting, well-layered, tempo-shifting tracks where jolts replace hooks. Zollo plays ringmaster, whispering and bellowing and enacting the stressed-out characters that populate her stark stage. PGMG has a catchy, beat-happy center, and transcends genre on a song like "Parade," which makes worker unrest sound like a jaunty stroll in the park.

The Pretty Things, "Havana Bound"

Though never one of the heavy hitters of the first British Invasion, this London group had a good long run, marked by a couple of essential LPs drawn from the deep well of UK psychedelia, flanked by a fair amount of garage-rock and blooze. This song comes from the latter era—from the 1972 hard-boogie album Freeway Madness, to be exact—and it's a scorcher, making a trip to Cuba sound more like a nail-biting near-death experience than a delightful lark. I actually don't have Freeway Madness; I got this song from an anthology, and it's convinced me that I need to explore The Pretty Things further beyond their early Nuggets singles and S.F. Sorrow.

Professor Longhair, "Tipitina"

One of our commenters last week complained about inane lyrics in pop songs, but I think this classic side by New Orleans stalwart Professor Longhair shows that words can be overrated. Most of what Longhair sings here is utter nonsense, but his strangled voice and rhythmic piano express more than what's actually being said. The song conveys recklessness, abandon and intoxication—whether it's meant to or not.

The Promise Ring, "The Deep South"

When I reviewed The Promise Ring's Wood/Water, their much-maligned final album, I defended the record by saying, "Anytime connoisseurs start grumbling that their favorite band has 'sold out,' chances are good that the band has just made their best album." I no longer think that's true; Wood/Water hasn't worn as well as I expected it to, and I find I generally prefer the anthemic punk melodicism that this Milwaukee quartet rode to cult stardom, via songs like this track from the highly likable Very Emergency. But here's what I don't get: I know some fans of Promise Ring frontman Davey von Bohlen who think that he'll never top his work with the ramshackle emo outfit Cap'n Jazz. I've heard Cap'n Jazz; they sound fine, and I can imagine that if you first encounter von Bohlen's music via that band, the songs' fumbling DIY qualities would seem relatable and endearing. But after hearing something as accomplished as "The Deep South," it's hard for me to go back and check out the baby steps. It's that kind of fannish originalism that I think I was responding to when I wrote that line about Wood/Water. Though the reactionary aspect of my criticism was pretty out of line too, in retrospect.

Public Image Ltd., "Flowers Of Romance"

In high school I had a friend make me a tape that had The Cure's Pornography on one side and PiL's Flowers Of Romance on the other. It was like 80 minutes' worth of post-punk bad trips, and listening to both those records repeatedly served multiple purposes: they gave a depressed teen a chance to wallow, and they put the brighter dance and pop songs by these bands into perspective. It was a lot easier to appreciate ditties like PiL's "This Is Not A Love Song," "Seattle" and "Rise" after hearing how raw John Lydon could get. I'll have more to say about the former Johnny Rotten in a couple of weeks, but I hope Public Image Ltd. isn't remembered solely as a footnote to the Sex Pistols story. That band—in its many incarnations—made some great music, and the album alternately known as Metal Box and Second Edition is a post-punk classic. Lydon was also smart enough in the '80s to recognize the value of a good single, to subvert the mainstream from the inside. Hook 'em with "Rise," destroy 'em with "Flowers Of Romance."

The Pulsars, "Tunnel Song"

Leaving aside the populist, DIY possibilities of electronic music-making, one of the main hooks of the synthesizer over the years has been just that: its hookiness. The instrument has repeatedly been used as a tool to grab the ear during the times when popular music is in a rut. At their core, the short-lived Chicago band The Pulsars sounded a lot like countless other indie-rock combos when they emerged in the mid-'90s, except that their music was awash in the bleeps and bloops that only banks of keyboards can provide. On "Tunnel Song," the first full song on The Pulsars' sole LP, brothers David and Harry Trumfio pound out a minimalist ditty that breaks into an expansive, echoing chorus straight out of an O.M.D. song (right down to the distant, filtered voice whispering, "talk radio...phasing out"). Damned if it doesn't work like gangbusters, partly because of the nostalgic appeal, and partly because of the thematic edge in David Trumfio's lyrics. What's more appropriate than using modern technology to record a throwback technopop song about how classical feats of engineering affect outmoded media?

Quarterflash, "Take Me To Heart" / "Harden My Heart"

For years I've said that someone should release these two songs on a 45 and title it "The Best Of Quarterflash." Kidding aside, I honestly love both of these songs, from their chirpily generic early '80s vocals to the uncluttered production and carefully composed guitar solos. I especially like that noirish saxophone, giving both songs that rainy-street-at-midnight feel. Sorry, Josh.

Quasi, "I Never Want To See You Again"

"Bratty" is still applied from time to time to musicians who combine one or more of the following elements: a doggedly minimalist sound, nasal vocals, snide posturing and childlike lyrical obsessions. Brat-rockers combine precociousness with infantilism; they'll bake a pretty cake and then smash it into the carpet. Quasi—a duo consisting of former Heatmiser/Built to Spill utilityman Sam Coomes on guitar and "rocksichord" and Coomes's Sleater-Kinney-bound ex-wife Janet Weiss on drums—is all about high, sing-songy voices and the duo bashing away as noisily as they can on their tiny instruments. It's a good sound, immediately arresting, with accents of flying saucer beach pop and west coast country-rock (especially when Coomes lets his slide guitar gently weep). But there's only so much to be done with it, and the see-saw cadence that Coomes applies to nearly all of his spiky lyrics tends to gradually flatten out the band's records, making each song sound like the one before it, and therefore less and less special. What Quasi offers is, fundamentally, the acerbic wail of a know-it-all adolescent, but at their best, the wail is well-articulated. We feel their frustration, even if we don't quite share it.

Quasimoto, "Come On Feet"

I promised Nathan I'd spend more time with Madlib next year after confessing that Madvillainy left me a little cold and confused. In the meantime, I got to hang around with Madlib alter-ego Quasimoto some this week, and though I've probably listened to The Unseen about as much as I've listened to Madvillainy in the past, this week The Unseen struck me as the more entertaining record, perhaps because of the odd subject matter and off-beat vocals. One downside: Quasimoto doesn't vary the tempo much from track to track. But what he's doing within those tracks is endlessly surprising and fascinating. I can't figure out if it'll make a weird kind of sense with repeated exposure, or if it's confounding by design. I also can't decide if I'm liking Quasimoto more than Madlib because I was softened up by Madlib a few weeks ago. Maybe next time I play Madlib, I'll like that more.

Queens Of The Stone Age, "Sick, Sick, Sick"

To me, QotSA songs work best the more the band sticks with their original concept: tight, dark grinders that are geared toward transporting listeners with multiple rhythmic layers and a generally buzzing sound. Bandleader Josh Homme has been quoted as saying "we want sex to bleed into our music," and even this song about the allure of danger, there's an impressive amount of, um…thrust.

Quincy Jones, "Something's Cookin'"

For all his awards—and all his money—I'm not sure enough credit is given to Quincy Jones among the average music buff for the evocative quality of his instrumental music and soundtrack work. If I'd left Jones' name off this song, some of you might've thought I'd unexpectedly jumped back to Air. Instead, this excerpt from the score of the original The Italian Job is what Air was trying to pay homage to with Moon Safari. And as much as I like Air, I have to say—in this case, the source material may be better.

R. Kelly, "Sex Planet"

And so we end sex week with an artist bold enough not to let his sex scandals get in the way of him recording a song about how "I've got a giant rocket / Glidin' through / Just hittin' your pocket."

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Regrettably unremarked upon: The Pooh Sticks, The Pop Group, Pop Will Eat Itself, Porno For Pyros, The Posies, Prefuse 73, Primal Scream, Primus, The Prodigy, Puffy Ami Yumi, Queen Latifah, and Queensrÿche

Also listened to: Polyphemus, Popshow, Popular Genius, Porcupine Tree, Porter Block, Portugal. The Man, Positive Force, The Postmarks, Powerman 5000, The Prefects, The Premiers, Pretty Mighty Mighty, Primevil, Primitive Radio Gods, The Primitives, Prints, Priscilla Bowman, The Prisonaires, A Problem Of Alarming Dimensions, Prodigy, The Professionals, Professor Angel Dust, Project Soul, Propellerheads, PS, Psapp, Pseudosix, Puccio Roelens, Pucho & His Latin Boys, Pure Prairie League, The Purrs, The Push Stars, Push To Talk, Pyramid, The Pyramids, Q & Not U, The Quantic Soul Orchestra, The Quarter After, Questions In Dialect, Quiet Lovely, Quietdrive, Quinteto Violado and Quruli

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Next week: From R.E.M. to Richard Thompson, plus a few words on the riddle of the '80s

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