Brant Bjork interview

Brant Bjork sports the kind of resume that any red-blooded rock zealot wet-dreams about. As founding member of legendary desert psycho rock gods Kyuss, Bjork wrote, amongst others, the trail-blazing keystones of desert rock: ‘Green Machine’, ‘Gardenia’, and ‘50 Million Year Trip (Downside Up)’. Upon leaving Kyuss Bjork produced and played with surf rockers Fu Manchu and hardcore outfit De-Con. He was a major contributor to the renowned Desert Sessions and has subsequently gone on to a celebrated career of his own inception—the culmination of which is the soon to be touring Brant Bjork and the Bros. I was curious whether Bjork, as an integral component of the Palm Desert scene of the ‘80s and early ‘90s, could offer any clues as to how so many remarkable musical exponents rose from the same dust-bowl, how the inspiration arrives as a solitary writer and where his trip will take him next.

            ‘I don’t know why all those freaks came out of there playin’ music,’ he explains. ‘I’m at a loss for words about it; I don’t know what it was. There was nothing else to do, it was in the middle of the desert, it was boring and it was hot. A lot of the stuff that was there was focussed towards retired people that were just tryin’ to relax for the rest of their lives. It wasn’t really a place for kids so we got really excited about things that revolved around youth—like gettin’ into trouble, punk rock, skateboarding, BMX. It was like classic Southern Californian culture but to the nth degree. Music was something you just did and we all got involved man. It wasn’t that we wanted it, we needed it—it was something to look forward to.

            ‘There was a lot of my music over the years that was born from hangin’ out with friends and jamming. I think that’s probably where most of my (and I think I speak for most of the other artists that come from the desert where I’m from) sound and style came from—it was our trip to a large extent. Sometimes in the studio, though, I get hit with inspiration and I wanna capture it—the tape machine’s right there. Sometimes I’ll be sound-checking and I’ll get an idea and I’ll break out my little recorder and dump it onto that—I may not get back to it ‘til six months later. I very rarely sit down and say I have to write a song today.

            ‘Music for me is something very natural, like surfing. If there’s no waves you don’t go surfing; if there are, you’ll go out and try to catch a few. I have other things that I put my heart and mind to whether music’s coming or not. Maybe something happens, maybe I see something, maybe I’m at a bar hangin’ out with my friends and I get hit with something. It just comes whenever it wants to come, so if it takes six months I’ve got other things goin’ on anyways.

            ‘New territory to explore is endless. I’ve always wanted to get more into jazz, I like a lot of hip-hop music, and I listen to a lot of Jamaican tunes. There are so many flavours and styles that I would love to try and drop in to. But again, music for me is less something that I’m trying to force but something that just happens and I roll with it. I learnt long ago that the way I write a song, the way it comes out of me, is just the kinda way it is. We’ll see as I evolve as a musician how some of the other music I’ve been inspired by, and into, over the years will treat my grooves.

            ‘I was discussing soundtracks with this guy not so long ago.’ Bit parts (including a rattle-snake bite in Natural Born Killers) aside, Bjork recently composed the soundtrack for the documentary Sabbia. ‘Besides music and the arts, which I love, I also love film, moves and screenwriting. Screenplays are something I’m really involved with right now and I want to get more into movies. I think movies is radical art!’

            Writing, performing and playing a hand in the production of all the Bros' material must create difficulties when assembling a band for the road. Bjork insists that despite retaining absolute control over his output these days, the Bros are a ‘real’ band and that there is zero likelihood of leaning on technology as substitute for flesh and bone. ‘I would only work with the type of musician who’s gonna come in and respect the song, but when you’re playin’ live it’s different. When a song has been performed live, it’ll never be performed like that ever again. I understand this reality and encourage and expect the musicians I play with to give the song what they feel. I want them to react to the song in an honest way. If they’re feelin’ it, it’s true and they can play from an honest place—then go for it.’

            ‘If there was a studio in town that had old gear, all pre ’71, and I could afford it I’d be recording there every time. What I enjoy sonically with recorded music is stuff from the ‘60s and ‘70s, analogue. I don’t have a love for digital music myself. Vinyl was created when there was a ritual of listening to an entire record; these days it’s more like going to burger king, getting’ fast food. With records it’s like goin’ to a fine restaurant… sittin’ down and takin’ your time, starting with some fine wine, really enjoying the experience. You hold onto it and take more of it with you so it’s more meaningful. I think your soul gets a lot more out of it.

            ‘In terms of recording, writing, producing or performing; I enjoy each experience. I love making records but they can drive me nuts too. I love touring and playing live but also sittin’ around at home and being mellow and going really deep inside myself and just meditating on my new trip—just letting it all come out and being alone and havin’ space. It’s like seasons man—I like ‘em all for what they have to offer. Having said that, it’s playin’ live that gets my heart super pumped because that’s what I grew up doing. Some musicians are born in a studio, some on a stage, some at home and some on the sidewalk. I was born playing backyard parties with my friends and weirdos and rockin’ out—just letting it all hang out. That’s where I was born as a musician so there’s a place in my heart for that.’

DAMO SUZUKI review

The Toff was crammed fuller than a fairy’s phonebook for Japanese Jibber-jabberer Damo Suzuki on Sunday and the stage was not spared the overload. A support team of six local and imported musicians accompanied this hairy midget in what developed into a marathon of grinding guitar wrenches and impelling nonsensical chanting that spared no thought for the wellbeing of us bystanders or the band members themselves.

            It’s a treat to experience noise at this venue and a spot behind the sound desk is almost enough to offset the appallingly high beer prices. It’s difficult to pinpoint the moment this performance lost me, however, the recurring mantra-esque chanting left me wanting from somewhere near the midpoint. While there was nothing in particular wrong with the show per say (the guitar and drum work was outstanding for what I can only assume was virtually unrehearsed material), a nagging frustration crept through my corner of the room—I needed the ensemble of players to break free from the shackles of Suzuki himself and cut loose into a climax that never eventuated. The set (for want of a more accurate description; it was actually more like one really, really long intro) at times felt more regressive than exploratory; it ebbed rather than flowed. The rare musical freedoms (i.e. the odd solo) granted to the band paid off and at moments felt sonically somewhere between Joy Division and Mogwai. These moments were unfortunately sparse though, a bit of a fizzer in that respect.

            Despite my personal reservations about this performance, I was the clear anomaly in the room. What continues to slap me in the face is that we are able to enjoy an enormous diversity of acts here in Melbourne and that we continue to do so en-masse on a nightly basis. It’s what separates us from any other town in this hemisphere, we’re infinitely fortunate to be able to do so; so who am I to grumble? Although I wasn’t far off being dragged into the carnage myself, I’ll shelve this event as one for the purists

 

Sam McDougall

THE MUSIC

Rob Harvey—The Music—Interview by Samson McDougall

 

Leeds boys The Music erupted onto the scene in 2002 with their eponymous debut, home of the instant smash The People. The single swirled and buzzed with such vitality that many of us old enough to remember were caught up in a vortex of pulsing rhythm and excitement. The follow up tour and Big Day Out appearances did nothing to quell the hype machine and these somewhat unlikely lads looked like toppling the world with an invigorating brand of rock music you could dance to—and dance we did.

Seven years down the track The Music are touring Australia again, this time the world must feel a very different place. Though their subsequent albums met with decent sales and their tours with relative success, there remains a nagging air of untapped latent force surrounding The Music thus far. With atypical and well documented substance abuse destruction The Music slipped silently into a proverbial nether-region between sensation and self-disintegration. Frenetic front man Robert Harvey explains from his homeland that it’s countries like little old Down-under that provide much of the impetuous for keeping at it.

            “In England now, I’d like to think people haven’t forgotten about us but people have moved on. Over here the new thing comes along so quickly, it’s very much a trend based society. Even the more alternative music channels and radio stations are not that far from the mainstream as they would like to think they are, it’s a shame really. When we come to places like Japan and Australia it makes us feel like we’re doing something relevant, like what we’re doing still has a point.”

            Harvey’s traditionalist views on measures of achievement in the music world are surprising given that their music over the years has been largely conjured from outside of the square, experimental even. “I like any music where they’ve worked hard and mastered their craft, especially in that traditional way of making music with a guitar and writing good songs with attention to detail. That sudden freak propulsion to stardom that seems to be happening now is crazy. I prefer real people and the common man, ‘cause I feel like that’s what we do.”

            No strangers to evolution of sound and reinvention (arguably a transition from rock to electro-pop music), The Music have triggered mixed reactions from their fans, labels and critics alike. Harvey tells me that in this band the writing process is not, often through necessity, a democratic one yet the development of their sound is an important process for the sanity of the band as a whole. “The last record was pretty much me and Adam [Nutter, guitar]. We had a vision and it was a strange time within the band ‘cause we needed to get a record together quickly; the dynamic of the writing changed. The normal writing had lost a lot of its excitement so we wanted to bring some technology back into it. The first record was a little bit straight edge, a bit too rock, so we tried for a more electronic feel. This time the writing involved a lot more talking about things and me and Adam following the vision rather than just having jams. It felt like a challenge and I was sick of sitting around the house, sick of staring out the window. I needed to get out and meet people.”

            As headliners for the inaugural Big O university tour of Australia’s east coast, we hope we will bear witness to a return of the spark that welded The Music into our collective consciousness some years ago. “Now I feel like I don’t want any separation between what we do and what the audience get out of it. I want it to feel like we’re one, a union. If it gives five people a reason to forget about work or just to feel good then we’ve achieved something. We’re really buzzing about a return to Australia. It’s great to tour in countries where there is still a belief in what we do. Last time in Australia we even played encores, which we never do, just because the crowd wanted us there—that’s a good feeling.”

 

The Music play The Big O, Monash University Clayton campus, Thursday 26 Feb 2009.

 

CD review

Mongrel:

Better Than Heavy

Album review by Samson McD

 

Arctic Monkey’s drummer Matt Helders belts some mean skins here, unfortunately that’s where the goodness begins and ends for UK not-so-super group Mongrel. As a calling to arms of the disenchanted, unaffected middleclass this album lacks originality and vision; what remains is a series of overproduced generic cliches that for my money miss the mark both musically and politically.

            The message here is all a bit too clear; war in Iraq—bad; George Bush—bad; racism—bad; politicians—bad; terrorism—a reaction. While I largely share these sentiments, this is hardly breaking news and, frankly, if you’re not wise to these notions due to your spending the last decade parked in front of a bong and a game console, then you’re hardly likely to start giving a shit now. Worst of all, there exists an undeniable quality of flow to this album that leaves the bitter taste of clear wasted potential.

            If Jamie Oliver’s made for TV Cockney twang makes you want to smack him in his fat git face, then give this album a wide berth. Reeking of best intentions but begging for sincerity, Mongrel could use exactly that to make a bit more of a splash—just a bit more mongrel with my spoon fed polit-hop please. 

CD review

CD review

Antony and the Johnsons

The Crying Light

Review by Samson McD

 

Everybody needs a bit of a cry now and then and with 2005s I am a bird now, Antony and his not so merry band of Johnsons created the perfect backdrop for rueful late evening brooding and regrets. While the morose moments of The Crying Light again manage to summate the teary realisation of the inevitable misery of life, there is some lyrical clumsiness in the beginning that detracts from the weight of this work as a whole.

The opening couple of tracks meander enough to lose a distracted listener—a potential travesty as the momentum gathered through the back end of the album results in a moving experience, a poignant listen. A duality between death bed requiem and glory-of-life optimism exists on this record more so than the introspective gender questioning and sexual nature of the previous three. So while the scope of The Crying Light’s base material feels infinitely more expansive than the groundbreaking I am a Bird Now, the potential for exploration of nooks or an out-of-the-way alley is more limited this time—somehow less intricate or complex.

If the delicacy of Antony’s voice, demeanour and approach—not to mention his extraterrestrial oddity—has reinforced the beauty of the fragility of the human spirit for you in the past then the new album will not disappoint. This is powerful stuff from a unique talent but not for everyone as most will have already discovered. Sparse room for fence-dwelling here.