Eclectic Company: No Degrees of Separation

It doesn’t matter where I find myself, I always run into musicians trying to catch a break. I was flying from Lake Charles to New York for Passover, and who should my seatmates be but John and “Just” Lewis, reggae singers living and working construction in Sacramento, California, who were on their way to a friend’s studio in Brooklyn where they were planning to lay down some new tracks. “This is a good time to work on our music, because the carpenter’s union isn’t busy right now,” Lewis said, referring to his day job. He told me they’d recorded four songs on their previous visit, and were planning to record at least four more on this trip. Sounds like six months or so and their record should be finished. I’ll be on the lookout for the results, and will report back.

I get records from known and unknown sources asking for critiques all the time, and I always give them a listen, because I know how painful it can be to put your work out there, wondering if anyone ever hears your tree fall in the forest. Of course, since the relationship of an artist to her/his work is an intimate one, not everyone can steel themselves for possible negative comments about their baby, not even when it’s constructive criticism. The first time I reviewed a record, in the Village Voice no less, I made enemies for life of a record company publicity department (“Who is this guy, Leslie Berman, and why does he hate [our artist] so much? No more review copies.”). And I once anointed someone “King” of his musical genre, which more than pissed off my until-then best buddy, who said that by default he had to be considered a lesser light in the same musical firmament, a determination, he claimed, that cost him some shekels when his band’s gig at a prestigious concert hall failed to sell out.

Which is probably why my first real editor, the illustrious Bob Christgau, Dean of American Rock Critics (he still rates music on the A-F scale in his Consumer Guide; find his work at www.robertchristgau.com), who held down an editorial seat at the Village Voice for more than 30 years, told me not to write about my friends. Not because he worried I would pull any punches in my criticism, but because he knew I’d be courting opprobrium or the cold shoulder, even when I’d written as clearly as I could, about why I feel the way I do about a record. He didn’t mind the slings and arrows from artists when he wrote about them, in fact, he seemed to draw them gleefully. But he didn’t want me to become a pariah. Unfortunately, I seem to be disabled in the tact and politics departments, and I can’t always follow Xgau’s excellent advice.

Three recordings sent by friends have been rotating in my car and laptop CD players, and each is worth some commentary. A few months ago, Vanessa Briscoe Hay of the 1980s New Wave band, Pylon, sent me a copy of “Waves,” the first full-length release by Supercluster, her loosely aggregated recording project for her not-right-for-Pylon, trance/dance and “Appalachian Wave” songs. In addition to Hay and the late Randy Bewley of Pylon, participants in Supercluster both on record and in rare live performance are other notable Athens, Georgia players from bands such as The Olivia Tremor Control, Deerhunter, The New Sound Of Numbers, Gnarls Barkley/Lil' Wayne, Of Montreal, and Bob Hay & The Jolly Beggars, et cetera. Supercluster’s use of cello, violin, mandolin and clarinet, crossed with rock guitars, bass, drums suggests pop styling, or at least funky folkness, but the dissonance these songs swing to hits straight in the post-punk pocket every time. I love “Peace Disco Song” and “The Night I Died,” the former not at all a disco song, the latter with upbeat bells sounding not at all sorrowful. (www.superclusterband.com)

I had very high hopes for Supercluster to begin with, because I’ve been a fan of Pylon since their New York debut. Pylon’s music, which might best be described as “jangle pop,” was an ear-opening relief from the shooting gallery sounds of the punk I usually elected to listen to. It had similar energy and power, but was far more subtle. I’m especially fond of their first single, “Cool,” with its pogo-ready chant chorus “everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything is cool,” and their first album, “Gyrate,” featuring “Volume,” as in “turn up the . . . .” And if my recommendation isn’t enough, take that of Bill Berry, drummer for R.E.M., who upon receiving word that his band had been named world’s best, told reporters that R.E.M. weren’t, but Pylon were. Both songs I loved from the get-go appear on the DFA label re-release Gyrate +.

The wife of an old friend has released an album of preschool children’s songs, titled “Didi Pop,” that I find charming and familiar in a sophisticated-rock-songs way. For a long time, everything purpose-made for small kids sounded treacly to me, and only a few rock bands made music you’d let your toddlers listen to. I, myself, am a fan of the TV band, The Doodlebops, who sing straightforwardly and as far as I’m concerned, not condescendingly, to children. In that same vein, “Didi Pop,” the alter ego of singer/writer/musician Deborah Poppink, passes the smell test, with fun, rocking, melodic songs that I’m going to pass on to some toddlers in my own family. “Didi Pop” Standouts are “Butt On The Bench,” “The Cool Alphabet Song,” and “Yellow Car,” but not one of the album’s tunes is a clunker. On the other hand, Deborah Poppink’s album for adults, “Chasing Lunatics,” isn’t doing that much for me. The songs are well-crafted, well-recorded, and Poppink’s used her considerable vocal and musical chops everywhere, but the material touches my head and not my heart, including the trance song “Hit Girl,” used on the “X-Files,” and the country-leaning upbeat “That Married Man.” Find them on Poppink’s website www.deborahpoppink.com to check out using your own taste.

http://superclusterband.com/hires/SuperclusterAug2009.tif is a photo of supercluster.