Album review: Ghost City Searchlight: "Desperate Measures"

Ghost City Searchlight

“Desperate Measures” 2015

(Full Disclosure, before we get into this: I’ve known singer Tommy Coupar for most of my life, and the rest of the band about as long as he’s known them, so you could say that I’m not an objective witness here. But as they well know, I love music too much to be dishonest about it; if I thought this album sucked, I simply wouldn’t write about it. Fortunately, it kicks ass, so I’d like to tell the world. Take from that what you will. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.)

“We’re gonna drink, we’re gonna dance, we’re gonna sin so well/ we’re going to H.E.L.L. HELL... hell yeah!” sings Tommy Coupar and the Ghost City Searchlight gang in A Dark and Stormy Night, the second track on their very first full-length LP. And that sums up their intentions as eloquently as one could hope for: the album is a masterclass in scruffy, debauched barroom folk shout-alongs with a mordant wit to offset their dark implications. Through eleven punk-infused slices of gothic Americana, Tommy and the gang will introduce us to drunks, addicts, bad wives and worse husbands, self-serving hypocrites, bandits, betrayers, vampires, vicious mercenaries, barroom shootouts, debauched killers of every imaginable flavor, and even the end of the world. And they’ll make it all sound like a party no one wants to leave. We’re going to hell, hell yeah, indeed.

It’s been three years since Wasted on the Young, the excellent debut EP from the Ypsilanti, Michigan-based group, and since then they’ve grown quite a bit, both in skill and in number. With Desperate Measures, they’ve added two new members to their already strident 6-piece sound -- Casey Lee on violin and Rick Dempsey on kit drums-- piling on ever more possible textures and layers to their deceptively simple folk rock ruckus. Consequently, the rhythm section --in the past notable for its primitive unobtrusiveness-- is much more assertive here, with lightning drumwork and groovy basslines occasionally clamoring to the top of the musical pile in addition to the acoustic guitar, electric guitar, violin, accordion, mandolin, banjo, and dueling lead vocals.

It’s a tricky balance to keep that many instruments going, but it can pay off in spades: tracks like the killer Dark and Stormy Night feature a clever interplay between the cocky fiddle and the spaced-out guitar noodling that perfectly carve the band a place somewhere between Charlie Daniel’s Band and Steppenwolf, with an eccentricity all of its own. On The Wall, the addition of a jangling banjo to the regular rock regimen somehow adds to the apocalyptic fever instead of softening it, and on the crunchy Killer Responsible for the Death of Five in Downtown Shooting Still on the Loose, Dempsey lets fly with a maelstrom of double bass pummelling under the slinky fiddle hook, a move which would have been impossible for the old lineup. Sometimes more really is more. Even so, the real genius on display here is the band’s restraint more than its indulgence. Considering the number of personalities and instruments on display here, their instinct for stripped-down, classically structured pop songwriting demonstrates an impressive maturity and vision. A band of musicians this good is a rare thing; a band of musicians this good with the discipline to tone it down and make room for each other -- that’s something close to miraculous.

Their effort is paid off with a run of simply terrific songs, efficient little gems of acerbic  gothic storytelling, genuine pathos, and sharply crafted pop hooks. Coupar’s genius is for compact, evocative little folk tales with a dark edge and a flurry of deftly descriptive language (check out the way he coquettishly talks his way around the word “vampire” in Bloodlust, or the keen-eyed subjective detail in the bleak sci-fi epic Last Two Legions.) He’s not much for flowery poetic metaphors, but he has a knack for turning a phrase which begs for a shout-along chorus but lingers afterwards, hitting you with its full impact only after the heady rush of the music has settled (“life is for the rich, my boy, and death is for the poor!” he gleefully shouts with characteristic gallows humor in the ironically titled Health Care Plan). Desperate Measures, for all its energetic punch, is a surprisingly mournful album, full of vivid portraits of despair with just enough of a knowing grin to make them sting afresh each time. The band plays with a raucous energy, but there’s a note of real pain underneath, running through the entire album from the very conceit --the lyrics are framed in the booklet as the final work of a dejected writer who is losing himself in his stories-- to the vocals, where singer Sian Miller’s strangely plaintive voice (sometimes a hair too low in the mix for my taste) dances nimbly around Coupar’s weatherbeaten growl. It’s this bruised heart that adds pathos and dimension to the irresistibly danceable backbeat and rousing choruses, and it’s a mark of the band’s unique voice that it deepens the pop sensibility rather than clashes with it.

It doesn’t work every time. An over-busy production slightly weakens what should be a straightforward rocker in Blood Lust (does it really need a tinkling mandolin in there?), and an ill-advised country shuffle seems like an unnecessary gimmick distracting from the caustically hilarious lyrics in Prisoner's Dilemma.* Those are minor concerns, but a bigger misstep is the turgid, vaguely martial Anna Marie, a flat-footed ballad with a cast of more names than a Dune sequel that turns the band’s usual strengths --Coupar’s descriptive, rapid-fire lyrics and the band’s generous sense of leaving room for each other-- into weaknesses, resulting in a ponderous, languid tale without the band’s usual strong melodies to hold it together.

Even with a few trifling missteps, though, Desperate Measures is an accomplished triumph for this hard-working, hard-drinking folk-punk gang. Drag The River is as perfect a murder ballad as they come, a heady blending of Nick Cave and Goodbye Earl. Damn My Eyes expertly marries gloomy blues sensibilities to a prickly feverish pace. And Auld Acquaintance --which brilliantly weaves the melody of the beloved New Year’s tune in and out of a bracing punk gallop-- feels like the masterpiece this group was always meant to create, and one that only they could create. Like nearly all of Desperate Measures, the secret is in the unlikely balance between opposites: closely observed and resolutely specific lyrics which still manage to stay evocatively mysterious, timeless melodies meshed side-by-side with brash punk tempos, dark folk tales belted out with a hearty abandon that all but dares the listener to resist singing along -- tricky balances, to be sure, but you’d never know it from the effortless confidence with which it’s pulled off here. The protagonists of these eleven songs may be reduced to desperate measures, but Ghost City Searchlight has never seemed so confident. Hell yeah!

Don't believe me? Listen to the full album here!

* Which seems to be a bizarro alternate-universe version of the blues classic Delia’s Gone, with the twist that the problem here is Delia is actually not gone.

Album Review: Ghost City Searchlight - "Wasted on the Young"

Ghost City Searchlight
“Wasted on the Young” 2012

    In the interest of full journalistic disclosure, I have to tell you right up front that I’m not an entirely objective source on this topic. I’ve known singer/songwriter Tommy Coupar for the vast majority of my life and have followed the evolution of his band, Ghost City Searchlight, for years. But as Tommy himself will certainly know by now, I love music too much to be dishonest about it. In fact, I wrote a pretty negative review to the album he made with his last band, the jammy-metal outfit Sultry Surfers of the Apocalypse (where Tommy was manning the drum kit as he learned the ropes of the Detroit music scene). But the good news is, it looks like I won’t ever have to do that with this new band, because along with guitarist Dave Brandt, accordionist Jesse Miller, bassist Joe Sleep, percussionist Jess Hanna and vocalist Sian Miller, Tommy has crafted here a fantastic album, summoning from these five tracks a primal and deeply honest --not to mention catchy as hell-- dingy barroom folk punk singalong.

    The album gets right to the point with the menacing guitar fuzz and racing drum march of “Once Upon a Time,” with Tommy spitting snaking, winding rhymes like he’s trying to outrun the drummer (even outnumbering him three to one, the rhythm section can barely wrest control of the tempo from his bluntly snarling delivery). From there, the next four songs wander between haunting melancholy (“Ghost Light) and crunchy Iggy Pop-fueled punk throwdowns (“Five Year Plan”) -- but even at their most aggressive never lose sight of the warm, earnest humanity at the center of each song. Six musicians might seem like a lot for these simple, sometimes sparse punk-folk nuggets, but when a whole band is working together like this well-oiled machine is, you might well wish they were a 20-piece.

    Guitarist Brandt conserves notes like they were bullets in a besieged fort, never generating a single sound that’s not absolutely necessary. But his conservative style allows him to shape each vibration like a fastidious artisan. From the rough jangle of “Five Year Plan” to the barely-perceptible whammy tremolo on “Ghost Light,” he’s a man utterly in control of his sound -- and the result is nothing short of assured, minimalist perfection. The closest comparison I can make is to Keith Richards, and buddy, that ain’t a comparison I make lightly. Unlike Keith, though, Dave’s minimalism offers a generous amount of room for his fellow musicians to play in, allowing accordionist Miller to step in when some flashy showmanship is required. Miller’s great too, utilizing his accordion for a surprisingly versatile sound and evoking everything from a pipe organ to a bagpipe to a poppy keyboard riff. They’re backed up by the rolling thunder of Joe Sleep’s bass and Jess Hanna’s eloquently primitive drumming. 

But of course, the real star here is Tommy Coupar, and his oddball sensibility is all over this recording. His rough-hewn vocals are sweetened slightly by the high counter-point of vocalist Sian Miller, but ultimately sound all the more weatherbeaten for it, matching his haggard, road-weary protagonists step for step. He’s a chronicler of those who’ve chosen --for better or for worse-- to blaze their own path through life, from the angry idealist of “Once Upon a Time” to the unrepentant hedonist of “Smell of Success” and even to an obvious real-life hero, The Clash’s Joe Strummer in “The Future is Unwritten.” His heroes are deeply flawed --often beaten and broken down-- but there’s a love in his voice for each one of them, even as there’s a knowing acknowledgement of their failings. Appropriately, Tommy saves the most optimism for himself, railing against those foolish souls who settle for playing someone else’s game in the jaunty, angular “Five Year Plan.” When he sings, “maybe I’m the only one crazy / maybe I’m the only one sane / maybe I’m the only one / laughing at the rules of the game,” he’s not musing about the question himself so much as challenging us to answer it.

Even as every band member gets a chance to shine, there’s a winning cohesiveness here -- an unmistakable vibe of family and genuine affection which ensures that the sometimes bleak lyrics don’t tilt the balance from Strummer to bummer. And that sense of affection and fun is infectious -- even as Tommy is belting out the lyrics he’s rarely singing alone for any extended period, and his enthusiasm for getting everyone in on the action is equal parts invitation and dare. In Tommy’s barrooms, it’s clear everyone should be singing; and it’s inclusiveness make it all the more punk rock. Frankly put, when you’re invited to a party this full of wild fun and earnest humanism, you’d be crazy not to join in.

At the end of “Smell of Success,” you can hear someone effusively shout, “Nailed it!” Damn right.

Album Review: Warren Zevon - "Transverse City"

 Warren Zevon

"Transverse City" (1989)

So recently when I reviewed FEAR NO EVIL I offhandedly called “Transverse City” Zevon's worst album. It's a backhanded insult, since all Zevon albums are worthwhile, but this one is generally acknowledged to be among his most ineffective (and it was a big expensive commercial flop which pretty much ended his career as a mainstream pop musician). In the comments, longtime friend of the show Dan Prestwich actually contacted me while on his honeymoon to tell me that, “... for what it's worth, I dig TRANSVERSE CITY and think it's seriously underrated.” Well, if he could take a break to defend the album while traveling the world with his lovely new wife, I figured I could sober up long enough to at least give the thing a chance to defend itself.

After an extended, painful hangover followed by a good, serious listen, I came to the conclusion that I do think Transverse City is underrated, but its still one of my least-favorite Zevon albums. I don't mind the big-studio bloat (the synths do sound a bit dated; still they're not as overbearing as some of his contemporaries) but I think the big production necessitated a little too much studio exactness from Zevon. His songs are so consummately constructed anyway that they tend to sound a little dry when he's so focused on studio-ready professionalism. But that can be ok when he's in a rollicking mood; his personality alone is big enough to propel most middling studio productions into a party, and his brilliant songwriting does the rest. Here, he's unusually dour and staid, which –combined with the overbearing production-- makes the album as a whole feel like a slog.

Worst album? I dunno. It's certainly his most dismal album, though. Zevon has always had a dark side virtually no other American songwriter could even approach, but his signature move has always been to camouflage the macabre and malevolent horror stories in his lyrics in mordant humor and a gleeful sense of wicked fun. "Excitable Boy" --off his record of the same name-- has to be about as disturbing a tale as has ever been told in American pop music, but it's also a wild party of rockabilly horns and sugary background singers. Zevon has frequently worn his heart on his sleeve as well, but when it come to the rough stuff his MO is usually to dress it up so it slips past our defenses a little easier.

Not here. While he stays away from murder and mayhem this time, "Run Straight Down" and "They Moved the Moon" are easily among the bleakest and darkest songs in his whole canon, and they're done without even a hint of gallows humor. "Run Straight Down" is as grim as they come, a ponderous, almost lethargic ode to despair featuring anxiously swirling synths and a David Gilmour guitar solo. "Went walking in the wasted city/ started thinking about entropy" Zevon sings over a maelstrom of keyboards and growling guitars. The song begins with a chanted chemical formula which manages to be utterly menacing and evocative even if you don't understand what it means, and gets creepier and more alien from there. "They Moved The Moon" is even more desolate, a glacial, disorienting haze of abstract paranoia and crushing loneliness (featuring --of all people-- Jerry Garcia on guitar, conjuring a pensive flurry of sharp, angular guitar picking.)

It's not all quite so grim, but the heavy stuff seems to be where Zevon's focus is this time. More fun (and more typically Zevon) fare, like the call-and-response "Long Arm of the Law" and the bouncy Cold-War shaggy dog tale "Turbulence" feel a little under-baked. Zevon has made his name telling intriguing tales with the vaguest suggestion in his minimal (but highly literate) lyrics, but most of the mid-tempo stuff feels slight even for him, coasting on endlessly repeated choruses and big-studio bloat (“Long Arm” could probably stand to lose a whole minute and a half of filler). The only one which really fires on all cylinders is the classic "Splendid Isolation," a erudite and hilarious ode to an agoraphobic misanthrope. Witty rants like "Networking" (co-written by FEAR NO EVIL star Stefan Arngrim as part of his generalized quest to be the pimpest motherfucker ever) "Gridlock" and "Down at the Mall" are pleasant enough but dispensable. "Nobody's in Love This Year" finds Zevon in the lone pocket of heart-on-his-sleeve warmth, but isn't quite a strong enough song to provide the needed balance to the rest of the album's despair and cynicism; instead, it feels like a jarring tonal change which doesn't hit hard enough to get the album moving in a different direction or linger long enough to draw us into its world.

A big part of the problem, of course, is the album's unfortunate 80's studio production. This was Zevon's attempt at a big-budget studio album and its meticulous production is at best ponderous and at worst painfully dated. The more you listen to the album the easier it is to roll with it, but the layers of synths and endless parade of unnecessary guest stars mostly serve to make the songs feel stilted and unwieldy. Occasionally it works out in the song's favor, as with the busy hubbub of overlapping effects on the title track (also co-written by Arngrim) which neatly mirror the song's densely layered description of frenzied modern life; more frequently, though, it just serves to make tracks like "Gridlock" feel turgid and to kill the spontaneity that might make them seem more fun.

It may not help that even though the album is certainly among Zevon's most expensive studio efforts, his backing band (though sturdily professional) feels a little bland. Little Feat drummer Richie Hayward brings little of that band's funkiness to this rhythm work here, instead opting for a more technical drum-machine approach while the appropriately named bassist Bob Glaub globs thick stabs of bass onto his tracks, weighing them down when they ought to be dancing.The reliable Waddy Wachel shows up on only a handful of tracks (alas, mostly the less memorable ones) and while he has the most innate understanding of how to play Zevon's material his usually strident style sounds a bit restrained here, as if he's trying not to show up his colleagues' lack of enthusiasm. The guest stars do fine, but can't do a lot to save tracks which are fundamentally weighed down. It's interesting to hear the likes of David Gilmour and Jerry Garcia try their hand at Zevon songs, but only Neil Young really heightens the material. His belligerently rough guitar lead brings the otherwise unexceptional "Gridlock" briefly to life, and seems to goad Zevon into letting himself loose a little on the vocals as he drops the studio magic and gives in to the sweet embrace of the unhinged yelp.

The album could have used a little more like that. It's probably his darkest album so he rarely sounds like he's having much fun or feeling much spontaneity -- fine for the material, but then the weight of the production also kind of blunts the desolate despair in his vocals. Zevon's voice is such a rich and powerful tool that dressing it up in effects and mammoth production merely encumbers the deft way he can mine a single syllable and caustic phrase for pathos. There's plenty of possible quibbles with the album's production, but the biggest problem is that there just isn't quite enough Warren in there. The clamor of the studio musicians squeezes him out on one side, while he's under asserting himself vocally and lyrically on the other. A bonus track of Zevon performing “Networking” solo --with a simple acoustic guitar and harmonica-- reveal that even a Benmont Tench organ solo can't rival the complex alchemy of pathos and hilarity of the man himself.

But the real issue may be that it's not entirely Zevon's own instinct guiding things. The whole album is his take on the works of cyberpunk author William Gibson, whose grim futurism (while admittedly prescient) doesn't really seem to bring out the best in the interpreting artist. Zevon is caustic, cynical, macabre... but I don't buy that he's as fatalistic as the lyrics here would have you believe. While the gloom is faithful to Gibson's work, I doubt Zevon is quite as horrified by the idea of a world of globally interconnected robot zombies as Gibson is; in fact, I imagine he'd find that pretty cool in a mordantly funny kind of way. Hence, the songs can feel like a respectful interpretation of the sci-fi author's concerns rather than a full-on assault of Zevon's own indelible personality. It's true that the lyrics are neigh-on prophetic (who else was singing about uploading and downloading in 1989? But its so spot-on for today's world that it seems almost laughably obvious). Gibson's work is fascinating and holds up remarkably well, which is undoubtedly what caught Zevon's interest – but despite his obvious respect, Zevon just isn't the artist best suited to approach Gibson's work and it dilutes a lot of the things which make his own work so potent and original.

                                        Soon to be a film by Joseph "TORQUE" Khan. Seriously.

The album's not a wash by any means; actually, its just good enough to frustrate you that it's not better. But despite its flaws, Zevon's dependably brilliant songwriting and eccentricities are fully evident, and the album delivers plenty of pleasure. It's just as well he didn't do any more albums like this, but there's enough of interest here to make anyone with any sense glad he did this one. We're pretty much already living in the dystopian future hinted at by “Transverse City,” but as long as we have Zevon's discography there's always the possibility of a pretty wild post-apocalypse afterparty.

And Stefan Arngrim, if you're listening, keep on rockin.

Album review: World/Inferno Friendship Society - "The Anarchy and the Ecstasy"

World/Inferno Friendship Society

“The Anarchy and the Ecstasy” (2011)

There’s an old and seldom used adage which goes, “It’s hard out there for a dapper anarcho-punk carnival barker costumed weirdo.”  We’ve all noticed this at some point in our lives but I’m betting no one knows it better than Jack Terricloth, front man and songwriter of the World/Inferno Friendship Society, a loose punk cabaret orchestra carnival sideshow collective which has been steadily making music for a small but gradually expanding audience since 1996. Things have looked better for old Jack, even though the band is making some headway opening shows for the likes of the Bouncing Souls. Since their last album --2007’s Peter-Lorre-centered masterpiece “Addicted to Bad Ideas”—they’ve lost three key members, including guitarist Lucky Strano (whose distinct high-tone guitar warble is badly missed) and drummer Brian Viglione (probably WIFS’s biggest name, due to his other job as the drummer for the Dresden Dolls). The difficulty in sustaining a group of 10 or more musicians (let alone making any money at all!) seems to have taken its toll on the band and on Jack himself, and making a new album with a fraction of the members of the previous album didn’t inspire a ton of confidence (neither does the cheap-looking cover art and album design).

       
        But what do you know, it turns out old Jack still has some fight left in him, or at least enough to make “The Anarchy and The Ecstasy” a worthwhile endeavor. Yes, the band’s mammoth sound is somewhat reduced here, and the production sounds a bit stifled and muddy compared to the wild dynamics of their last two. Rather than accepting this handicap, though, Jack and company have gone and changed up their game, creating a surprisingly warm and accessible album which may be their most consistent – though not their best – yet.

    
       The album begins pleasantly enough with the mid-tempo cabaret stomp “I Am Sick of People Who Are Sick of My Shit.” It’s hard not to speculate that this is a jab at his former cohorts who abandoned ship, but the song’s ingratiatingly clever wit prevents it from starting the album on a sour note. As usual, it’s a flawlessly constructed attack of horns, pianos, guitars, multiple vocals, and punk percussion, but it’s hard not to notice that it lacks both the manic energy and the overwhelming force of their best work. There’s no way to recapture the huge sound of their former, larger incarnation with a mere 6-9 players, and as result their attempts to recreate that operatic musical drama on tunes like “Canonize Philip K. Dick OK” and “They Talk of Nora’s Badness” sound regrettably anemic by comparison. Perhaps realizing this, “Anarchy” finds Jack in a more personable, confessional, and thoughtful mood than any previous album, and the songs suit the current line-up much better.

       In fact, ditching some of the more outrageous musical adventurism reveals an appealing pop sensibility which up til now remained hidden beneath the theatrics. Were it not for some lightly jazzy touches towards the end, “Thirteen Years without Peter King” might well be a Billy Joel tune, with its hooky piano and melancholy pop chorus. “The Politics of Passing Out” would not be at all out of place on a 70’s Bruce Springsteen album, complete with spritely saxophones and a by-the-books rock structure. The acoustic “The Mighty Raritan” finds Jack unexpectedly waxing nostalgic about his (or someone’s) childhood to a disarmingly sweet tinkling piano. It’s a surprisingly earnest moment for a guy who usually hides behind cheeky quips and obscure references.

        That’s all well and good, and the songwriting is as strong as ever. The problem is that earnestness doesn’t suit World/Inferno as well as anarchy does. Jack’s voice is an exaggerated theatrical wail, and it works much better shouting suitably dogmatic anarchist edicts (“You don't change the world by sitting in your office / Sitting in your office is changing you!” he sings on “Canonize Philip K. Dick OK” – though the Koch brothers probably differ with him on that sentiment) than it does with the more confessional lyrics to “Raritan” (where i was nurtured and perverted / by women free-thinking / and hoarse voices in love”). They’re good lyrics, but do you really want Jello Biafra telling you how he’s feeling? World/Inferno may just be too ridiculous to quite gel with heart-on-your-sleeve sentiment. Outrageousness and strident idealism play to their strengths; emotional excursions neuter them a bit and diminishes the things which make them most unique.  And of course, it’s hard not to miss the manic frenzy of their best tunes, like “Brother of the Mayer of Bridgewater” off “Red Eyed-Soul” or the wild swing avalanche of  “Ich erinnere mich an die Weimarer Republik” from “Addicted to Bad Ideas.” “Disarming Smile” has a pleasing gallop to it, but it’s only an average tune and everything else seems oddly chaste – nothing really drags, but for a group of outsider punk anarchists they don’t seem to cut loose with quite the vigor they once did. The closest they get to sounding like the best version of themselves comes near the end, with the heady drama of “The Apple Was Eve” which finally manages to regain the heft and the wild abandon of their previous work.   

            Still, the album is by no means a failure. It feels like an odd sidestep for them, but you gotta give some credit for bravely exploring some new terrain (though for the record I can’t imagine what the fuck Terricloth is talking about when he goes on about this album having strong bluegrass touches. The closest thing to bluegrass on here is the vaguely honky-tonk shuffle of “Lean Times for Heroes” and even then only the verse really plays it up). Whatever you may think of his hard-line idealism, it’s hard not to be a little inspired by Terricloth and Company's commitment to their lifestyle and their unique sound, and their consummate musicianship and songwriting skills are undisputable. It’s nice to know that however lean the times may be for our heroes, they haven’t lost the faith. But here’s hoping that something pisses em off a little before they write the next chapter in the saga.  

Special Note: World/Inferno are playing the Rock and Roll Hotel on H street in Washington DC Sunday, June 26^th and you’d have to be a damn fool to not go to this one. They’re one of the wildest live acts out there today. See ya there.