In the Ranks of Guitarmy

By Stefan Beck | Friday, April 25, 2003

I've come to hate rock music.

Perhaps you've noticed (well, no, you probably haven't) that the pages of The Dartmouth Review have been absent my spot-on critiques for nearly a year now. Sorry, kids, but I'm an elitist, and I haven't found too much that satisfies my sophisticated tastes. In fact, I've also lost faith in a good half of the bands I've reviewed favorably. I curse the day I gave my imprimatur to emo profiteers Jimmy Eat World or those flash-in-the-pan Hives (or Strokes, or Stripes, or whatevers). I'll even admit that Hot Water Music's sound has been trimmed and shampooed to death by meddling Epitaph executives.Is there to be no radiant future for the indie rock scenester?

I asked myself this question many times during my sabbatical. Conceiving no answer, I decided to sample new, non-rock things, hoping to broaden my pathetically limited horizons. Calypso road marches, Prokofiev, the 2nd South Carolina String Band, Dusty in Memphis. Imagine my delight in learning of a new world of song and sound—which, though ignorant of the electric guitar, is to the ears no less a source of pleasure and...then I snapped out of it and bought Burn Piano Island, Burn!, the newest offering from Seattle's Blood Brothers.

Friends, I am the Prodigal Son of rock—and this album is the fatted calf. There will, I daresay, never be a substitute for the electric guitar; if anybody needs further proof, here it is. Just listen to the half-minute album opener, aptly titled 'Guitarmy,' and hear the instrument manipulated like a scimitar in the bellies of soft-rocking infidels.

Piano Island was not my introduction to the Blood Brothers. I met the band last summer, at a show they opened in Brooklyn. My friend was taunting this guy, real 'anorexia chic' in a skin-tight, silver-sequined tank top: 'Johnny Thunders! Hey you! New York Doll! Over here!' But my friend had misjudged the young gentleman. The skinny guy, Johnny Whitney, mounted the stage moments later and (with a little help from his other Brothers) unleashed fire and brimstone upon the gaping crowd. Whitney and second vocalist Jordan Blilie screamed a call-and-response, like a love duet between a dying animal and a demon-possessed Chatty Cathy. But this wasn't just another throwback to late '90s screamo. This was the real item: screaming, yes—but with the style, nuance, and even melody to make it sound like music, and unlike anything that had come before.

After the show I bought their second LP, March on Electric Children, from the merch table. I've listened to it about a thousand times. But I can't say it comes close to Piano Island, which is creative and strange enough to resist anybody's calling it (as some of my friends called Electric Children) 'just crazy shrieking and stuff.' I don't have liner notes for Piano Island, so I'll eschew the usual English major's line-by-line lyric analysis. (I will say, however, that the band's heightened popularity has resulted in the obligatory Parental Advisory sticker—thanks a million, Tipper!) I don't know exactly what these guys are screaming, but I catch snippets, and I'd be remiss if I didn't warn you that it's toenail-curlingly mean and nasty stuff. Drink long and deep, little droogies.

So: weaponized guitars and screaming raised to an art form. Is that all it is? Not by a long shot; I'll give you some highlights. My personal favorite is 'Every Breath is a Bomb,' a tight, methodical number that erupts from a sticky mess of synth riffs and broken grandfather clocks. The song boasts some non-screamed vocals, a reggae interlude, and an eerily schoolgirlish singsong toward the end. A very close second is 'Cecilia and the Silhouette Saloon,' which opens up with the deep, savage throb of Satan's Moog and then drums hard over whine of devilish choirboys. And 'USA Nails,' a slice of angry white blues, moans, 'The county sheriff said /that my baby's dead/they found her in some trash can.' Yeesh.

I'll say no more, except: buy this album.

But I've been at Dartmouth long enough to know that most of you won't, and that those of you who do will end up with a look of pickled disgust on your ugly mugs. So I'll make a suggestion. During my travels, I came across another nugget of brilliance—Songs: Ohia's Magnolia Electric Co.. The latest gem from Jason Molina, Ohioan indie-folk savant, features ten different musicians. Molina's inimitable voice is the centerpiece as always. Molina is a latter-day Neil Young, drawing epics of soul and musical invention out of thin air. Well, I was never really convinced that Neil Young did any of that, but I assure you Molina does.

The coolest song on Magnolia Electric Co. is, as is most often the case, the opener. The seven-minute masterpiece 'Farewell Transmission' sets the tone with Mike Brenner's lap steel and Jeff Panall's minimalistic drumming. Molina's lyrics are poetry: 'After tonight if you don't want this to be / a secret out of the past / I will resurrect it / I'll have a good go at it / I'll streak his blood across my beat.' The effect is decidedly classic rock, but with a care and ingenuity you won't find in your average Bob Seger track. When Molina sings, 'There ain't no end to the sands I've been tryin' to cross,' you'll have a tough time suppressing goosebumps. This is badass country sentimentality at its finest.

But the energy doesn't drop off after track one. It segues effortlessly into the easygoing 'I've been Riding with the Ghost,' which wails, 'While you was gone / you must've done a lot of favors / you got a whole lot of things / I don't think that you could ever have paid for.' The accusation swells into a fog of Halloween-style graveyard operatics, which break unexpectedly into confidently rocking vocals: 'I've been riding with the ghost / I've been doing whatever he told me / I've been looking door to door / to see if there was someone who'd hold me.' Clean drums and guitar fills are just enough to propel the song toward greatness.

The rest of the album is pretty killer, too, with the exception of two 'experimental' sonic farts. 'The Old Black Hen' is a throwaway joke—a showcase of what I'm told are 'Nashville-style' country vocals, courtesy of Lawrence Peters. It's a good song, for sure, but it sounds like moldy leftovers from Ween's 12 Golden Country Greats, not a solid Songs: Ohia offering. That's true also of the follow-up 'Peoria Lunch Box Blues.' Why? Because of Scout Niblett's too-pretty female vocals. I'm no sexist, but when I want this kind of crap, I'll hunt up a Natalie Merchant album. Yes, a full quarter of this eight-song album consists of non-Molina vocals—and that's just unacceptable. But don't let it scare you off. Molina snatches it back at the end with the rough and tumble 'John Henry Split My Heart,' and all is well. All told, Magnolia Electric Co. is an intimidating foray into country rock, and a pensive counterbalance to the ass-kicking fury of the Blood Brothers.

In the Ranks of Guitarmy

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