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Cass McCombs live Doug Fir Lounge Portland, OR 08.20.2005

Cass McCombs/The Decemberists
Lupo’s Heartbreak Hotel
Providence, RI

Cass McCombs’ timeless, unassuming songs and warm, humble demeanor were somewhat lost in the cavernous, imposing primness of Lupo’s. Why then did his songs play so much better than the Decemberists’ self-conscious, sometimes awkwardly formal song cycles?

For one thing, Cass’ songs of love and loss were accentuated and answered by the echoing, tumbledown openness of the club space itself. It’s a little bit lost, is Lupo’s. Despite a new coat of paint and some attempts at modernizing the place, it’s at heart an old theatre from a forgotten era. It had been shut for a number of years before Lupo’s moved in and gussied it up, and even today you can still see the unvarnished, humble backstage area in the wings, probably unchanged since the theatre was built in 1916.

McComb’s inward-looking, Hopperesque slices of Americana —tales of heartbreak and loss, buried under a self-effacement that would seem a little pathological if not balanced by the tonal clarity and melodic simplicity of his music— were a perfect fit for the bruised, slightly battered but regal space. Accompanied by an additional guitarist and a multi-instrumentalist who also traded deft harmonies with Cass, the songs were starker-sounding than on record but by no means dimmed. There’s a tenacious kernel of hopefulness at the center of these songs that saves them from becoming bleak —from the mournful, nostalgic “Mother and Father” (“Library doors are locked/You wait for day”) to the hazy, romantic urgency of “Sacred Heart” which brings to mind Strangeways-era Smiths. Leavened by a gentle wryness and gorgeous, airy harmonies, his music won the crowd over, slowly but surely.

By stark contrast, the Decemberists’ songs seemed both overstuffed and emotionally monotone. They were trying too hard, and it showed.

At the risk of being misinterpreted, I think they’re a band that is too damn smart for their own good. It’s not that I’m arguing for some sort-of “dumbing down” of rock music, or saying that the music of the Decemberists fails to engage because of its very cleverness. I appreciate the care that goes into their songs. I admire the craft of Colin Meloy’s literate, thoughtful songwriting. That said, I don’t feel as though music and lyrics add up to as much as they should. There’s a hint of smugness in Meloy’s self-presentation —a self-consciousness— that grates. The coolly detached formality of his songwriting sits awkwardly at odds with the dramatic, often raucous vibrancy of the music. The band isn’t afraid to let go, but Meloy is, and the group as a whole suffers for it. Even the addition of Petra Haden (late of that dog.) to the touring band failed to loosen Meloy’s somewhat starched reserve. But then, even if it their set failed to engage me emotionally or viscerally, the crowd —comprised of the most beaming, optimistic, utterly wholesome group of kids I’ve ever seen at a show— looked fully enraptured. I felt almost guilty for harboring unkind thoughts for their beloved bandleader. But nottoo guilty.

Decemberists merch is singularly pretty though. I nearly bought a poster before I realized with a start that I couldn’t possibly hang a Decemberists poster on my wall when they irritated me that much. It’d be …wrong.

But damn, it was pretty.

***

Cass McCombs, “Sacred Heart”

For more information on Cass McCombs, visit his official site or that of his record labels, 4AD andMonitor. You can also add him on Myspace!

This is another archival interview from Warped Reality’s first incarnation as a print zine. I’ve reprinted it as-is, so keep in mind that any references to the present are speaking of 1994!

***
The songs of the Raincoats seem to stem from some collective unconscious: upon first hearing them, one is struck both by their familiarity and their newness —it’s a language you’ve longed to hear although you’ve never heard anything like it before.

There surprise with their complexity, their elasticity, their playfulness that comes (perhaps) from their having built a musical language all their own. The Raincoats threw themselves fearlessly into the musical arena… and were often as surprised and exhilarated as the audience by the sounds that they produced.

The Raincoats formed in London in 1976. Ana DaSilva had recently arrived from her native Portugal. Gina Birch was from Nottingham. Both were attending art school. The atmosphere in London was already altering. Says Gina of that time, “People kept comparing the punk movement to Dada and stuff —which was probably a bit high flown! But, at the same time, there were a lot of interesting ideas going around. The first fanzines started, like Sniffing Glue. People were doing crazy things, interesting things, interesting fashion. “ Adds Ana, “It was really exciting, like you were in the middle of history happening.”

Ana and Gina soon became part of the insular London music scene, generally spending their time at the infamous and short-lived Roxy. “We started going to these gigs at the Roxy, and everyone there was going on about how easy it was and how everyone should do it if they felt like it. Gina and I went for a drink in a pub and just thought, ‘Oh, let’s do it!’” Gina laughs. “I remember when I bought my bass. We were in some political conference at Acme Gallery, which was near Shaftesbury Avenue where they sell guitars. On the lunch break, I went down to Shaftesbury Avenue and bought a bass for £40! And then I had my instrument. I took it home and spray-painted it bright blue!”

More cheeky than punk, really, but the spirit was there. The Raincoats aren’t usually mentioned in the “punk” category; often, they’re not mentioned at all. “We were considered very unhip by some people!” laughs Gina. “I think we were a bit bleak,” adds Ana. Their songs were too subtle for punk —there were no obvious sloganeering anthems or big, aggressive gestures. They weren’t afraid of harnessing the power of quiet moments. They were expert at giving a song added power by shaping it, giving it jolts and starts; alternating the soft with the angular. It is the careful orchestration and accretion of these subtle moments that makes Raincoats songs so alluring.

Now that the Raincoats are being rediscovered, thanks to the reissues of their first three albums, they have resumed recording and touring again. The core of the band remains Gina and Ana (Vicky is running a dance music label, Palmolive is living on the Cape and drums in a Christian rock band that covers Slits songs, albeit radically altered); they have been joined by Anne Wood on violin and bass and Heather Dunn (ex-Tiger Trap) on drums. (Steve Shelley filled in for a little while too.) Although an extensive tour of the US was cut short by the untimely death of Kurt Cobain, the Raincoats nevertheless played a short tour of the East Coast, culminating in a sold-out two-night stint opening for critics’ darling, Liz Phair. (Make that former critics’ darling. —Ed.)

Liz interrupted her set to say, “I don’t know how many of you know who the Raincoats are, but I hope you know what a special thing you just witnessed.” To judge by the exponential amount of applause the Raincoats’ set garnered, they realized all too well. “We’re not leaving yet!” laughed Ana from the glare of the stage after a particularly raucous burst of applause and cheers.

Gina and Ana played a virtual retrospective of the band’s history, from the wry, startling “Fairytale in the Supermarket” and “No Side to Fall In” from their first album, The Raincoats, to later songs like “No-One’s Little Girl,” “Shouting Out Loud,” and “Balloonacy.” They also played two new songs, “Don’t Be Mean” and “Smile” that have since shown up on their Peel Sessions EP. For encores, they played their gender-bending take on the Kinks’ “Lola” and the equally amusing “Love Lies Limp” (an Alternative TV song). They also joined Liz onstage to sing the wonderfully brash chorus of “Flower.”

Most wonderful of all was their version of “You’re A Million,” one of my favorite songs from The Raincoats. Tense violin spirals upwards, momentarily graceful and elegiac, then suddenly taut, sharp. “This is for you, as my love that was for nobody,” sings Ana, whose voice go quiet and regretful. Then, a pause, full of tension, as the violin begins its slow spiral upwards. “Stop here and go away!” she shrieks, as the percussion enters —too fast, unwieldy, awkward. Ana cuts it off with a sharp, “Stop here!” and it does. The inertia of the song is halted, in a moment that truly shatters. When Ana sings again, Gina’s voice joins her in harmony: “We’re a million to go,” as the violin goes quiet again.

Watching them, I think I’d be content if I never saw another concert again. It was rare and joyous in a way that few concerts are. After their set, Ana came down off the stage and was standing next to me. Still speechless from their set, I eked out a quiet, “That was incredible. Absolutely amazing.” “Thank you,” she said, quietly.

The Raincoats’ time has come again. They were ahead of their time in 1976, and now the musical generation that was influenced by them —a select but important number— have created an atmosphere perfect for their return. In 1977, they were pioneers. Now, they are pioneers.

***

the Raincoats, “You’re A Million” Taken from their amazing debut album, the US version of which is OUP but it’s still available from Rough Trade.

Although the Raincoats haven’t put out another album since 1996‘s Looking In the Shadows, they’ve never really broken up. The duo still perform together and I suspect they’re working on new material as I type. Check their new web-site for news. While there’s not much there at the moment, they promise plenty of lovely goodies soon. (I’m hoping for some of Gina’s lovely videos myself, including clips for “Don’t Be Mean” and “Fairytale in the Supermarket.”)

Red Krayola with Art & Language, “Old Man’s Dream.”

Gina also performed with Mayo Thompson’s Red Krayola (with Art & Language) —a lineup that featured Epic Soundtracks, Lora Logic, and Allen Ravenstine (Pere Ubu). This song, “Old Man’s Dream,” is taken from their album Kangaroo?

My interview with Mayo Thompson is here. Kangaroo? is available from Drag City.

It’s been freezing, freezing cold here. And as I was walking home from work the other evening a song came on the old shuffle —a song so soufflé-light, with birds chirping and Spanish guitar and a voice as airy as early morning sunlight filtering through the trees— that I momentarily forgot about the ice cold, brutal wind whipping right through me and stinging my eyes.

Spring songs are different than summer songs. Summer songs are carnal, sun-drenched and earthy. They’re a little bit crude, certainly more anthemic. By contrast, spring songs are just waking up to sensuality. They’re quiet, yes, but also quietly celebratory. They, like the fog, come in stealthily, on little cat feet—taking you by surprise, just like the first tiny blossoms of a season that’s far too short to wear out its welcome (as summer often does). The world they paint is new and a little bit magical.

Dean and Britta’s “Knives from Bavaria” is like that. It’s a very strange song. The lyrics are nonsensical, for the most part, but a bit obsessive in the middle there. (Thanks to the repeated refrain: “I love him, I love him, I love him I do.”) Here the production makes all the difference: when I listen to it on headphones it’s almost too rich, a crème brulée with a dollop of cassis at the centre. But I never tire of it —its lushness and heady quality are irresistible, whether it’s the first time I’m listening or the 1000th. Part of this is due to the lovely, sensuous interplay between the two voices (Luna’s Dean Wareham and Britta Phillips —yes, the voice of Jem) —the emotional timbre they hit here is one of cautious ebullience. There’s this tinge of melancholy that inhibits the song from becoming a blithe summer tune. But it’s lightened by marimba (a jaunty, spring-like instrument if there ever was one) and the requisite yé yé “la la la”s. “Send me a rainbow, send me a word,” Britta sings, and I wonder if playing the song over and over will bring a winter thaw that much sooner.

Does such a song really exist, I wonder?

Hmm.

Guess I’ll turn the heat up.

***
Britta Phillips & Dean Wareham, “Knives from Bavaria”

You can watch the video for “Knives” at Dean & Britta’s website. Their album, “L’Avventura” (named after the atmospheric Antonioni film) is available at Amazon and elsewhere; they’re recording a follow-up now. A tour will follow in the spring.