NEWBEATS

NEWBEATS

CONTENDING WITH EASTERHOUSE

Andy and Ivor Perry, the politically-precocious Mancunian brothers who lead Easterhouse, relish a good argument. I know this because, A) Andy likens the band�s appeal to that of a heated adversarial exchange, and B) Andy and Ivor spend much of our allotted interview time (and then some) squabbling over philosophical technicalities, with the sort of unrestrained, superficially-venomous fervor that only siblings seem capable of.

The words and music on Easterhouse�s Contenders—their first full-length LP as well as their domestic debut—are every bit as compelling as the Perry�s verbal lashings. Andy�s lyrics are both emotive and historically specific, dealing with complex issues (political betrayal, societal inequity, the need for a revolutionary communist government, that sort of thing) without resorting to kneejerk sloganeering.

Though they�re with the relatively iconoclastic Rough Trade in the U.K., Easterhouse�s American deal is with the unrepentantly capitalistic mega-biggie CBS. Ivor: �If we�re in the business of communicating with people, then we have to be able to reach them. If we came over here on a U.S. indie and got distributed in two states and nobody hears us, what�s the point? Obviously we understand the contradictions of signing with CBS; but at least our records will get distributed all over the U.S. and get some college radio play, and people will hear us and start to think about the ideas.�

�Politically or socially aware rock is an accepted strand of music now,� says the singer. �So in that respect it�s not so unrealistic for us to sign with CBS in America. In times of uncertainty, in times when a lot of people are unsure about how they see the world and how things are going, they want music to give them a little bit more—to have a little bit of heart, as it were. Politics, in vague terms, do sell—but obviously when you start to get specific it can get a bit more hairy.�

Exactly. Unlike, say, Bruce Springsteen�s non-partisan humanism or Big Country�s sweeping generalities, Easterhouse presents a specific political agenda—an agenda that�s traditionally unpopular with communophobic Yanks. Will middle America ever be ready for a rock band preaching revolutionary communism?

�The whole thing is a calculated risk,� says Ivor. �We have a set of political ideas and a set of musical ideas. We think we�re good, and obviously other people think we�re good, because we�re critically acclaimed in England and we�re on CBS here. So all these things point to a conclusion that the public might want to hear what we do.

And what if, by some chance, Easterhouse become phenomenally wealthy and successful—then where�d their revolutionary spirit be? Andy picks up the thread: �What if we become dishonest or cynical, or get bought off? It�s perfectly possible that we will be, and I wouldn�t bullshit anyone by saying otherwise. You set up a principle, and if you can�t carry it through, there will be somebody after you who can.

�It�s inevitable that the edges get rubbed off as you get older. But we�re making these statements now, and we should be judged on the validity temper, but if what I�m saying is valid, that�s what matters. You can�t judge somebody�s personal motivation, you can only judge the work itself.�

Harold DeMuir

OZZIE'S YOUNGEST BOY

Bill Nelson doesn�t seem like a guy who would cause trouble. In his decade-plus on the British music scene, this soft-spoken artiste has donned a variety of creative guises, none of them particularly threatening. His mild-mannered latest LP, On A Blue Wing, is arty pop in an ambient vein, highlighted by gentle vocals and pastel instrumentals.

However, the album�s U.K. incarnation was deemed too strong for us squeamish Yanks. �The cover was a classical Italian painting depicting a bizarre Renaissance city with an image of the Virgin Mary on one side,� explains Nelson. �Around the edges I had placed a variety of occult seals and diagrams. It was very tasteful, but the record comany decided it wasn�t the right thing to put out in right-wing Christian America.� Obviously the original title, Getting The Holy Ghost Across, didn�t have a prayer either.

In his quiet way, Bill Nelson has been making mischief for quite a while. He flirted with major stardom in the mid-�70s as the leader of Be-Bop Delux, combining Bowie vocals and Hendrix guitars in one glam persona. The prospect of becoming a big-time guitar hero left restless Bill apprehensive, though. �I felt backed into a corner,� he recalls. �I wasn�t able to grow because I was expected to deliver a certain pre-packaged thing.�

Disbanding Be-Bop, he formed Bill Nelson�s Red Noise, a late �70s excursion into pop electronics that sank like a stone. �/ thought Red Noise was commercial,� he insists weakly. �It was more tongue-incheek than people realized, kind of like Devo but not as overtly wacky.� In any case, the commercial failure of Red Noise�s Sound On Sound LP dealt Nelson his major-label deals both in the States and at home. Adding insult to injury, he got fleeced in the aftermath of Be-Bop�s dissolution, noting, �When I parted company with Be-Bop�s management, I was owed in the neighborhood of 50,000 pounds—and that�s just what I know about—which I never received a penny of. That�s a lot of money to kiss off.�

Since those debacles, Nelson has preferred to chart his own course. He started Cocteau Records, named after French film director Jean Cocteau, as an outlet for some of his odder noodlings and to showcase new bands. Working at his home studio in Yorkshire, he�s composed scores for TV commercials, theater productions, and TV dramas. In addition to wispy instrumental records on Cocteau, and he�s released more mainstream efforts—including the hit U.K. LP, Quit Dreaming And Get On The Beam—on larger labels. He�s published a book of photography to go with a four-record boxed-set. And next year, look for a chain of Bill Nelson taco stands. (Just kiddng!)

Nelson has also acquired a reputation as a producer of up-and-coming acts, a role he downplays. �Producing�s not my main priority, although I enjoy it with the right people,� he observes. Among his success are early works by the Skids and Flock Of Seagulls. Then there�s Gary Numan�s Warriors.

�That was a terrible experience,� Nelson declares flatly. �He didn�t want a producer in the first place, but the record company insisted. They felt that while he�d been a pioneer in electronic music, the people he�d influenced had moved ahead, and he was still doing robot dirges. I was supposed to introduce some lighter elements, make the music less doomy. Every time I�d suggest something, he�d say, �I don�t do it that way,� and slam the door.�

Good soldier Nelson saw the project through to the end anyway. �After I�d spent three weeks mixing the record, Numan came in and remixed it in three days without my knowledge,� he recalls, still annoyed. �When I heard the result, I had them take my name off the record.�

Nelson�s preference runs to the opposite extreme of ephemeral, non-vocal music. �I think if I was left to my own devices for a few years, I wouldn�t Sing or write lyrics, the way I didn�t play guitar for a while after Be-Bop,� he confesses. s �Instruments come very naturally to me—at home I have about 400 pieces on tape, most of which were recorded quickly, sometimes three a day. They�re like sketches.�

Noting that he�s �suffered in the past from not compromising too much,� Nelson is willing to make concessions to the real world these days. His 1984 American LP, Vistamix, compiled some of the more accessible tracks from prior U.K. outings, and he�ll readily admit that On A Blue Wing is a bid for increased sales. �The other stuff has to be paid for,� he smiles.

Jon Young

FIVE-STAR FUEL FOR THE BIG TIME

In rock, what becomes a legend most is usually sudden death. And survival in the biz—with its false promise, compromise and half-measures—is antipathetic to everything which gives the music real meaning. So how good bands manage to endure is often a heartening story in human terms: entailing solidarity, sacrifice, and a hard-won sense of humor.

Certainly this is the case for Austin�s True Believers, a kind of legend ever since their inception back in late �83. Originally, the rep sprang out of a fascinating three-guitar lineup, founded by two young uncles of Sheila E: Alejandro and Javier Escovedo. Bassist Denny DeGorlo (also a vocalist, guitarist, pianist and writer) met the brothers in California when he played with the Offs. Jon Dee Graham, one of nature�s most inventive guitarists, had provided the irreplaceable factor in seminal Austin groups from several eras—re-shaping careers from pop through punk. And, after stints by various Believers, the skin seat went to New Yorker Kevin Foley, a pal from Alejandro�s past in the Judy Nylon Band.

�It�s like the five members of our band are one unit,� says Jon Dee. �You can have friends, you can always have help coming in from outside. But to keep your work together in a way that matters, there�s a line they can never cross. That�s what the True Believers are: those five people. That�s what we want our records to become.�

The issue arises for discussion thanks to the much-delayed release of True Believers by EMI/Rounder. Recorded over a year ago in Austin, mixed by mail in Memphis, the 11-track disc features some songs which were penned as far back as �83—when Alejandro had just left Rank & File. Plus, when two songs were lost to the Warner Bros, soundtrack for Blue City, the band was shunted back to the studio, to add Javier�s �So Blue About You� and Jon Dee�s �Sleep Enough To Dream.�

The new tracks balanced out and the band was happy enough with their debut—-though anyone who�s heard them live can hear how its engineers failed to capture the density of guitar attack and the tremendous build in dynamics which always differentiate Believers� gigs from any others.

�It�s really been �welcome to the music biz,�� notes Jon Dee. �You know: we�re in Austin, sitting around for-one more month. And they�re out in L.A., taking three weeks to get a piece of paper across two city blocks. We used so much of our advance to pay off things connected with the album it turned into this product we bought with that advance; then it still doesn�t come out!�

�The worst question people always ask us,� grins Alejandro, �Is �what do you believe?� And their worst tendency, maybe, is zeroing in on me and Jav. What we play, what we believe in, can�t be summed up in neat-like �roots rock.�

�The True Bellievers,� he stresses, �are a rock �n� roll band. And if that�s what you want to be, you listen to each other. You listen to good sounds. You listen to your heart. Because, in the end, those things are what you�ve got to keep something going. And that�s what we intend to do.�

Cynthia Rose

JETBOY TAKES OFFI

Back in 1984, four boys with a dream, but no frontman, formed a rock �n� roll band in America�s most picturesque city. They all knew a particular singer from seeing him passed out in the gutters along Broadway, San Francisco�s most sinful street. �People would tell us, �You should try him out,� � tiny Fernie Rod, their lead guitarist, recalls, �but we couldn�t even wake him up!�

�That�s what I�d do with the girlfriend I had back then,� Mickey Finn concedes without sheepishness. �We�d come to the City, buy some Thunderbird, get wasted, and wind up passed out in an alley. Every weekend.�

Photo by

Rod, rhythm guitarist Billy Rowe, bassist Todd Crew, and drummer Ron Tostenson ultimately did manage not only to revive Finn, but indeed to add him to their line-up, and Jetboy was complete. Rock �n� roll would never be the same.

Once, around the time they posed for the publicity glossies that led the author to believe they might be interesting to interview, Billy and Mickey arranged their hair in astonishing starfish �do�s like those one sees in London�s Kings Road, and all of them wore make-up. �It was different and shocking,� little Fernie avers. �But we left the make-up behind about a year ago. Now we got out there with two—and three-day growths [of what?\]. All we use anymore is a little eyeliner.�

�We�re still outrageous and everything,� Mickey notes, inaccurately, �but I think we�re a little more classy. The most outlandish thing about us is my hair being shaved on the side here.�

They vigorously maintain that they were never part of any movement, neither �glam,� if you will, nor �sleaze,� but—can you guess?—�just a rock �n� roll band,� in the too-familiar words of the preposterously diminutive Rod, who melancholically philosophizes, �I guess those kinds of labels are unavoidable because people are going to call you what they think.

�You get classified for caring more about your image than your music, and that just wasn�t where it was at for us.� An astonishing claim for a group that sounds like a third-rate Bad Company!

They don�t look terrific anymore, and they sound like a third-rate Bad Company, but they�re nice boys. They all live with their parents, their dressing rooms are generally alcohol-free—�our bass player drinks excessively,� loquacious little Fernie chuckles, �so we�ve got to like hide the stuff�—and they�re as big on monogamy as sobriety. �Three of us,� miniscule Fernie observes, �are one-woman guys. We�re not a fuckeverything-in-sight kind of band.�

�Especially nowadays,� Mickey contributes, getting a word in sideways, �with all the fuckin� diseases going around.�

Some jaded old fart from the outback might think they no longer look terrific and that they sound like a third-rate Bad Company, but Elektra�s signed them, and San Francisco and Los Angeles audiences apparently go for Jetboy in a great big way. And what melting pots those audiences are! �Fifty percent of every audience is like rad girls,� Mickey estimates smugly. �Our crowds consist of punkers, dirtheads, heavy metal people, rockers. Some people think Todd�s cool �cause he�s scruffy and has tattoos. I get a lot of hard-type guys who are like into my mohawk. And some people like cute little Fernie. There�s something for everybody.�

Jaded old farts from the outback presumably excepted.

John Mendelssohn