Newbeats

Newbeats

HE‘S THE THE

“So many bands get in a position where they could really put across important ideas and say important things, but they don’t,” observes Matt Johnson, alias The The. “A lot of bands start off left-field and everything, and then they get a little taste of success and start diluting what they’re doing and chasing after the old dollar-shaped carrot. I want to do the opposite of that. When you get some success, that’s when I think you should start getting more radical and confront things more.”

True to the artist’s word, Johnson’s work has grown more extreme as he’s gained in popularity. His 1980 U.K.-only debut LP Burning Blue Soul (released under his own name) was a fairly insular affair, but 1984’s warm, tuneful Soul Mining hinted at something scary lurking beneath its calm surface. Now, instead of following Soul Mining’s overseas hit “Uncertain Smile” with more of the same, The The gives us the stark, disturbing (and hummable) Infected.

Matt is here in New York (with notorious manager Stevo) doing his bit to drum up media interest in Infected’s stateside release. Apparently Epic, The The’s American label, shares the singer’s enthusiasm-—at the time of this writing, the company was said to be considering staging a series of highly unorthodox (and not necessarily lawful) publicity stunts.

“I used to think that it was just down to the merit of the music, but t eventually realized that that, unfortunately, is not the case,” says Johnson. “I understand the fact that I have to raise my profile. I’ve learnt the rules of the game, so to speak, and now I know that I’m gonna be more effective if I’m more popular.”

With its recurrent themes of lust, selfdestruction, political jingoism and East/West conflict, Infected (and the elaboratelyproduced album-length film which accompanies it) emerges as an unsettling preview of something resembling the Fall of the Western Empire and Eventual Collapse of Civilization As We Know It. Johnson explains that his main intention was to examine the dynamics of human desire, both on an individual level (“Infected,” “Out Of The Blue”) and a global one (“Sweet Bird Of Truth,” “Angels Of Deception”).

“I think the sentiments expressed in this record are pretty much what people are feeling nowadays,” he says. “They’re feeling increasingly frustrated and impotent about how things are going. Over the past few years, the advancements in technology have increased the speed of information to such a state that it confuses a lot of people. Human beings are not advancing as quickly as the world they’re creating, and 1that’s one of the reasons why the world is cranking out a lot more rapists and murderers.”

In England, Infected has run into a variety of problems with skittish corporate decisionmakers. CBS U.K. nixed the album’s original cover, a painting of the devil masturbating. The BBC. refused to air the title track because of the lyric “From my scrotum to your womb.” Last year, when the release of “Sweet Bird Of Truth” as a single coincided uncannily with the U.S. bombings of Libya, CBS considered pulling the record from its schedule (they eventually compromised, releasing the single in a limited run).

The British label also objected to certain aspects of the Infected film. Apparently, squalid locations like a Bolivian prison and a New York whorehouse, and images of Johnson cavorting with drug-crazed South k American witch doctors and sticking the barrel of a loaded revolver into his mouth, weren’t exactly what the company had in mind when they agreed to finance it.

"Ig/vant to sell a lot of records, but I’m not gonna compromise my ideas to sell records,” says Matt. “So I’m just gonna have to jgromote more vigorously and find new ways|p use the media. Instead of thinking, ‘We won’t get on MTV unless we do this’—which Is a trap that a lot of people fall into—I just say, ‘Fuck MTV, let’s find a different way of getting it seen.’ I know that people want to hear stuff that’s different to what’s being shoved down their throats.”

Harold DeMuir

DON’T FOLLOW LEADERS, WTCH FIREHOSE

San Pedro is a blue-collar harbor town 10 miles south of downtown Los Angeles, but its working class mix of Italian, Slav and Mexican immigrants make it light years away from the glitz of Tinseltown; It was here that a pair of self-confessed nerds named D. Boon and Mike Watt grew up together as pals and later bandmates in the Minutemen, inspired bythe incipient West Coast punk scene.

“What we liked about it was if didn't matter how you dressed or looke^fl whispers soft-spoken bassist Mike Wall over hors d’ouevres in a Hollywood Chinese restaurant. “It was just getting out there and doing it.”

It is a time of mixed emotions for the 29-year-old son of a career Navy man. His best friend, D. Boon, died in a car accident a year ago last December, and it took Mike most of that time to get over his loss and on with his music. Along with the group’s drummer, George Hurley, he set about the task of putting together a new band, no small feat considering both the Minutemen’s legacy and the lack of a front man.

Enter Ed Crawford, a classical trumpet student at Ohio State who had dropped out to bus tables. This is where the story gets interesting. Seems young Ed was a big Minuteman fan, one of those guys whose life was changed by the trio’s brand of jazzy, power-driven punk-funk-folk-rock, just as D. Boon and Mike Watt were changed by their own discovery of the freedom of punk.

“They transformed my thinking about the act of making music,” Ed says. “I appreciated what a band could be and I decided to get serious about getting some people to start a group.”

Shortly thereafter came D. Boon’s tragic death. Acting on a tip which proved erroneous, Crawford called Mike Watt and said he’d heard they were looking to replace the late band leader. Watt, still in mourning, told the kid to send some tapes. Ed did the next best thing, took his folks’ used Mercedes and drove straight from Ohio to San Pedro, showing up at Mike Watt’s doorstep.

“The kid learned how to play guitar because of D. Boon,” marvels Watt. “I went for this kid from nowhere so people wouldn’t think I was just going to get some hack to replace D. Boon. I didn’t want it to be seen as some career move.^^H

And that is how Firehose rose from the ashes ofthe Minutemen. They took their name from a lyric in “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” and that certainly reflects gentle leader Mike Watt’s countercultural bias and hippie roots! He truly believes in a creative community of friends helping one another out, and thatlfhow he conducts his business, both on ms own New Alliance label (whose first LP release was pals Husker Du’s debut, Land'Speed Record) and with his distributor, S&T, home of Black Flag, Sonic Youth, Meaf| Puppets and D.C.3, among others.

“We weren’t born into this,” he says. “Our parents don’t have a lot of money. That doesn’t mean we’re better musicians. It’s just the reality.”

Which goes a long way towards explaining how Firehose recorded their impressive debut album, Ragin’, Full-On on 24 tracks for the incredible price of $1200. With the addition of Ed From Ohio and his folk-rock melodic leanings, combined with the Watt/Hurley propulsive rhythm machine, Firehose is already more “mersh,” Mike’s word for commercial, than the Minutemen ever were. So where are the labels already?

“A big record company wouldn’t allow you to make an album that cheaply,” insists Watt. “They want to keep you owing them money. I’ve talked to (Dream Syndicate’s) Steve Wynn and the story is really scary. This way, we get to do things the way we want, from the music to the cover.”

The Minutemen were often like three completely different components working as a unit, racing to the finish lineijrhe Village Voice called them America’s best conceptual bar band. But Watt knew the secret: starting and ending at the same time.

“We couldn’t compete on the level of verse, chorus, verse," he laughs. “We had to create our own terms. But we don’t want to be stuck in some underground ghetto. Why isn’t our music played on the radio? Is it because we’re not on a major label? I never considered us too good for the

average Joe.”

Certainly Firehose, with Ed Crawford’s Michael Stipe-cum-Sting vocals and melodic bent, represents the once-andfuture Minutemen Watt and Hurley’s best shot at the big time... and mass appeal.

“It’s tough, though,” says Mike quietly. “It’s hard to say we’re even making it on our own terms because of the sympathy for D. Boon and stuff. If I was going to do this again after the Minutemen, I wanted to try Out our ideas. That’s why Ed’s in the band? anybody can do it, and we’re giving him the chance to find out* And, if it flops, so what? You find some other kid and give him me cannon.”

The rock ’n’ roll torch hasoeen passed on, and it burns bright.

“Elvis came from worse beginnings than us, but he died a sad man,” obsllves Watt in a pensive moment. “Obviously money is not the whole trip. Money’s like air. You die without it, but I’m not about to store a garageful of tanks of the stuff, know what I mean?”

Yes, Mike, I think I do.

Roy Trakin

MISSIONARY

POSITION, U.K. STYLE

“'Sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll Sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll Sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll Are very good indeed. ”

—Ian Dury, 1977

Wayne Hussey of the Mission U.K. agrees. “I think that’s the theme of our album,” says the hippieoid-looking singer and songwriter. “I think it’s very realistic.

I think it’s a lot more depressive to be singing about everlasting love or ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.’ This is my life and it’s very real to me. It’s not a comment on the world, it’s the motivation of my life.”

Wayne Hussey grew up in Leeds, England, with parents who were Mormons. He once met Donny Osmond at a Mormon gathering. Osmond said he’d heard about Hussey. Osmond probably hadn’t heard that Hussey once told a British reporter he wanted to fuck the Cult’s Ian Astbury. Sex: Check.

“Oh, that,” snorts Hussey, obviously sick of the whole business. “That famous quote. It doesn’t bother me what’s been written.” Shrug.

He’s not bothered when the English press reports on his band’s legendary capacity for liquid and chemical intake either. “The only responsibility I have is to meself but if I’m asked a direct, specific question I’ll answer it. There’s a ridiculous climate in the world right now. I’m only being refreshingly honest when I say I’d like my drugs delivered to me onstage by bow-tied dwarfs on a silver platter.” Drugs: Check.

Hussey formed the Mission (the U.K. bit was added because some other group has ownership of the Mission name in the U.S.) after departing the Sisters Of Mercy (the “usual musical and personal differences. We basically hated each other.”), taking bassist Craig Adams with him. They stQjjjj their drummer, Mick Brown, from RecU.orry Yellow Lorry (“They were our frjyaili&il we nicked Mick”) and guitarist Simon Hinkler won an audition Jjlength of hair had a lot to do with iL^xplains Hussey, confirming that th^Mission looks for the most importanttbings in life. Rock ’n’ roll: Check?

The^ameky&s chosen over the Elvis Pmsleys From Hell (a band which actually existed for a while and included Adams and Brown) and Shirley Bassey’s Daughter. “When I was younger I was a Mormon and my parents brought me a missionary diary,” says Hussey. “When# was looking for a name there was the diary. I like it, it’s a universal name, it’s simple, has good imagery. Also I have Mission speakers for my stereo. It’s a better name than Curiosity Killed the Cat^True.

Not thatj||psey is oh any anti-religious mission or anything. “It’s just a reaction to my childhood. Not against it, but to it. i like 4he!idea of setting ourseives up as gobs. 1 like playing God.” Donny could not be

Ah, so that explains the album’s title, God’s Own Medicine’? “No, actually, that’s slang for morphine.” Drugs again.

, The Mission’s first couple of singles were releasedin the U.K. on independent labels and topped that country’s indie charts. The oombo of the band’s leftover reputation from ' Sisters Of Mercy-—always bigger in England .thanherewith a high press profile—can't imagine why—put the group in the admirable position of having bargaining power when the majors came calling.

They signed with Phonogram in England (PolyGram here) and holed up in a country farm to record, where Hussey proceeded to nearly drive himself crazy. “I had a few mental problems doing the album," he admits. “At one point I got really paranoid, crazy. kBeing on a farm in the middle of nowhere was fine for four days, but for four weeks Ilyas terrible. I was involved in a love affairUhat was all-consuming, but if it hadn’t been for her I don’t think I would’ve gotten through the album. There was a separation occurring between me and the rest of the band. I||as constantly in the studio and it got to me§j[he backing tracks were sounding wonderful, and when it came time to sing, I felt I vf&sn’t going to do them justice. A lot of it wassgelf-induced.”

But dontcha know our story has a happy ending. Not only did the album come out, but it's doing well, the Mission are on tour, and Wayne Hussey is sitting in a record company conference room staring at a wall covered with his UP cover. “I’m sure it was Level 42 yesterday,” hefcemarks with sarcasm, “but it is pleasing to the eye. It’s all a game,” he says about his life, “but it’s one I don’t mind playing.fprock ’n’ roll.

Jeff Tamarkin

PARTY ANIMAL

"There’s an awful lot on the airwaves that doesn’t seem to be an advert for the right things," says mild-mannered, bespectacled ex-Waterboy Karl Wallinger. feel like World Party is a sort of wholesome thing, and I like the idea of occupying air space for good—or for what I think is good.”

World Party, of which Wallinger is founder and chairman, makes their debut on Private Revolution. The album reveals the multiinstrumental singer/writer/producer to be an engaging frontman, conveying an exquisite sense of wonder even while exploring our species’ most self-destructive tendencies:, A concern for ecology, societal sanity and individual responsibility animates Wallinger's songs as well as his conversation.

“I like the name World Party in conjunction with the title Private Revolution,” he explains, “because at the moment we’ve got world revolution because everyone’s having a private party.”

But, he adds, “We’re not political. It’s a bit more down-to-earth than that—soil and animals and trees, real things. People could call me old hippie, and they might have a point, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I don’t want to stand on a soapbox. I’d like to have enough brain power to be able to stand up and say ‘Try a bit of this, world’—but I don’t, so I won’t try.”

Wallinger was playing and singing in a funk band cWed Out when he joined Mike Scott and Anthony Thistlethwaite in the Waterboys in 1983. Although he retains his fondness for the ambitiously idealistic ’Boys, Wallinger felt limited in his supporting role in the group, and quietly exited early in 1986.

“I’ve always been on my own man, musically, and the Waterboys was basically Mike’s baby. I attempted to make the best of that situation, but I also had things I wanted to try out on my own. You can only do one thing really well at a time, and I didn’t want World Party to be just a solo album by the keyboard player from the Waterboys. I felt it was different enough to warrant my full attention... Maybe I’ll play with the Waterboys again sometime—I’d like to.”

Wallinger recorded Private Revolution as a more-or-less solo affair (with instrumental contributions from a couple of Waterboys) at his home studio in the enormous English country house where he now resides. In its homey ambiance, utopian yearnings and lack of overt technological flash (not to mention a Dylan cover), Private Revolution harkens back to an earlier musical era.

“I suppose I’m an exponent of a particular kind of music whose first exponents were in the ’60s,” sighs Karl. “But I’d like to think that this album could only have been done j^^Mbecause I had the potential of a whole orchestra in a cheap little sampling keyboard."

Bjjaving Iformed a permanent-for-now lineup of m&jkcians to play live and on future World Party recordings, the inquisitive Wallinger seems primed for more adventures in

the music industry. “I’m trying to keep my innocence, and, if possible, get more innocent,” he says. “It’s tricky; I’m trying to maintain a balance, but I don’t know how well I’ll do.

“I remember somebody once saying that they started writing music because the music they wanted to hear wasn’t out. That’s the big motivation for me—you hear this sound, and it means something to you, and then you figure that other people will relate to it as well. I heard this sound, I made it, and now I’d like other people to hear it.

“When people get the record, I’d like for

them to feel that they’ve actually got a piece of music, rather than just some plastic and a bit of paper. I’d like them to think, ‘Hey,

I wasn’t wrong, this is a human being, someone saying hi from England.’ It’s like a ridiculously-complicated mailing service.”

Harold DeMuir