NEWBEATS

NEWBEATS

STOP MAKING SAINTS

Saint Julian. Hmmm, that sure has a nice ring to it, but who am I kidding? The Pope�s not gonna go for this in a million years.

In fact, if there�s only one sliver of truth to the stories about Julian Cope, former leader of Liverpudlian psychedelicists The Teardrop Explodes, then his chances for sainthood have already gone kablooey.

�The Teardrops was a particularly physically dangerous group to be in,� Cope explains. �A lot of blood got spilled. I quite liked that...� Recalling their zest for violent games and music, Julian innocently remarks, �We never actually ran people over,� then concludes, �You can only work for so long like that. In the end I�d get pissed off because everybody was as psychotic as I was.�

After a succession of deliciously hookworthy singles, EPs and LPs, the Teardrops imploded and Julian Cope began releasing a hit-and-miss series of musical excursions into bonkersville pop surrealism. His newest and best LP to date, St. Julian, is a cornucopia of catchy tunes spearheaded by the ruthlessly rocking anthem �World Shut Your Mouth.�

�My songs have always been celebrations of my hang-ups,� he observes. �My sexual hang-ups or my parental hang-ups or whatever are a lot more in check because of the songs that I write. It�s good to find out about all that shit. Perhaps you�ll get a tune out of it as well.�

Today, Julian is coping with his business hang-ups too. �I try to be as involved as I can be... I just have to get as many people that I trust involved as I can. In the past, I obviously completely misjudged everybody and I got really ripped off.�

Were there �management problems?�

�Yeah, I had management problems. They had this great way of turning currency directly into drugs.�

Rumor had it that Julian�s well-documented psychoactive follies made life on the tour bus a little tough. �It must�ve been real torture,� Julian comments amusedly. �We�d have to stop because I�d be freaking out. I�d see something like a sheet lightning storm and I�d be freaking out at that. Then I�d be freaking out at seeing a VW or something. Yeah, sure, we�d stop and we�d pick up garbage. �Hey, wow, look at this. That�s a-ma-zing!� �

For Julian Cope, those days are just a fading paisley memory: �I�m pretty lucid now. For a period I was very, very untogether ... it�s not really very cool to be whacked out-of your brain because most people haven�t got time to talk to you...�

With his distinctive bear-baiting insignia as a backdrop, Julian and his four-man ensemble played a few American gigs as a preview of a bigger tour in the spring. Clutching the mike stand in an Iggyesque crouch, St. Julian led the faithful on a primal pop pilgrimage with copious enthusiasm: from the cosmic bad-trippery of �Reynard The Fox� to the,brisk bounce �Trampolene,� leading up to his languid, Doorsian live version of �World Shut Your Mouth.� A religious experience was had by all.

And lo, on that night there walked, within the halls of the heathen Ritz, scores of hundreds of fans who came forth out of their shuttered rooms and wretched cells to bear witness to the second coming of Cope. �All the usual fans have arrived with the LSD,� Julian remarks casually, �but I dump it now. I�m very professional.�

Now if this isn�t a man well on his way to sainthood, I�d like you to show me one who is.

Drew Wheeler

ONLY THEIR HAIRDRESSERS KNOW FOR SURE

I don�t know if any of you guys read the New York Times—I personally try to avoid it at all costs—but there was a music overview piece in there by Jon Pareles a few months ago that really rang my chimes. Pareles invented a new genre and named it �mope rock� (or �glum rock�). Basically, the genre includes all those zillions of bands (many of them British) who make zillions of albums about how absolutely hopeless the world is to anyone with half a brain: If I hear one more song about how hopeless everything is, I�m gonna hunt down the perpetrator and force him to listen to John Denver songs for three days. Anyway, there�s this new band called Concrete Blonde that is not only intelligent, but actually interested in the world, and life, and other humanoids. They�re pissed off and tense, sure—but basically they believe in the value of living. We got a chance to talk to main songwriter/bassist/lead singer Johnette Napolitano. Unlike most pissed-off, tense-but-talented rockers, the girl loves to talk.

Johnette doesn�t quite believe in linear talk, though, so here�s a Cliff notes summary of the band�s history: Johnette and bassist/guitarist Jim Mankey met when both were working with Leon Russell in 1980. When Leon decided to move to Nashville, Johnette and Jim opted to stay in hometown Los Angeles. Johnette had been writing songs since age 12, had been playing in �bar bands and bar mitzvah� band and all the rest; when Mankey came along and they clicked, she decided to enter the race for solvency and recognition (fame and fortune were much too expensive). Eventually the duo found Chicago exile Harry Rushakoff, who played drums with just the right combination of psychotic energy and unshakable precision. And so they became a trio, only they were a trio with a lousy name (Dream 6). Acquaintance Michael Stipe of R.E.M. came up with Concrete Blonde— which also ended up as the name of the band�s debut major label LP. So far there have been three singles (�Still In Hollywood,� �True,� and �Dance Along The Edge�), lots of tour dates (many in opening spots for folks like Cyndi Lauper), and lots of fan response. It is at this point that we join Johnette and the conversation already in progress.

�Yeah, I�m sitting here answering fan mail between phone calls.� Johnette doesn�t really have a phone of her own right now, seeing that the band is on the road more often than not. �I�ve had three marriage proposals from underage boys. That was fun. Sure, some fans are nuts out there, but then again, my definition of nuts is not the one that most people go by. When we were touring the East Coast last winter, I�d peel sweaters and hats off onstage as I warmed up, and fans stole some of that stuff. Hey, though, on the physical plane, I really only love my car: �62 Olds Cutlass with a V-8 engine—white, with an aqua interior. I bought it in perfect condition a year ago from this old lady who just couldn�t drive anymore. She cried when I came to get it, and her husband took pictures of the car.�

That�s the way Johnette talks, and that�s the way she makes music—everything is a little slice of life. Everything is grist for the mill. Mopers don�t love the nitty-gritty of ordinary existence like this gal does.

�Oh yeah. Personal history. I�m 29, the oldest of five. Daddy�s Italian, Mom�s a French-German mutt. I never really had that many close friends growing up—there had been a lot of violence and blood in my family. I started going with this one guy when I was 14 and married him when we were eighteen—he�d joined the Navy and we were at his base in Tennessee and he could get 20 more dollars a month if he had a wife. That�s why we did it. I went back to L.A. after eight months and really started to work even harder on my music. I was obsessively prolific as a writer. Still am. Yeah, sure, this record is my baby. If you don�t feel that way about albums you make, then you shouldn�t make �em.�

One of the most vulnerable cuts on Concrete Blonde (aside from the band�s gutripping cover of George Harrison�s �Beware Of Darkness�) is �Song For Kim (She Said).� �One of the few close friends I had was Kim. Her childhood had been even worse than mine. She was a waitress, and really into punk. She looked up to me—and vice versa, but I didn�t realize that until it was too late. Anyway, she was always telling me to keep on with music, to push hard, because I was really good. Her encouragement and belief—half the reason I�m doing this now is because of Kim. She�d hear Concrete Blonde and say we were the best band in the world. Anyway, just a couple of months after she had a baby, she killed herself. I�m still in touch with her Mom and the baby. Kim just believed in me, in us, so much.�

Johnette keeps believing, no matter how weird it gets. �We were on the road for four months recently, and at the end we were in Canada, coughing and hacking, and feeling so tired. For us, we just wanted to go home. But we had to remember that for the people coming to see us, it would be their first time. It wasn�t old and tired to them. It was new. That helped us finish. Now I�m all ready to go out again.�

I wish you could hear her voice. I wish you could hear that maniacal laugh and that incredible New York tone (even though she�s one of those freaks of nature, an L.A. native). If you could hear the stories—about getting arrested for driving the wrong way down a one-way street the night before the band�s tour started. About how she loves to read the National Enquirer, the Weekly World News—and Russian literature. How she�s interested in Eastern religions and reincarnation, but is �afraid of being perceived as a flake so that no one will take me seriously.� There�s not much chance of that, Johnette. Anyone who writes music that sees all the crap in life—but loves life anyway—is someone special.

Laura Fissinger

FOUR MEN AND TEN WOMEN

�Wire Train is not big party music,� says Kevin Hunter. �People don�t slam their fists in the air at Wire Train shows, and girls don�t throw their panties on stage. It�s not sex, it�s not rebellion. It just has to do with... communion.�

The San Francisco quartet�s introspective, impressionistic guitar rock takes on added authority and clarity on its third LP, Ten Women. The disc features Wire Train�s third vinylized lineup—vocalist/lyricist/guitarist Hunter, Swedish emigre bassist Anders Rundblad, drummer Brian MacLeod (who replaced Federica Gil-Sola following the band�s debut LP, In A Chamber) and guitarist Jeff Trott (who stepped in when co-founder Kurt Herr left after 1985�s Between Two Words).

�The last record feels like a little castle made up of Lego blocks of different colors,� says Hunter. �This record feels more like a sandcastle—it�s more circular and curved, as opposed to square and mathematical.�

As the latest album�s title suggests, the songs deal with a fave topic—the opposite sex. �Female songwriters have always told me that I write like a woman, so I thought it would be good for me to lay down a lot of thoughts about women,� explains the one-time teen literary prodigy. �I think that women understand what our songs are about three or four seconds faster than men—it seems like all the frustrated young women poets in America are writing to me.�

Hunter�s deeply-felt, abstractlyconstructed lyrics have developed at a pace comparable to that of the band�s instrumental approach. When poetry students Hunter and Herr started the group in 1980 as the Renegades, it was more or less a wordy punk outfit; since then, the rockist aggression has gradually been supplanted by a more textural, interactive style.

In addition to staking out a personalized musical territory, Wire Train appears to be stabilizing on a personal level. Hunter, once noted for his excitability, seems pretty serene now; he credits the change to a serious romantic involvement as well as the band�s decision to hire a pair of managers after years of handling its own business affairs. Also contributing to intergroup harmony were decisive gestures of solidarity from the two newest members—MacLeod turned down a cushy job with Journey, and Trott declined ag offer to tour with the Waterboys (who, incidentally, are featured on �Compassion,� the B-side of Ten Women�s first single, �She Comes On�).

�We still have a lot of stuff to work out,� admits Hunter. �I�d love to be the Doors and have �Break On Through� and �Light My Fire� on our first album, but that�s not the way we are. We�ve still got problems, and probably always will, but the problems that we have now pale in comparison to the ones we had before.�

While CBS (which distributes Wire Train�s label, 415) are likely to be looking at Ten Women as a make-or-break project, Hunter seems unperturbed, preferring to concentrate on what he does well rather than worrying about what he can�t control.

�By saying what you mean, by relating your experiences, and showing people the things that are really important to you, you can render the chaos that is life a bit more bearable, and actually make people feel better for a couple minutes. It�s not like I�m on some great quest. It�s just that I realize that when I do what I like to do, it makes people feel better.

�I went to a psychic last week, and she talked about healing. I think Wire Train�s music is a real healing music—whereas other musics, incite you to rebel or titillate your intellectual curiosity—and I want people to hear it. The trouble is, in the music business, you have to be struck by a record right away, and our records aren�t like that.�

Harold DeMuir

ART FOR PETE�S ACHE

When you stroll through the gallery of British post-punk icons, you�ll see Peter Murphy prominently displayed with the Siouxsie, the Ian Curtis, the Robert Smith, the John Lydon, the Howard Devoto, et al. Murphy belongs among these dark personages for his cunning Bowie impersonations as Bauhaus� frontman and for perpetuating an angst-y rock that captured the Zeitgeist of early-�80s England. And for his cheekbones.

We still see and hear his former band�s influence in these United States four years after Bauhaus called it a career. Admittedly, Bauhaus released some deathless singles, but when the historians start writing the chapter on �80s rock, they�ll likely view them as one of the era�s most overrated bands.

Speaking of overrated, Murphy�s exmates are currently finding some college radio success psyche-popping it up as Love & Rockets. Peter seems to be heading in a more, uh, �artistic� direction with his debut solo LP, Should The World Fail To Fall Apart. Though the disc has lvo/4AD�s patented hermetic aura, one can faintly discern Big Themes running through it: some intense soul-searching, religious doubts, love pains, bad complexions and pants that don�t fit. A guy named Howard Hughes played many instruments and contributed many ideas and the MOR (Moody Operatic Rock) result will probably appeal to loyal Bauhausphiles. Me, I like the man�s cover versions of Pere Ubu�s �Final Solution,� Magazine�s �The Light Pours Out Of Me� and T. Rex�s �Telegram Sam� (done with Bauhaus) better than his solemn originals, which make me feel ancient somehow.

Peter�s got an elegant accent and he�s very soft-spoken. So soft-spoken that I couldn�t hear much of what he said on my tape recorder. Damn technology! Damn my ears!

Murphy�s still referred to as �ex-Bauhaus lead singer� in ads. Does this annoy you, Peter? �No. It�s my past. I�m real proud of it. I use to always say that when we split we�d become much more popular than when we were together, which is certainly the case. I can accept it. It�s not as if I feel any less vital �cause I�m not in the band.�

Now that you�re on your own, are you trying to move away from the Bauhaus sound? �The Bauhaus sound was never consciously made. It was a result of the tension between us. We never had any concept toward sound or specifics of direction and that�s why the songs changed a lot. We had a lot of contrast on the albums. That�s how I still work. I like to make albums containing real contrasting songs.�

About here a bottle of champagne arrives with a woman�s silver shoe attached to it.

Murphy and his traveling band of session men still do some Bauhaus songs live (�Kick In The Eye,� �She�s In Parties� and �Passion Of Lovers� are some). �The audience really appreciates it,� Peter says. �I thought we could never do �Bela Lugosi�s Dead.� It�s a magical song. It never stops selling.�

Murphy performed that song in the film The Hunger, which starred a certain Mr. Bowie. Peter sang the song in a cage and moved gracefully about it in what turned out to be the film�s highlight. I intended to ask him if he wanted to pursue an acting career after his music�s gone stale on him but, incredibly, I forgot. Murphy�s always had a theatrical streak in his live shows and has done a TV ad for Maxell tapes. It seems logical for him to follow Bowie, Jagger and Sting onto the silver screen. As they say, the camera loves him, and you would too if you met this polite man who—talk about suffering for your art!—must travel across America on this tour by bus. Some day Peter Murphy will laugh about all this.

Dave Segal