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WEBB WILDER • SUGARCUBES SALEM 66 • DOWNY MILDEW

Flying Saucers Rock 'N' Roll

'When we were playing in bars without a record, we were aware of having to overcome this stigma of being from Nashville,' says Webb Wilder, talking about the early days of his band, the Beatnecks. 'Why in some cities, people would come right out and say, 'Look, you're from Mississippi, so don't even mention Nashville

'But, we thought the best way to dispel that was to call the record It Came From Nashville to prove that rock and roll can come from there—besides the obvious outer space connotations.'

Though the Nashville Chamber of Commerce has yet to get behind Wilder in a big way, the bespectacled tree trunk of a man has done much to realign Music City's alternative scene. Weaving a strange brand of swampabilly that's got an earth-shakin' backbeat and a hearty dose of resonant, reverberating guitar sounds that are reeled out nightly by Donnie Roberts, who answers appropriately enough to 'The Twangler.'

And it's all held together by Wilder's Bmovie detective stage presence and dryas-plywood delivery. Towering above a churning dance floor filled with Vanderbilt University co-eds, Nashville underground types and the occasional country music celeb, Wilder, who terms himself 'a truly electrifying performer,' showers the crowd with advice (helpfully referred to as 'Tips For Teens') and the Webb Wilder Creed, which is simple and to the point: 'Work Hard. Rock Hard. Eat Hard. Sleep Hard. Grow Hard. Wear Glasses If You Need 'Em.'

There's more to Wilder's appeal, though, than mere schtick. He's an avid musicologist and one never knows what influences might crop up. While reworkings of Hank Williams Sr.'s obscure 'You Better Keep It On Your Mind (All The Time)' are part of the show, the Beatnecks aren't afraid to play things straight up the middle either.

Case and point: 'How Long Can She Last?' Here's your basic rock rave-up that Wilder himself describes as 'a revved up 'High School Confidential' with lyrics by Mad magazine.' Yet for all the singularity of their intent, there are still people out there who don't know quite what to make of them. This sorta concerns the bespectacled star of the student film Webb Wilder: Private Eye which has aired on several cable networks. 'We're trying to cut down on the jokes and the rapping because we're afraid it might be taking away from the music—which is what this is really about.

'I think our music's good—that it has rock and roll. In fact, I'd say it's rock 'n' roll even when we're playing 'Honky Tonk Mind' by Johnny Horton, which is even more obscure than his 'Honky Tonk Man.'

'And we get people coming up to us with these real charming, confused reactions—like 'I really like country; I really like rock 'n' roll and I really like the blues. But, I really like your music, too.' '

Wilder tries not to let this get him down. He shores up by tuning back into his influences and taking heart in two inevitable realities. 'We grew up listening to everything from British rock to Eddie Cochraff and Hank Williams. But the turning point came when we realized we weren't British and that those people had to get it from somewhere. Turns out 'somewhere' is our backyard.

'After all, rock 'n' roll came from the blues and from country,' Wilder continues, cheering considerably. Then he adds, 'Elvis wasn't the father of rock 'n' roll because he really came from the country—and Chuck Berry may have been from the big city, but you know there was a lot of country in his background, too!

'So, let's us just say we're bringing things back around, full circle.'

Holly Gleason

500 Micrograms Of Love

'Two journalists out of 100 have begun the interviews by saying, 'I'm sorry but I don't speak Icelandic. Would you mind speaking English?' ' For a moment there, I understand how those journalists must've felt, three Sugarcubes sitting around a table emitting bewilderingly guttural syllables—until finally a smile, a hello, and a grin from the one called Einar. 'If you become boring we'll throw you out. Just open the window ...''

The Sugarcubes are proud of their power. They are Iceland's biggest rock band ever, and for the past year, serious Sugarcube worship has been mounting in England. Fans and rock critics are delighted by their amalgamation of everything luminous, tuneful and dizzy about pop, and fascinated by their surreal sense of humor and alien culture. I had heard that Icelanders believed in magic and spirits, but it wasn't until Tom Brokaw declared that a poll showed 50% of Icelanders believe in elves that I was convinced.

'Before, we were struggling for what we want,' explains guitarist (and published poet) Thor who is close-shorn and soft-spoken. 'What we want, we don't

know...'

Einar continues: 'That is the dilemma. We don't really want anything.'

'But still, we were doing our own things in Iceland, we were doing pretty well, on our terms. We had started to publish books, and the bass player now is forming a book store and a small gallery, many of us will take part in that,' Bjork sighs. She is tired and often struggles for words, apologizing haltingly. 'We have been in different bands and put out records in England with no special target. We knew people in Britain and they wanted to put our records out, and that is ... nice.'

'Birthday,' their first single, was released on the tiny London-based indie label One Little Indian. The quintessential Sugarcubes song, it captures Bjork's voice in a divine swoon, with a jazzy haze supporting the tale of a five year old's birthday. 'Some people heard it accidentally in Britain,' she explains, 'and they just go bananas. It came as a happy surprise.'

More happy surprises followed, as the next singles, the vivid 'Cold Sweat' and loopy 'Deus,' and their LP, Life's Too Good, plastered themselves all over the British independent charts. Major label reps rushed out to Reykjavik to bargain, but the 'cubes stuck with One Little Indian in the UK (reportedly turning down quite a lot of money), and signed with Elektra in America—in part to fund their many Icelandic projects. 'If these people don't want us,' Bjork waves, 'we won't suffer. We have load of things to do in Iceland.'

The band's chatter is tinged with similarly defensive comments, each seemingly poised to snap at any mention of the words 'Eskimo' or 'weirdness.' In England, so much of the press has focused on Bjork that voyeurism has also become a serious discussion topic.

'What's that word you use? Infantilization? We told them in our concert, Einar's been blubbering on about it, because we have this male gaze.' Thor drops his jaw and apes a drooling male. 'They stand up front with their eyes open ...'

' 'She can sing, but can she fuck?' That's the bottom line with men. That's why everybody is staring at her,' Einar says later. 'We find it funny. I think I'm more sexy than Bjork. I do!' Could Einar be annoyed by the lack of attention he receives as the other 'singer' in the band? 'I'm unique as a male singer because I can't sing. You want to hear my tone scale? Ah-ah-ah—that was a whole octave I did for you!' True to his word, Einar cannot sing; he's often been pegged as the human, earthly counterpart to Bjork's ethereal muse figure, and I don't think he likes it. But while Bjork's voice is gliding and whirling over enormous cliffs and clouds, Einar is busy interjecting tiltheaded commentary (his passport lists his occupation as 'mass communicator').

Sugarcubes' lyrics are vignettes, often disturbing in their marriage of childish innocence and adult obsessiveness. Bjork's mother-want surfaces on 'Mama' and again on the power pop 'Motor Crash,' of which she says: 'I just got obsessed with the idea that there was this horrible motor crash and this girl was stealing a body and healing it. And she did it, but other people thought she was weird and wrong because she was intruding in other peoples' lives. And she was just looking for a situation where she was allowed to be friends to an older woman ... But it is still my opinion that the girl nursed the woman better than she would ever have in proper hospital.'

Bjork and Thor have a baby themselves, which adds a further layer of complexity. 'Deus' sacreligious in the best possible way, with the 'Deus does not exist' chorus set apart and above by Einar's fantastic description of his meeting with God: 'I thought I had seen everything. He wasn't white and fluffy. He just had sideburns.' Can we hope to hear 'Deus' on the radio?

'People always say our lyrics are strange. But we think they're just small stories. I discovered Iceland is full of storytelling—We didn't grow up by electronic gadgets. We had a living human being who had told us stories, lied to us...'

The Sugarcubes are intent on retaining this lyrical balance between the real and the imaginary; they have a firm belief in the mystical undercurrents nestled beneath mundanity. After all, when we're young we all believe in elves and fairy tales ... 'And after puberty they're supposed to be nonsense,' Thor picks up. 'You're taught that afterwards. But that's too late for us!'

'People here—it's like there's this strong border between believing in these things and not believing in them. You can't be somewhere in between. And I mean,.if you come home after a difficult day and maybe you wanted to hit someone, and you see a little black demon in the corner of your room, it doesn't have to be that you're crazy. It doesn't have to be so supernatural, it just may be symbolic.' Bjork wants to bring her understanding of the magical to the level of the everyday. 'If you come into a room and everyone's been arguing, and this one person comes in and she's really happy. Then in a while everybody starts to talk about something jolly even though she didn't say a word. If that's not magic I don't know what it is.'

The Sugarcubes are in a position to inject new energy into pop. The music isn't new, but the essence is. As Bjork says, 'The feelings are now. That's enough.'

Joy Press

TAKE A QIANT STEP

Downy M iIdew—guitarist/vocal ists Charlie Baldonado and Jenny Homer, bassist Nancy McCoy and drummer John Hofer—are gathered around a small television in McCoy's cozy, rented home near Hollywood, watching what in showbiz parlance could be construed as their 'big break'—or at the very least, a medium sized one.

It's the video for 'Offering,' a wistful track from their current Mincing Steps LP which had been broadcast on MTV's 120 Minutes the previous evening. Shot in the New Mexico desert by R.E.M. vocalist/budding filmmaker Michael Stipe, the clip is a sensuous montage of impressionistic images, cramming a variety of human traits ranging from anger to forgiveness into a two-and-a-haif minute film. Never mind that the mighty MTV managed to mispell the band's name 'Downey Mildew'; there's still a good chance that more people discovered them thorugh this exposure than have bought their three vinyl releases, and right now that's just what they need.

'How many people do you think saw our video last night?' Baldonado asks rhetorically.

'I don't know,' responds Homer, anticipating a punchline. 'How many?'

It's been almost three years since Baldonado, Homer, McCoy and drummer Mike Morasse decided to form Downy Mildew, which also happens to be the name of a pesky vegetable fungus. They didn't really start taking themselves seriously until the 1986 release of a selftitled debut EP, which also marked the first record from fledgling indie label Texas Hotel. 'The first EP was really simple,' Baldonado says. 'Not that everything's really complex now. It's just a little more ... a little richer.'

Photo by

By the time the L.A.-based quartet released Broomtree, their first full-length album, in 1987, they were garnering plenty of critical kudos, including a nod from the Los Angeles Times, which touted them as one of the 10 best unsigned groups in L.A. The maturing songwriting talents of Baldonado and Homer, who write virtually all of the band's material, and the replacement of Morasse with Hofer (whom they had stayed with in Nebraska during the tour for Broomtree) helped solidify the band.

'The relationship we have right now is a real family sort of thing—well, you know, not family—but real close,' Baldonado says. 'Too close, as a matter of fact.'

' 'We sit by the fireplace, ' ' jokes McCoy. 'We have our meetings by the fire, cooking hot dogs.'

On Mincing Steps, Downy Mildew's folk-rock roots are neatly woven into Baldonado's upbeat, jangly pop and Homer's melancholic, introspective contributions. In short, it's perfect college radio fodder, but not necessarily the type of stuff that's gonna have the majors kicking down the band's door. Homer insists, however, that at this point in the band's career that!s not the major objective.

'I would just like to be able to make records when we want to and have total creative control,' she says, 'but sell enough records to be able to make the next one.'

Still, considering recent successes by former college-types like R.E.M., 10,000 Maniacs and even Camper Van Beethoven, the band's melodic sound might someday find a niche on Top 40 radio, and all of the members agree that it would be nice not to have to worry about holding down other jobs just to get by.

'In terms of paying rent, that would be great,' McCoy says.

'Well,' Baldonado suggests, 'ideally you wouldn't have to pay rent anymore because you could buy your own house!'

'Yeah, that would be even greater!'

'I think we're all big fans of the middle class,' Hofer says with a sigh. 'I dream of being in the middle class.'

Regarding Downy Mildew's future fortunes, Homer has the ultimate litmus test. 'I kinda look at my little sister,' she laughs, 'and if she likes what we do, I know that it would be accepted by the masses.'

Steve Peters

By The Banks Of The River Charles

A couple dozen years after she left this town with the Runaways, Joan Jett's back in L.A. for a promotional tour. Her limo, parked on Sunset Blvd., sparks some compulsive lying among Judy Grunwald and Beth Kaplan, singers/songwriters/ frontpeople of Boston's Salem 66.

'Yeah, Joan approached us to write some songs for her,' nods Kaplan.

'She wanted a real 'I been done wrong and my heart is broke, but I don't care' song, but we didn't come up with one in time,' laughs Grunwald.

Okay, so maybe they can't quite sink to a level where Joanie or friggin' Holly Knight'd cover 'em, but in Beth 'n' Judy, Salem 66 has the luxury of two distinctive, first-rate songwriters. Judy's songs tend toward the drone/plaint end o' the spectrum, with loping, just-dissonantenough guitar lines that cut deep into the melodies. Beth K., on the other hand, fills the McCartney-popster role—not that her contributions are lightweight by any means. Her lighter, more chiming voice does provide a nice counterpart, and gives the Salems some of the best harmonies you're likely to hear emanate from a rock band.

'We get asked about that a lot, actually,' shrugs Grunwald. 'Our voices just really work together, I guess. Sometimes / can't hear the qualities people talk about. Some people think we sing terribly.

I guess it all evens out.'

In the half-decade Salem 66 has been together, they've gone from being a somewhat tentative three-piece (Beth, Judy and recently departed drummer Susan Merriam) that garnered praise for their sparse Roches-gone-electric (not altogether accurate) sound to a fully developed, now 'n' then raucous rock 'n' roll band. Well, it's not like that's a new development—Grunwald and Kaplan have gotten exponentially better, with each tour, at performing their songs. No flashpots or hydraulic stage entrances just yet (though Homestead, their label, isn't above encouraging such shameless sell-out antics), but there's a lot more presence, dear.

They've also honed, without altering too much, their swirling midtempo melodies that weave from the garage to the love-in (without settling in either long enough for moss to grow on 'em) to razor sharpness. The songs on their newest LP, Natural Disasters, National Treasures, are harder-edged than any of the Salems' trio of previous releases, and rely less on the 'less is more' philosophy than the band used to. 'Course, that might have a lot to do with the fact that they now have, in Tim Condon, a second guitarist who actually fits their needs . . .

'Well, Robert (Wilson) was just really passive about his playing,' Judy says of their first attempt to quartet-ize the band. 'And Steve Smith . . . well, we toured and weren't sure about the arrangement, but by the time we were in L.A., it was like 'Here's some money for a plane ticket

The pre-LP split of Susan Merriam was a bit more pleasant. No musical/personal differences—she just got tired of the indie band rigamarole—recording, quitting countless day jobs . .. 'We still go out and have coffee and stuff when we're in Boston,' says Beth.

These days, there's not too much time spent in Boston, what with success beckoning more insistently (Natural Disasters rode high in college radio charts for a good long time following its release) and demanding more of dat ol' debbil tour support. All of which doesn't necessarily mean they're making out like bandits.

'In a sense, we're not as well off as when we were just driving to local gigs on the odd weekend,' notes Grunwald. 'We keep having to buy vans, fix 'em, pay roadies . . . Maybe we should just settle down like prim Boston ladies.'

David Sprague