Them Apples

originally published September 12, 2001

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Buddyhead

The most filling rock record (rock records are what goes in the car stereo when rock is driving and roll is riding shotgun, asleep) of 1999 came from a troupe of meta-pretentious Swedes calling themselves Refused. The Shape Of Punk To Come laced watertight, push-pull dynamics with an arcane echo of clockless, Larks' Tongues In Aspic art-rock and solidified the mix with intensity, heart and follow-through. Perhaps realizing the vacant exoskeleton called "punk" will never take a shape it won't outgrow, Refused has hired a new singer, regrouped as Text and shot the art-rock moon. Text is a thrillingly ominous behemoth stomping across a scene that needs to be spooked and shaken if it harbors any residual inclination to evolve.

Just as it's more Robert Fripp than Ian MacKaye, Text is more a labyrinth than a song-cycle. "Sound Is Compressed; Words Rebel And Hiss" hops from stout high-camp (yep, that's a gospel choir) to Zornish grid-rock before tapering off with an atonal whisper rasping out the original refrain; "We Have Explosives! Schmexplosives?" jerks so sporadically from meter-pinning white noise barrage to relative silence. It's noteworthy that you don't hear the transmission falling out. There's even a microwaved Donovan/Mangum style acoustic sidetrack ("Those Kids Are Gone") with only an opaque layer of fuzz to remind us whose record is playing.

And... Anyone seeking socially awake music beyond simpering sublimation of the personal as political (but rather with intelligence, historical context and grace) needs to hear "3éme Tableau: Du Chemin," part three of the spoken trilogy that structures the record. It's a blistering, straightforward headfreeze: a catalogue of physical and psychological torture programs through the ages set to a dub-flavored backdrop that provides no more comfort than the sound of four disembodied hearts beating inside a trash compactor. After an hour of (at least) the year's most all-fronts overwhelming slab o' wax, it scalds the psychological skin. When, in its last 60 seconds, the tune goes interrogative, it's drenching. Five morningstars. (P.O. Box 1268, Hollywood, CA 90078)SHANNON WRIGHT

Dyed In The Wool
Quarterstick

Blending austere strings and organic, angular guitar, Dyed In The Wool often sounds like it might morph into a rather skeletal Dirty Three record, particularly during the title tune's noisy but sanitary crescendo. The rattling, incongruent "Method Of Sleeping" (which sounds like someone in the studio was trying to watch The Snake Pit during its creation) could be the subliminally cathartic high point of Wright's career thus far. The piano rolls on "Hinterland" prove once again that the 88's can never be overemployed in expressionist pop. Yes, the whole thing sounds great.

If you can negotiate the vocals, that is. The Chan Marshall comparisons are, as usual, shortsighted: Wright's pipes are saltier, but she sounds less seasick: more Tori Amos minus all solipsistic frills. Still, she overemotes unapologetically and often oppressively; when she shreds her spooky, smoky scenery, the show sometimes collapses. And let's just say the poetic thrust of lines such as "This majesty is no longer/ A replica with no taste/ May I admire/ Your tinted cheek" or "You idle my forfeit/ My dire you mend" would be, uh, hindered by analysis.

Recommended only for total, judgment-suspended immersion, preferably in times of manageable crisis. (P.O. Box 25342, Chicago, IL 60625)DIE MOULINETTES

Alpha Bravo Charlie
S.H.A.D.O.

I'm guessing this place is embroiled in some controversy regarding its liquor license; for whatever reason, it's merely a juice bar at the moment. The bartender sports matching black skirt, tank, eyeglass rims and boots. She's got the napkins arranged in spirals and the candles spaced just so. She moves them just even more so while you're awaiting your OJ and coffee. This place obviously reflects her lush, vivid, classy inner world.

Her choice of mood music: Alpha Bravo Charlie, a cherry-red and turquoise treat from the German/Italian co-production (with a French handle) Die Moulinettes. For no barkeep in this city is as thoughtfully swank as she, and no record since Brian Wilson was hitting his decline and Serge Gainsbourg and Free Design were taken at face value is as thoughtfully swank as Alpha Bravo Charlie. It's smooth, refreshing pure-pop for laid-back hedonists, with enough electronic pulp to thicken it up and enough snap to keep it 100% human.

Highlights include, but aren't limited to: Erobique's bonus mega-remix of "Der Letzte Spieltag" and the faithful-as-a-crush cover of Ennio Morricone's "Deep Down" (which you may remember from the film Diabolique). When the decorations are too classy to endanger, move the party upstairs. (Via Potente 9, 50019, Sesto F.No, Firenze, Italy)DANIEL JOHNSTON

Rejected Unknown
Gammon

Nick Cave, who should know better than anyone currently drawing breath, writes (in "The Secret Life Of The Love Song"), "A love song is never simply happy, it must first embrace the potential for pain. Those songs that speak of love without having within their lines an ache or sigh are not love songs at all but rather they are hate songs disguised as love songs and they are not to be trusted."

Daniel Johnston's would-be love songs, including most of the tunes on Rejected Unknown, approach from the opposite direction. When he's on a roll, Johnston's diminutive onionskin reed of a voice vibrates with the humiliated rage of the wounded perpetual neophyte; his heartache is unquestionably, if surreally, malicious at its core. Johnston bleeds easily and writes hate songs about it. If crush-style love songs are warm, in their ceremonial naiveté, Daniel's are often so warm as to cause perspiration. No one is as easy to hate as he or she who makes you feel guilty, and Johnston spreads that sharpest brand of hate over himself, his memories, the 2D cartoon heroines of his affection and anyone who lends him an ear. In their uncut frankness and sensitivity, these tunes can be laughably irritating or profoundly comforting. Unlike hate songs disguised as love songs and the empty shells of human beings that enjoy them, Johnston's infantile bad vibes hide nothing.

While we're on the subject of Johnston, let it be known that Rejected Unknown is the most listenable thing in his catalogue; neither amusical indulgence (Yip/Jump Music) nor over-realized whimsy (Fun), it's relatively tight organic pop. His beyond-forced rhyme schemes and complete mathematical insensitivity are still an adore-it-or-ignore-it phenom; right now, they serve "Party" and "Devinar" terrifically and suck the hemoglobin from "Love Forever," but bad Johnston is still around when you're ready for it.

If the guy doesn't embarrass you just a hair, you're one up. But now that he's hit his songwriting stride, he's a less pitiful figure, and his sadness is more real than ever. And that's good.