PrettyFakes

See the first Shelfwar for the ‘rules.’

Black Babies, Earwhig (1989, cassette).

Not on this record, sadly—but still awesome.

As the new century shuddered to life, a briefly reformed Blake Babies played a show in Birmingham, Alabama. Guitarist and singer John Strohm had made Birmingham his home while striding through Cumberland (and crafting an excellent solo record, Vestavia), and former band mates Juliana Hatfield and Frida (Love) Boner joined him for a series of dates. Evan Dando—playing acoustic, and alone, complete with the Victoria Williams’ lovely “Frying Pan”—opened up after Ben Lee.

So letting this old tape unspool through my boom box is admittedly colored through thoughts of that fantastic show, and it’s one of those rare times when college nostalgia slams into a box of old photos and everybody manages to come out okay, the air bags not even triggered. To say there were a lot of Second Listens is an understatement; I’ve never been a particularly huge fan of Juliana’s voice until lately (her haunting “So Alone” has a rasp not present in her earlier work), but the Blake Babies’ quasi-français version of “Temptation Eyes” is as good as 75% cacao, and began to convince me that her work twenty years ago on Earwhig—similarly jittery and confident—was worthy of deeper contemplation.

The most striking thing is how “nineties” this all sounds, while still laying a very Rickenbacker eighties groundwork for huge Juliana solo hits and Lemonheads prom dances (Mr. Dando plays on a good part of the album, although he is not listed as a member of the band), as well as Frida’s magnificent work with one of the best unknown pop bands of all time, the Mysteries of Life.

Where else are you going to hear a band ripping through a Stooges cover and then demanding that their lover “take [their] head off my shoulder,” all set to a bouncing, jangling beat? Plus all that and the excellent “Rain,” which closes out Side One with riffs Matt Sweet and Tommy Keene only wished they’d clipped from Alex Chilton.

Whoa, wait—are we suddenly trying to slide the Blake Babies into the American power pop continuum? You’re damn right. Recommended for fans of early R.E.M. who wish Michael Stipe had better pronunciation: Shelf.

Tommy Keene, Run Now (1986, 12” EP).

Now that I’ve invoked the hidden royalty of American jangle, I can’t forget about this glittering slab of perfect eighties power pop. If there was any justice in the world of rock and roll, Tommy Keene would be playing stadiums as Big Star got inducted into Cleveland. Ain’t neither gonna happen, but we can wish, as Geffen clearly did in ’86, throwing Bob Clearmountain and T-Bone Burnett at Keene’s work, resulting in crystal-clear pop. The highlight of this EP is the perfect title track, which would warrant a Shelf placement even if the rest were dreck.

Thankfully, it’s not; “Away From It All” is a yearning, fast ballad that would have gone Top Ten in ’86 if it had been played by Bon Jovi or Cinderella, and I mean that in the best way possible. It’s the song playing in a montage in an unreleased John Cusack movie found only on Morpheus’ DVD shelf, while our hero is riding his motorcycle away from town, thinking of all the good times he and Sharon had, complete with unnecessary fade-out at the end. There’s a somewhat odd live cover of Lou Reed’s “Kill Your Sons” tucked onto the end of Side Two—from his much-loathed Sally Can’t Dance—but it really just goes to show how Brill the work of Sister Lou’s really could be in the right hands. Calling him “one of America’s great heroes,” Tommy makes the song sound as friendly as a paper towel ad.

I bought this record for $1.98, probably at Vinyl Solution or Whirlygig in Tuscaloosa. Worth the two bucks for the title track alone, and worth the 1/8 inch it takes up on my Shelf.

East River Pipe, “Bring on the Loser” (1995, 7”).

Indicative, if not the song I was looking for.

Even in a day of Shelfs, this one is a total ringer. The delicate, shimmering, slow pop of F.M. Cornog has entranced me since I first heard it when Mel came out on Merge in 1996. This song is from 1995’s Poor Fricky, and listen—just sit down with it for a while. That’s all I’m asking. I bought it for $3.99 at Raleigh, North Carolina’s Schoolkids Records on a cold winter night, just to have something that I knew to hold in my hands, warm and familiar like a mug of hot chocolate.

The best part of ShelfWar (and getting my record player working again) is getting out things I hadn’t heard in a while, or ever. I’d never heard the flips to the great A-side, and they are dependably lovely and quiet (while “Fan the Flame” is just a small instrumental snippet, “Sleeping with Tallboy” is as good as any album track).

I once corresponded with Mr. Cornog when Mel came out to tell him how much I adored it, and he told me of his love of Bruce Springsteen, and how he had spent many lost hours wandering around the crumbling Asbury Park. If you listen, you can just hear it. Shelf.

Jacuzzi Boys, “A Strange Hand,” b/w King Khan, “Desert Mile” (2008, split 7”).

As regards the Jacuzzi Boys: imagine if the Stones didn’t crawl out of Great Britain in the early sixties, but were teenagers banging their way through Florida at the beginning of a new millennium. Then imagine they were more awesome, and had weirder clothes, and had just now heard a blues record after some kid at Sam’s Lounge slipped it in their backpack after a show during a hot July night. Then mash all that into a pre-made pie crust, bake at 425 for thirty minutes, and jam it in your mouth.

Whoa. Not the same song, but devastating, and I need to track it down, like yesterday.
And my man King Khan: a slow-building dirge of a song that conjures images of post-apocalyptic garage cowboys riding through 1966 America on hover-cycles.

Verdict: Must stop typing, as I am literally trying to send out e-mails trying to get these cats to play down in Jackson. Shelf.

Elastica (1995, compact disc).

When I picked this album up used a few months back for the admittedly high price of $7.99, I know it was for just two reasons: first, “Connection” is pretty awesome, with its mesmerizing slide and the vague memories I have of Justine Frischmann’s classic profile. Second, my college roommate was a devoted Elastica fan, and your friend’s passion for music is always contagious.

So this past couple of listens I’ve given this disc have been disappointing, if only because it seems that the band had promise, and because no good pack rat or garage sale connoisseur likes giving up a find (especially one that’s eight dollars dear). There’s no escaping the jittery power of some of the sixteen songs here, but unlike some other records I have, there’s no particular memory or loyalty I have to preserve its presence.

Even when something gets Exiled, I still keep it—it’s just not out front by the stereo; there’s always some reason to that scheme, no matter how subjective or tortured. I still need the object itself. Yet as Alex V. Cook noted the other day that he had gone “post-object” with his music collection, and to some extent I must do this with mine. If I need to reaccess a good memory about Elastica, look, it’s just an inch and half up there, loaded on a piece of plastic somewhere on this vast blue marble, looped endlessly as long as I need it, whenever it might be needed, as long as I remember the right keywords. Who needs eight dollars and a piece of plastic when you’ve got YouTube? Salvation Army.

Next up: The Style Council, PJ Harvey, and . . . John Denver?!

Tags: Blake Babies, East River Pipe, Elastica, Jacuzzi Boys, King Khan, Tommy Keene

This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 13th, 2009 at 9:03 pm and is filed under Gorjus, The Rock and The Roll. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.