Venues in NYC come and go. But only occasionally do they live on far after their close, in the hearts of their patrons years later. In the mid 90’s, when the meat-packing district of NYC was a barren outpost lightly peppered with bodegas and the occasional dive bar there existed a club unlike any other. Descending a steep metal staircase tucked closely behind an unmarked metal door was The Cooler, an airtight meat locker turned music venue. The space was gritty – functional meat hooks dangled from the ceiling, Brion Gysin projections flickered on the sticky walls flanked by smutty photos from Warhol affiliate Gerard Malanga. The music was a mix of free jazz legends like Cecil Taylor, the alluring indie-rock of early Blonde Redhead and NYC original modernists like Suicide. On the right night you’d even find Sonic Youth taking the stage unannounced to test out new material after a set by Japanese noise duo The Ruins. There existed little separation between audience and artists – an intimacy that compounded the intensity of the performances. continue reading "The Cooler NYC- A Look Back"
illustration by Chris O’Neal
Bands in underground music seem to come and go quicker than ever, with fickle audiences shifting interests as attention spans shrink and browsers constantly refresh. What’s touted as extreme and exciting one month is often forgotten in the greater timespan as years and decades roll on. From their earliest days Hair Police has always been an anomaly, a strange mishmash of personalities and musical styles. Drummer Trevor Tremaine would be playing manic free energy drumming with a sparkle boa around his shoulders and white plastic sunglasses blocking his gaze while front-man Mike Connelly, shrieked in bouts of boundless hysterics and ripped at his shredded, detuned guitar. Dressed in black, a menacing coil that explodes on impact, his presence causing audience members to shake their fists in celebration. Robert Beatty, off to the side would be twisting bizarre frequencies like something out of the BBC radio phonic workshop, the whole while his cord wrapped around his throat like a noose. Watching them play became something to behold.
by MV Carbon
originally published, issue #8, 2008
illustration by Chris O’Neal
David Lynch has, so far, left us with an amazing and mind altering chunk of cinematic works. He doesn’t give out a lot of information when asked about the meaning or symbolism in his films. Although they are loaded with significance, he won’t let verbal descriptions smother the cinematic essence that lingers on and creeps back long after his films have been absorbed. He leaves it up to us to interpret them or to just experience them.
His newest film, Inland Empire, uses high def video to create a painterly murk that lurks. The colors bleed and so do the characters. The film’s soundtrack, which was created by Mr. Lynch, shakes the theater and is grafted to the image in a manner that conjures chills. He treats us with 3 hours of violence, decaying beauty, dual existence, carnival, and the darkest back staircases, back stages, and mysterious dwelling spaces you could ever wish for. The film sews itself through itself until something’s got to give… and it does.
Mr. Lynch has been honored with the Golden Lion for lifetime achievement award, at the Venice film festival, where Inland Empire was screened.
He’s recently finished a book titled Catching the Big Fish: Meditation, Consciousness, and Creativity, which is available at the end of December.
Picture a marketplace in 13th century Persia. A couple of young travelers meet an old beggar who offers to tell them an amazing tale in exchange for a place to rest. They accept and take him to their rooms. He ends up recounting his youth: how he was recruited by the Assassins, how he ended up in their garden of earthly delights in a total drugged haze, how he met Hassan Sabbah and how they took down powerful figures before the Assassins were brought down. The beggar barely escaped with his life and went into hiding. After his story is done and the two travelers pick their jaws up off the floor they all retire. The next morning they’re all found dead with writing on the wall in blood: “No One Speaks”. This is the first scene to the album Hassan by Professor Genius.
by Swingset Magazine on 12/3/2012 in Features, Reviews | Tags: Hassan, Italians Do It Better, Jorge Velez, L.I.E.S., Long Island Electrical Systems, Marcos Cabral, Professor Genius, Steve Moore, Steve Summers
illustration by Chris O’Neal
Dan Melchior is an anomaly in the modern music world, even for the underground. As one of the world’s last truly great songwriters, Melchior’s voice grows stronger than ever over a string of recent releases by his “band” Das Menace. His music can’t be neatly partitioned into a narrow genre although one can detect elements of blues, vintage R&B, British psych pop and more recently even brazen experimentalism. His latest solo album, The Backward Path is a journey into the depths of existential dread, mortality and humanity as the record documents aspects of his wife Letha’s ongoing battle with cancer and their lives in the struggle. As their bills pile to the ceiling, unable to work, they have had to rely on the music community for help. As an artist that truly speaks about the world around him in the most honest of ways, The Backward Path is an experience that no other record this year can offer. The best albums are not an escape but a confrontation.
by STEVE LOWENTHAL on 10/23/2012 in Features, Interviews | Tags: Assemblage Blues, C. Spencer Yeh, Christmas for the Crows, Dan Melchior, Das Menace, Ela Orleans, Excerpts, Graham Lambkin, Haley Fohr, Kye, Limited Appeal records, Pheromoans, Siltbreeze, The Backward Path, The Heron, The Lloyd Pack, Tom Lax, Tony Allman
by Justin F. Farrar
originally published, issue #7, 2005
…Spending nights (and early mornings) guzzling brews, smoking grass, beating off, snorting coke, talking music, and rattling the Greek neighbors’ faux-Swarovski chandeliers with high-decibel emissions of what we wasted fuckers lovingly referred to as “retard rock”: Puff Tube, Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments, Sad Sack, Happy Flowers, Lil Bunnies, Paraquat Earth Band, Sockeye, and San Francisco’s Icky Boyfriends.
Icky Boyfriends’ raw, brutal, barbed, bitter, and piercing lo-fi hard rock never really fit the retard rock label: it always felt more intelligent, poetic, desperate, and more severely human than the wonderfully twisted noise produced by the other freaks listed above. Listening to the Ickies’ I’m Not Fascinating LP was (and is), in a strange sense, as vital and psychically wrenching as listening to, say, Neil’s Time Fades Away or Television Personalities’ Painted Word, or even side four of the Jan and Dean Anthology Album.
As I scan these stark, black-and-white, forensic-like photographs of the Ickies from the early- to mid-90s, each damaged rocker dude looks like he might have died by 2005. (Fortunately, none of them did; they just seem a wee bit scarred.) The guy with the long, stringy metal-hair is Shea Bond; he played guitar or bass, but never guitar and bass. (That’s an important fact to remember for all you Beat Happening fans.) The stoned, sleepy-eyed fella is the drummer, Anthony Bedard. He once bled all over his kit and occasionally gnawed on a drumstick when smacking his hi-hat. The savage genius maintaining the massive, skyscraping ‘fro is vocalist Jonathan Swift. He was/is this genuinely brilliant, irate (and somewhat delicate) filthy-mattress outsider poet, even if that phrase now reeks of some urban slamfest nightmare. As the nosy rock journalist dredging up ancient history while constructing this, I felt like Swift possessed the capability to size me up and cut me down at any moment, because that’s what Jon Icky did to the entire fucking world. He would open his trap and sing, scream, wail, and growl scathing, insightful lyrics while his fellow Ickies laid down one cracked punk-jammer after another. Then again, that’s too mythical for these guys. As the Ickies once said, “Fuck that rock star crap.”
Intro by Max Maslansky
originally published, issue #6, 2005
When swingset decided to approach Raymond Pettibon for an interview, it was agreed that it’s better to hear old friends yuk it up than two strangers grope in the dark for commonality. Enter Mike Watt. He’s known Pettibon since the early ‘80s, the salad days of L.A.’s punk scene. While Watt was spreading the overpowering gospel with the Minutemen, Pettibon was drawing cover art and posters for his brother Greg Ginn’s band, Black Flag. Watt and Pettibon have since gone on to new creative frontiers, but they still live where the scene started: the beach. The two got together for a conversation about art, politics, history, and everything under the California sun. Raymond Pettibon lives and works in Hermosa Beach, California. He recently had a solo show at the David Zwirner Gallery in New York and is slated for a retrospective at the Whitney Museum in late 2005. Mike Watt lives and works in San Pedro, California. His new solo album is fashioned as a “rock opera” entitled The Secondman’s Middle Stand, and is out now. Our recordings were a little spotty, but please bear with us as we join this conversation already in progress… continue reading "Mike Watt vs. Raymond Pettibon"
by Maria Raha | Photos By Tod Seelie
originally published, issue #7, 2005
Explosions of blistering stop-and-start static are knotted with agonizing, far-off, distorted vocals. Blankets of brutal honesty distill the human experience down to its barest, most intense—though not always angry—moments. Regardless of layers of chaos, the aesthetics of Prurient and Dominick Fernow’s label, Hospital Productions, are tightly wound, but always fluid. There’s no room for leaks, no loose ends, no squeaky springs; however, Prurient is hardly an assembly line of albums rehashing one consistent idea.
The birth of DIY and how The Desperate Bicycles went and did it.
by Dan Selzer
originally published, issue #5, 2005
In early 1978, 42 British fans ventured into their local shops where major label punk singles from the Clash and the Pistols sat side by side with the first wave of independent records from the Buzzcocks, the Fall, and others. There they found a record with a picture of a broken bicycle on the front and their own names written on the back following this descriptive text:
The Desperate Bicycles were formed in March 1977 specifically for the purpose of recording and releasing a single on their own label. They booked a studio in Dalston for three hours and with a lot of courage and a little rehearsal they recorded “Smokescreen” and “Handlebars”. It subsequently leapt at the throat. Three months later The Desperate Bicycles were back in the studio to record their second single and this is the result. ‘No more time for spectating’ they sing and who knows? They may be right. They’d really like to know why you haven’t made your single yet. “It was easy, it was cheap, go and do it” (the complete cost of “Smokescreen” was 153 pounds). The medium may very well have been tedium but it’s changing fast. So if you can understand, go and join a band. Now it’s your turn….
If you have yet to experience the mutant fuck-all sound blast that is Wolf Eyes, we at Swingset strongly advise you to seek them out when they come to your town and get yr mind blasted to near infinity. For you shut-in types, their Sub Pop debut Burned Mind is a vicious piece of drone-noise violence that features some of the band’s finest tunes to date. If that’s not enough, you can make yrself crazy trying to track down their hundreds of releases on cassette, CDR, and vinyl. Thankfully for us, Wolf dude John Olson (also of the American Tapes label and Dead Machines-fame) was kind enough to take notes on their recent stretch of road w/Sonic Youth, just for you, our loyal reader. Wolf Screamer Aaron Dilloway took the pics. Killer.