The Post-Rockist

Please, please, please lift a hand, I am only a person, with Eskimo chain, I tattooed my brain all the way.  Won’t you miss me, wouldn’t you miss me at all? 

Syd Barrett died last week, but he has been gone a much longer time.  Long before he had the opportunity to check out of the musical world, Barrett had become the object of unimaginable myth-making; an LSD mystique that was further shrouded by his own retreating mental faculties.

Hardly known amongst most casual fans of the band he started, Pink Floyd, Barrett is a shining icon to the legionnaires of psychedelic folk rock; a vital reference point for numerous musicians who have come in his wake, from Robyn Hitchcock down to Jeff Mangum.  Even perennial tastemakers David Bowie and Brian Eno regularly tout the impact Syd made on their music, with some sources claiming that the story of Ziggy Stardust is based, in part, on the short-lived career of Syd Barrett.  But for all the praise and accolades and apocrypha poured upon the myth of madcap Syd, the harder it is to grasp the cracked man, pardon the phrase, behind the music.  His story is one of celebrity excess, paranoiac betrayal, and idyllic escape.  Let’s see if we can’t add a little more to the myth today, shall we?

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If I’ve said it before I’ll say it again: modern music could use a whole lot more mariachi horns.  Who would have thought an indie rock garage band from New York City would completely relearn the art of songwriting and spend a year studying such oddball albums as Bob Dylan and The Band’s Basement Tapes and The Kinks’ Muswell Hillbillies for inspiration.  By immersing themselves in music that was innovative when it came out by sounding so ancient and fresh at the same time, The Walkmen have managed to replicate the same feeling on their new album, A Hundred Miles Off.

The album opens with the track “Louisiana,” which starts off sounding like a Basement Tapes outtake, with its Caribbean beat and boozy drawl, but as it gets going it manages to reinvent itself as something entirely new.  Singer Hamilton Leithauser casually offers some overly optimistic, intoxicated lyrics that recall the excitement of starting a new relationship.  Just before the chorus kicks in he recognizes his blind idealism and belts the line “I’ve got my hands full.”  Just as he finishes, an instrumental chorus begins with mariachi trumpets and barroom piano taking over sounding like an alcohol-soaked fiesta.  The song is surprisingly moving in its progression.  Part of the time it feels like a dreamy love song, while drifting into a loneliness and doubt just before giving up to go get drunk at a party.  It is a bold opening statement, in its adventurous scope and embrace of music of the past, especially within the realm of indie rock.

Of course none of this would ever work if The Walkmen were simply performing an exercise in roots music.  They manage to maintain their garage rock drumming and shrill, hazy guitars, while the keyboards of their past have been replaced with horror movie organs and honky tonk piano.  The overall effect, like all good music, has elements of the past, present, and future combined.

Many of the songs are more like mood pieces with an emphasis on texture rather than songs with a regular verse-chorus-verse format.  This makes the album feel more like a journey than a collection of songs.  The final song, “Another One Goes By,” sums up the entire album by its declaration of wanting to pay attention, but still missing out along the way.  It is a hopeful, hopeless, and brutally real sentiment in a world full of beauty and sadness.  The narrator of the song seems to accept his fate, while letting the foggy ’60s soul instrumentation of the song surround him in his isolated contentment. Leithauser typically sings from the back of his throat in his highest octave, which creates a Dylanesque drunken, gut-wrenching squeal.  He could easily sing in a more conventional lower range, as he does on the tropical lounge song “Brandy Alexander,” but usually he recognizes the depth of emotion he can reach by howling at the top of his lungs.  The overall effect is like the end of a long night of drinking when everything becomes painfully sad, but totally worth it.

It is clear from A Hundred Miles Off that The Walkmen have been trying to listen and learn what they can from those who came before, while still existing in today’s world.  The album has a rebellious feel to it, much like the late sixties/early seventies periods of Bob Dylan, The Band, and The Kinks.  It’s a reaction against the conventions of modern music, but it’s not in complete defiance of it.  The genre of indie rock was originally a broad term meant to imply that it included music that was made on the artist’s terms, instead of those of the music business machine.  However, indie rock, like all invented genres, has often managed to become a cliché with a particular sound.  Just as Johnny Cash challenged country music with his use of mariachi horns on “Ring Of Fire,” The Walkmen have taken a risk of being totally misunderstood by their audience.  It is an admirable move in the world of indie rock where new ideas can potentially be labeled as gimmicky.  With A Hundred Miles Off, The Walkmen seem to have created something out of left field, while challenging conventions and embracing the unknown, while maintaining their indie rock roots.  By doing so they have breathed fresh life into the genre, just when it needs to be reminded of its roots. 

VIDEO: The Walkmen - “Louisiana”

The Walkmen Homepage

Ray Davies knew exactly where he was playing, knew his audience. Taking the stage at the Comerica Tastefest in a location that is not exactly in the murmuring heart of Detroit but more right atrium, the legendary performer and songwriter made very clear what he and many native Detroiters have in common—that we wear our blue collars like a lackluster yet glistening medal.

Speaking for those who can say (to borrow from rock’s other blue-collar saint) that “the country I come from is called the Midwest,” I can say that Davies’ upbringing and our upbringing is not so different. Ray grew up in the north London suburbs, the son of a life-long industrial worker whose hard work allowed Ray to choose a path foreign to his kin. Davies’ music has never strayed from this basic touchstone, those early experiences. Many of his characters may have been dedicated followers of fashion, but such were always presented in the satirical tone that betrayed in the songwriter the kind of superiority in which only a blue collar son can bathe.

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The Post-Rockist visited sunny Detroit Michigan this weekend for the Comerica Tastefest, an annual event that brings bands, eats, and stale warm beer to an ever-decreasing number of citizens of Detroit and an ever-increasing number of citizens of its surrounding areas. While the Post-Rockist is not stationed in the Motor City, there lie our roots. Now you might call it amateurish that the Post-Rockist didn’t quite do the research for this show and that it shows. However, the spirit is there, no denying, even though the journalistic savvy is in development. Many a fine band played the Tastefest this year: Kings of Leon, New Pornographers, Eric Burden and the Animals, Cat Power, the list goes on.

Unfortunately, The Post-Rockist was only able to attend two shows and, of course, did not get a good seat for either.

Common was the main event Friday night. You’ve probably heard him on the radio and heard what would usually be called “hype” if not for the fact that it’s all true. Kanye West, Executive Producer of Common’s new album, Be, said publicly that the Chicago rapper will win the Grammy this year for Best Rap Album. The Post-Rockist does not disagree. Common played with a full band to a packed and exhilerated crowd. So instead of writing about the show, as some other online rags are wont to do, the Post-Rockist would rather show you the excitement (since I couldn’t get close enough to take a good picture of Common himself).

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