The Season Of Dead Heroes

I was talking to someone about it just before xmas. Maybe mid December. Tis the season ‘n all.

Turns out I wasn’t the only one that had this idea we seem to lose more than our share of beloved artists around the holiday period.

Terry Hall was first. And what can I say? Anyone that knows me knows that I rather grandiosely pronounce the ‘official arrival of spring’ each year by playing The Specials – because sunshine, BBQs and long hot nights just work better with The Specials. No arguments will be entertained on that one – it’s cold, hard fact. Science backs it and you can’t argue with science.

Maxi Jazz was next. I’ll never forget the first time I heard Insomnia. 3am. Chemically altered. MTV or some such channel for anyone old enough to remember that there was a world that existed pre internet. When he told me he couldn’t sleep – I fuckin’ believed him. It scared me a little and I loved it. It stuck with me. Probably always will.

But it was the lesser known Jeremiah Green, drummer and founding member of Modest Mouse that threw me. The news reminded me of a band I’d once loved but had largely forgotten. For no real reason. Music comes and goes. It attaches itself to moments and memories in your life – and tastes like time, move on.

I heard of Jeremiah’s death probably five minutes after the band released a quick social media statement – such is the speed of life (and death) in this digital age.

And I felt it. I don’t know why. So I reached for an old favourite – ‘Everywhere And His Nasty Parlour Tricks’. (2001 EP)

Right away I was taken back. And right away I remembered why this band had meant so much to me. They were something special. Something unique. Something that dared to break with the tried and true sound of almost-guaranteed rock success in the late 90s. They were pushing at boundaries and that’s what I’d always believed that rock n roll was meant to do.

Which brings us to the point in this rant at which I’m probably meant to try and describe their sound for you? But that was precisely their magic – Modest Mouse sounded like Modest Mouse and no other band I knew at the time or have since.

There was an article I read the other day that described them as ‘THE true post grunge pioneers’ and I guess they were. They weren’t happy music. Not an upbeat band by any stretch. Perhaps a slightly more intellectual riposte to the myopic woe-is-me shtick that came to characterise so much of the mid-late 90s rock music scene. They were melodic, clever, witty and they were clearly different.

I never followed the band religiously and I think we parted company right after ‘We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank’ (2007 LP) – which incidentally is probably where they got their biggest taste of mainstream success. As an album it was a departure, finely polished and radio friendly. But it was also clearly a band at the peak of their songwriting prowess. It was and is a damn fine record.

Over the last few days I’ve gone back over their early catalogue and I’m happy to say it’s just as good as – if not a little better than – I remember it being. I never liked everything they did but the songs of theirs I did connect with – I really connected with. I’m pleased to report that I still do.

So farewell Jeremiah. I never knew you but you touched me and I thank you for that.

For anyone who has bothered to read this far – do yourself a favour and go have a dig through the Modest Mouse back catalogue if you don’t already know it. I think too many of us missed something unique and special there. It’s easy listening rock music that stands the test of time.

Young Moon – Paraverbal Orchids

Alright, straight out with it – behind the gruff and tough exterior of this gnarled old punk lies a total geek. So when the title of San Fransisco native Young Moon/Trevor Montgomerys latest EP Paraverbal Orchids had me reaching for the dictionary, well, you could say he had me at ‘Paraverbal’.

Except that wouldn’t really be true at all. Trevor has had me for years – not that either of us knew it until a recent and rather humbling Sunday afternoon where I had the pleasure of sitting in on a session at his Nelson studio, Secret Handshake.

I was in fine form, doing my typical thing, holding forth, vomiting fiery yet thoughtless opinions with earnest piety – just generally telling him how to do his own job in his own fucking house. That kind of thing. My thing.

To cut a long story short – as the afternoon wore on, and after some poking and prodding, I found out just how many LPs in my collection had Trevors fingerprints all over them. Cue gushing, blushing fanboy.

From Tarentel, to The Drift, to Lazarus – I’d unknowingly been following his work for years and I’m happy to report that his new guise as Young Moon has done nothing to dampen my enthusiasm for this rather prodigious and talented man.

Through his work as Lazarus we first got a glimpse of Trevors emotive depth. If you’ve never heard his Lazarus album, The Trickster, do yourself a favour and block out a Friday night in your calendar to stay home and cry along as he lays himself bare in the most darkly personal and evisceratingly beautiful manor. His strength is his humanity. His fragility, his vulnerability, his resilience – it’s all there, bundled up and tied together neatly with suitably lush and sparse melodies that invite the listener in. To accept that invite is to stare into the abyss. I choose to stare and so should you.

We can never know what an artist is writing about lyrically but with Trevor, I can’t help but always feel I’m right there with him as he weaves his narrative. His pain becomes mine. His story is our story. And isn’t that what great art is? A canvas for you to project your own meaning on to? The artist welcomes us into their world and they have painted the picture. If they’re any good at what they do – the meaning is ours to project onto that picture.

Trevors work as Lazarus invited us into his world. His work as Young Moon feels like a natural continuation of that. And a real continuation at that. He’s not rehashing the same old songs but mining new veins, refining his sound, maturing as both a man and a musician.

Paraverbal Orchids is a natural successor to earlier works like The Trickster and finds Trevor in fine fettle. That glorious vulnerability and terrifying honesty are on full display. And this ain’t no earnest bleeding heart gob shite — the guy is tearing his fucking wounds right open before us and you can all but taste the blood.

I’ve always been a sucker for the tortured genius schtick – all the more so when its no schtick. Trevor as Young Moon is all too real and I’ve found myself drinking in Paraverbal Orchids like I’ve just spent 40 days and nights in the desert.

Sparse and simple melodies. Darkly romantic. Crafted and refined. Lush and inviting.

Twinkling, reverb soaked guitars set against pulse like rhythms judiciously meted out from a Roland TR-8 and enveloped in Trevors trademark vocal – a vocal I always feel harks back to Mark Lanegan at his best. Resonant, raw and there’s that word again – emotive.

Jeff Moller (Jeff Moller and the Marigolds, China The Band) adds subtle flourishes on organ and backing vocals as well as contributing contrastingly upbeat bass lines that, in combination with his own organ and Trevors guitar work, bring an overarching sense of hope to the songs. Openers The Orbiting Object and That Highway Light exemplify this perfectly. As does the gorgeous call and response of my personal favourite, Broken.

I could make some sort of bullshit connection between hope, the moon being The Orbiting Object, lunar cycles, new dawns, fresh horizons and all that guff here – but I’ll leave that particular digression to some other two-bit hack with a more mystical bent than I and just say instead that its all there and you’d do well to treat yourself to a listen. Or two. I’ve been marinating in this for a week now and I’m not even starting to get bored.

Young Moons Paraverbal Orchids is set to be the first in a slew of new releases Trevor has in the pipeline and is currently self released only on Bandcamp. Frankly, it deserves a wider release – these songs shouldn’t be left in the dark. Get on it already – you can thank me later.

– Jonny Heathen

Big Scout – Council Sport is the kick in the nuts NZ music needs right now…

Small town New Zealand. Not exactly a cultural hot bed. Hillbillies in Hiluxs. We’re holding on to our gumboot culture around here. And why not? Have you heard that covers band at the local vomitorium? Things really start heating up at around 10.30 on a Friday night when the well lubricated yokels fresh in from the vineyards and forestry blocks start singing along to Living On A Prayer and throwing up on each other’s shoes with the kind of fervour usually reserved in these parts for the topless waitress selling tickets to a meat raffle without even the vaguest hint of irony. Big Scout aren’t that band. No, they’re not that band at all. They’re a slow simmer coming to a fast boil, straining against the conservative shackles of provincial living and loving every minute of it while itching to kick down a few new doors and make yer fucking ears bleed with a high energy, high decibel live act you’ll never see coming and that always leaves you wanting more. Pop hooks, a raised middle finger and a sardonic grin. Dripping both love and aggression in equal measure. Is it post punk? Well what the fuck is that anyway? And pigeon holes are for the easily pinned. This is a frenetic unit, always pulsing, ever evolving. Try pigeon hole this.

Insightful lyrics riding nimbly atop a confronting wall of sound that swings wildly between a lighthearted upbeat jaunt and a full frontal attack openly flirting with complete and utter sensory overload. Screeching guitar work that forever teeters on the edge of chaos and abject noise while never quite tipping over that fine line and backed by a driving rhythm section so tight it could cut off your circulation. Or at least leave your head spinning, slack jawed and wondering what the fuck just happened. This isn’t any old backline. These guys are a well oiled machine and they wield their force with laser targeted precision – at once a weapon of mass seduction and the kind of ‘fuck you’ that’s usually followed by a knee to the nuts by a scorned lover. The influences are diverse in this coming together of three starkly different personalities, woven into an abrasive tapestry by practiced musicians with an intimate chemistry that’s says: ‘we’re brothers first and band mates second.’ The love shines through. These guys sure as fuck aren’t what you think you’re gonna hear coming out of lil ol’ Boomtown but they’re coming for you nonetheless. Get in on the ground floor with their action packed debut album Council Sport coming out on Melted Ice Cream in 2022 – cos you’ll hear 100 missable bands this year but you don’t wanna miss this.