puncture presents

noise populism

a diary of San Francisco's Noise Pop festival 1998

BY J NEO MARVIN

Photos by PETER ELLENBY

In its sixth year, San Francisco's Noise Pop Festival has become a major event almost in spite of itself. What began as Kevin Arnold's attempt to transform an ordinary Overwhelming Colorfast show into something more special (a surprise appearance by the well-loved Fastbacks helped) has become a five-night, four-venue, 37-band extravaganza. Yet Noise Pop remains a grassroots labor of love, something for fans and supporters of independent music of the rock-and-roll persuasion -- not for the industry, or for hip scene people, either. There's something determinedly non-elitist, open-ended, and inviting about Noise Pop and its associated fanzine SnackCake.

The "pop" in Noise Pop is really power pop as first defined by the Who: irresistible melodies backed by loud guitars bashing out basic chord progressions with high energy, attitude, and imagination. (Trace a line through the Kinks, Sparks, Ramones, Buzzcocks, Jam, Hüsker Dü, Replacements, Pixies, Nirvana, etc.). Ruling out the issue of what's "cutting edge," Noise Pop tackles a more pressing problem: there are too many bands in the world, a lot of them actually quite good!

Taking an array of unfamiliar names and stamping them "Noise Pop" (not that we have to agree), the organizers inspire people to explore new music. It's still "pop" -- so regular rock-loving folks have a chance of finding it palatable. If you pay $50 for this year's Terrastock, you have to be open to things like Loren Mazzacane Connors; that may be a good thing, but those with more adventurous musical tastes aren't necessarily better than other people. The power-pop parameters of Noise Pop, though not necessarily reflecting my own tastes, present an eclectic bunch of known and unknown artists in a format that appeals to large numbers of people, many of whom don't go to clubs much but are eager to try something new. The shows are mostly reasonably priced and not overrun by music-industry types. "Noise Populism," anyone?

I tried to get to every show (completely missing only one), but the logistics of Bay Area transit insures that if an Oaklander like me sticks around for headliners, I'm stuck in the city for hours. I did it once, for the incomparable Apples in Stereo; but mostly I was more interested in lesser-known early acts than bill-toppers. If you want to know how Frank Black's new band cuts the mustard, how much bouncy fun the Fastbacks were Saturday night, how wild and loose Modest Mouse are live, or whether Lynn Perko is as awesomely goddess-like in Imperial Teen as she was in Sister Double Happiness, you'll have to read about it elsewhere.

Day 1

Thumbing through SnackCake's cool program guide while admiring the Great American Music Hall, I have few expectations for openers Oranger. A couple of members used to be in Overwhelming Colorfast, a band I always thought were just okay. But their first song bashes down the door with clangy rhythm guitar and a lead guitar out of a home for the criminally insane. I'm grabbed. Pure, loud garage rock built on a strong foundation of catchy, primal chord progression kicked into overdrive by a mad drummer of the Keith Moon school. The wildly uninhibited lead guitarist assaults us with deliciously squalling feedback and a tremolo bearing a startling resemblance to the 13th Floor Elevators' jug player. While making this superb noise, he seems dissatisfied and frustrated; at the end, he smashes his guitar. Yet the set I saw and heard was fantastic.

Next up are MK Ultra. Well liked, but I don't get them: weird pop without real pop's catchiness. As if you took the arty, jerky quirks of the Loud Family and left out the killer hooks. Wish I'd brought a book.

Roaring out of the gate with a snappy cover of "Here Come the Warm Jets," the scrappy young Texans in 16 Deluxe roll into a set of the headbangingest dream pop I've heard. Guitarist Chris Smith plugged into about 20 pedals spewing an array of sparkling, harmoniously dissonant, larger-than-life symphonic guitar noise while frontwoman Carrie Clark added equally wild (though not loud enough) racket of her own, singing some great tunes with misfit soul and tomboy attitude. A spring-loaded rhythm section clinches it. It occurs to me how great My Bloody Valentine could have been with a different drummer. 16 Deluxe have been around for a couple of years, first on King Coffey's great Trance Syndicate Label, now on Warner. I hope their albums do justice to the great little band dazzling us here. One of tonight's best songs reverberates in my mind a week later, a fast number with the repeated lyric "You don't know anything."

After that joyous assault, I'd welcome something more low-key -- like P.E.E., formerly known as Pee. An odd, oblique quartet, P.E.E. careen tightly through a versatile set of mathish rock whose lopsided, complex songs sport wild tempo changes barely held together by riveting boy-girl harmonies. The third song, which has had local radio play, is an epic in (mostly) 3/4 time, with lovely finger-picked guitars and twinkly, ethereal ambiance. The set is very long, and I split before the end. Break a leg, Imperial Teen.

Day 2

Thursday begins with a party for bands and press. I don't know anyone until I run into some guys from A Subtle Plague and Shotwell; we hang out, joined by some DJs from KALX (UC Berkeley's excellent radio station, which languishes unfairly in the shadow of the more famous KUSF). SnackCake has decorated the tables with Ding Dongs and Twinkies. I eat two Twinkies. If you're in SF and eat Twinkies, you're no longer responsible for your actions.

Lingering at the Make Out Room, I get to the Bottom of the Hill too late for most of opening band Warm Wires. Brad Mossman used to be the singer in Harm Farm. If you liked the silly whimsy of "I Love Clams," their "hit," Brad's new band has a whoopie cushion for you. If you hated that song you won't like Warm Wires. The best Warm Wires show I've seen was last fall, when they'd been stripped to a boisterous trio. The intricate arrangements of the previous lineup were replaced with sheer volume and aggression, giving their silly ditties a dose of raw power; even the overhead projector scribble-dash artists were unusually inspired that night. Tonight, the trio perform with a viola player. I don't catch enough to tell if they've retained their power or are in a rut.

Beulah are a new local band on the Elephant 6 label. Few people have heard of them as yet, but that should change soon. The quintet (two singer/songwriter/guitarists and three fresh recruits to power their ideas) offer a pleasingly monolithic, driving guitar sound colored by keyboards, trumpet, and more. The last song, "I Love John She Loves Paul," is a sensuous psychedelic epic.

Creeper Lagoon have managed to get the "SF's next big thing" millstone slung around their necks, which I'm sure has started to drive them a little nuts. It means a pleasant band who've done a 5-song EP and some good shows are hailed as geniuses way too soon. The Dust Brothers are producing their upcoming album, which could be a coup or a fiasco. I sense signs of strain in the way they tear through "Dead Deadly" at a let's-get-it-over-with clip, and in their new tendency to fill space in several songs with quasi-'70s soft-funk session-man-style electric-piano jams. I can't tell if these are tongue-in-cheek or not, but I feel like calling out, "Hey! it's too soon to get bored with your own material!"

Still, they're very good, opening with an authoritative "Empty Ships" and striding through a string of crafty, enigmatic compositions. One new song, "Chance of a Lifetime," is a catchy, memorable waltz. (I see a major 3/4 trend shaping up here: my prediction is, ska will die out and the waltz replace it. Start practicing now, kids!).

A slew of misinformation has gone around about Apples in Stereo. Don't believe critics who complain the band are "still searching." The Apples rock. I sway near the front of the crowd dancing compulsively, not caring how foolish I look as the Apples crank out powerful renditions of their warm, shrewd pop masterpieces (plus a cover of the Smile bootleg version of "Heroes and Villains" dedicated to Carl Wilson). What surprises me is the passion Robert Schneider puts into their songs live. Unlike on their immaculate records, he doesn't shy from belting a vocal, even shouting a bit. I'm surprised to discover, too, that Schneider is responsible for most of those twangy lead-guitar riffs (he can even play them while singing lead. Here's a guy with a multi-track mind). So many great songs come pouring out with fresh energy, sounding even better with a little dirt under their nails: "Seems So," "Shine a Light," "Tin Pan Alley," and "Get There Fine," the last of which may well be the sleeper on Tonesoulevolution. Less '60s-flavored than the rest, and built on a riff that would fit right into the quieter bits on one of Sonic Youth's Geffen albums, tumbling into a waterfall of chords and one of Schneider's most beguiling melodies. The minor reservations I expressed in my Tonesoul review for Puncture fade into irrelevance as the live band mesmerize me. I'm my 7-year-old self captivated by Meet the Beatles all over again.

Day 3

Now it's Friday and the gigs are stacking up. I arrive at Paradise Lounge at 5, where Flavius are first up. They're thrashy and riffy and I won't remember a thing about them when I try to write this piece.

The Androgynauts are the latest band to rise from the ashes of the Catheads. Until recently they had both Mark Zanandrea and Sam Babbit in their ranks, but now Sam's gone and they're a trio -- a tight little unit with Mark playing wild, spirited lead. His material is a mix of beautiful pop-folk-rock and goofy novelties. The best of these grew out of Mark and drummer Marc Turner's stint in an early version of the Meices. The Androgynauts do "Side Order of Mayo," a brilliant song that's actually a vicious parody of the Meices and their leader Joe Reinecke's vision of rock godhood. (There's a verse on a notorious incident when Joe allegedly left the rest room pulling up his zipper, saying "anyone want some of this before I put it away?" and being chased by angry women with broken bottles.) The song is a catchy Meices-like punk-pop number with in-joke lyrics. I guess when part of your nature is Richard Thompson and another part Ween, a lot of people won't get your jokes. But I wish more listeners noticed what a fine songwriter Mark Zanandrea is.

Humor and talent are still the order of the day when Harvey Danger take the stage. Great driving drones full of bounce and forward motion, a perfect foil for charismatically nerdy frontman Sean Nelson -- a tall, gawky, baby-faced guy in horn rims who wails, dances, and oozes crazy charm. The band rock with poppy flair, grinding and clanging through a string of jumpy memorable songs. "Carlotta Valdez" has hit-like hooks, amusing lyrics, and tumbling force. "I'm Not Sick, But I'm Not Well" is simple but striking, and may be best of all. They remind me of the Smiths' more rocking moments, plus the zesty twang of early Embarrassment (or is it the singer's glasses?). I like the way he strolls to a keyboard and pokes it for simple, rhythmic, often dissonant bursts to accent a song in progress (a bit the way Dylan's illogical harmonica solos often function as sonic traffic signals to herald a final verse). Sometimes the keys stick, adding random notes to the overall sound.

Peppercorn are an odd trio, clearly influenced by the '80s SST bands, especially Hüsker Dü and the Minutemen. Thick, lovely, resonant chords make a foundation for raspy, homely vocals and alternately sliding and pounding rhythms. They favor sudden endings that sound as if cut off in mid-verse. I hang around to catch the first couple tunes by Kingdom First, five older-looking dudes whacking out solid, basic punk rock with good, ear-tickling riffs. The singer is a little too squealy for me, but the band sound good for drinking and getting loose. Time now to head for North Beach and Bimbo's 365 club, a big, swanky, place with tastefully unobtrusive security folk and bathroom attendants. It seems I missed Verbow, who are compared to Sugar and boast a cello player. Rats.

I saw Actionslacks, though, a snappy trio led by Tim Scanlin, the cool cat who edits SnackCake. He's a hep singer/guitarist, too, spewing immaculate chords and riffs on a Rickenbacker, offering sly observations in song form. "You're hating life in ways you never thought you could; no wonder, no wonder boy!" Later he claims to have stolen everything from the Clean and Straitjacket Fits -- which only makes me respect him more.

And at last I see Fuck, the ever-so-delicate "slowcore" or "sadcore" band with the please-notice-us name. Their set begins peculiarly with a string of half-songs that fizzle before they get going. Later, allowing songs to play themselves out more, they become more enjoyable. Two members trade off on drums, guitar, and keyboard, with vocals taken by various members; the rather smirky Arto Lindsay lookalike sings the most, in a low, apathetic-sounding voice. Some songs build to satisfying climaxes, others have a pleasing delicacy that reminds me a bit of Eric's Trip. But they don't convey much real emotion despite their moodiness. And given the group's name, is it too much to ask for a little sensuous abandon? I didn't exactly feel the earth move.

Tonight's big show has the highest cover charge at $15. A bit steep even for Frank Black and John Doe. I always thought the best thing about the Pixies live was the way Kim Deal would stand there laughing at "Frank" while he worked himself into a lather over his silly lyrics about "whores in my bed and whores in my head." I stick around for a few songs by the John Doe Thing, long enough to see that John Doe still has a great voice, and this is a good song, and so is that one. Bless the man for hanging on to what it takes.

Day 4

I feel lousy Saturday morning. And there's a noon show, the first of three today. So I skip it, unfortunately missing Carlos!, who I'd wanted to see. They've been around since 1991 or so, starting as a hard-rock band with a touch of math, then getting into some highly tuneful power-pop. Carlos! were said to be awesome, making their entrance riding zebras, whipping through a set that got the crowd rending their garments and weeping with joy. Then singer/guitarist Rich Scramaglia was presented with a tiara, a bouquet of snapdragons, and the title "Princess of Noise Pop." I know all this happened because Rich told me himself, and why would he lie?

The weekend's standout event is the Flaming Lips Boombox Experiment #4 at Bimbo's, setting back paying customers $12 and drawing unfamiliar faces I don't see at the other shows. We know the Flaming Lips' sweetly depraved sense of humor and, as Camper would put it, their "funny ideas about what sounds good." Some of us may have even attended a Zaireeka listening party. But most of us arrive with only vague ideas of what to expect. There's a gleefully tense anticipation in the air. We're rooting for the Lips -- but they damn well better impress us.

In a perfect coincidence, I run into my old friend Naut Humon (of Rhythm and Noise, Asphodel Records, and other fringey sound projects) in the line. I couldn't ask for a better brain to pick, or sound freak to stand beside. He recently staged his own massed-boom-box installation and is psyched for this.

Onstage are 40 chairs in a semicircle, like a symphony orchestra. Each chair has a blaster plugged into the PA through the headphone jack. These are not new tape decks -- they look funky, and very used. Taped-on notes list the decks' strengths and weaknesses ("right side only," "speed control ok," etc.). Naut's impressed. He and crew had scammed new players from a manufacturer. This evening's project will be a little more down home.

Enter the three Lips. Wayne Coyne, resplendent in a bright yellow raincoat, is an engaging host, explaining what we'll attempt together, coaxing 40 enthusiastic volunteers onstage to operate the boomboxes. Mike the bassist stands back center stage, controlling the mix and operating #41 -- the one with the tapes that anchor the program (rhythm section, narration, Wayne's vocal/guitar on the lone "song" among the pieces, and so on), while Wayne and Steven, the drummer, serve as "conductors" for the left and right halves of our newly assembled orchestra. I'd expected it to be like "gentlemen, start your engines" and everybody'd just push play.

But after two test runs, the real pieces begin. We follow the action with xeroxed programs explaining the sounds and the concept of each selection. At first the instructions involve little more than everybody turning their decks on and perhaps a little fine tuning, but soon the players are told to turn their volume all the way down and keep it there till the "conductors" give them the signal. "A Winter's Day Car Accident Melody," for instance, becomes a duel between Steven's hundreds of wailing sirens and Wayne's hundreds of crashes. They play up the comic aspect, raising and lowering their whole bodies like mad maestros, propelling the noise back and forth until a moment when they stop, make eye contact with fiendish grins, and raise themselves up as one, blasters going off in a few seconds of inspired cacophony. Yet even as they go for the Spike Jones-y comedy, the program notes reveal the piece's inspiration in the form of a hideous true story by Coyne about a horrible ambulance crash that took the life of a child.

"Realizing the Speed of Life" is a slow, disturbed, fragmentary ballad punctuated by huge mad busts of mock-orchestral chords and a "choir" of crying, screaming babies. Once again it's funny until you consult the program and discover the lyrics Coyne sings are taken verbatim from the suicide note of a psychiatrist driven to despair and madness by the baby next door. If that isn't enough, they include a press clipping about a starved baby. Heard any more good jokes lately, Wayne?

There are further ideas that could be tried, like combining more diverse sounds instead of simply multiplying one thing into hundreds of clones, which has, if anything, a homogenizing effect. All those human voices on "The Big Ol' Bug" end up sounding like a big, syrupy orchestra, just like on 10cc's "I'm Not in Love." Likewise, "480 speed-manipulated prerecorded trumpets" sound like a big, messy, dissonant organ rather than horns, while a lot of cellos sound like a big string section As a new horizon in sound, it left me thinking there's a lot more to explore. As an event it was a blast.

Rock and roll at the Bottom of the Hill kicks off tonight with a neat power trio called Lunchbox. Plunging in with a keen Different Kitchen Buzzcocks-style number "I Don't Care," Tim Brown establishes himself as a fine songwriter with a casually excellent guitar style. As their nicely paced set progresses, the breezy, fast tunes interleave with slower, more textured songs less indebted to a particular band's signature style and approaching something more their own. I like the way Brown and bassist Donna McKean take ingenious advantage of the trio format (before being joined by a half-hidden shy fellow on rhythm guitar and occasional Farfisa), especially in one song where first Tim clangs through the chord changes while Donna repeats an odd, slightly dissonant figure, then roles switch on the chorus: Donna holds down the same foundation while Tim plays one chord, ringing out cool, melodic shards over it in a Keith Levene/Bob Mould style. Here are a pair who think about their arrangements even on simple songs. Donna's bass style is inventive, the work of someone who took up her instrument recently (Tim, her husband as well as bandmate, taught her to play three years ago), but is now confident enough to fill the songs with creative countermelodies that make them even more special. Tim Brown himself is a great guitarist with a low-key, almost shy stage presence that belies his beautifully fiery style. Good songs with a certain something extra from a band led by a rather introverted couple. They even cover a silly Noel Redding song from Axis: Bold As Love and make it brilliant.

When Flop existed, I never knew much about them, but their leader, Rusty Willoughby, is a real cult hero with lots of reverent fans. I do know his current band, Pure Joy, are one loud, feisty, crashing trio. Willoughby is unique in that he is a left-handed guitarist who learned to play on a normally strung guitar, rather than having his guitar restrung especially for him as most do. This is so ridiculously sensible that I must applaud him. David James, the brilliant guitarist from Spearhead, is one of the few others I know of who do this. (And one of the guys from Scenic Vermont, who I'll see tomorrow night.) (These people are exceptions, while Paul McCartney, Kurt Cobain, and Jimi Hendrix (who they say could play either way) are the rule. This puzzles me. It means most left-handed guitarists can't just pick up any guitar and play it, which strikes me as sheer stupidity. Anyhow, Pure Joy are charmers. I love Rusty Willoughby's magnificent frenzy onstage, and bassist Lisa King's beautifully amused expression when she plays. They have a low-key sense of flash that's just right. Willoughby's songs are slippery varmints, full of tempo changes, dramatic transitions, and hairpin turns, but it all fits together. The best song is the final one: originally Flop's, it may be called "You Wait" (that line is repeated during the tense climax). Pure Joy are a good high note to leave on, though I'm sorry to miss both the Fastbacks and Canadian jokers Chixdiggit.

Day 5

On the way to Bottom of the Hill for the 2 p.m. show, I run into SnackCake's super-photographer Peter Ellenby, who has not missed a single act. Then, among the crowd gathered at the door, I meet a friend, K, who I haven't seen in 15 years. "My God! You're still alive!" we both cry. Now I'll have the second opinion of a woman whose roots are in the glory days of the Toiling Midgets.

First up are 7th Betty -- not named after bondage icon Betty Page, but baking icon Betty Crocker, specifically the seventh "artist's rendering" of same. A trio led by guitar/singer Howard Myint, who works for the SF Bay Guardian, 7th Betty get singled out for scorn in the rival SF Weekly's largely useless Noise Pop Tip Sheet. They get a bad review because rock critics who play in bands usually suck, especially when they write for the competing weekly paper. (Nice work, Weekly: insult a crowd that includes Ira Kaplan, Lois Maffeo, Franklin Bruno, David Nichols, Jim Greer, Lenny Kaye, etc.). 7th Betty, like many bands whose key members write about music, have put a lot of thought into their music, and unlike many musicians they know exactly what they're after. Myint has penned some dynamic, melodic, well-crafted songs, and the band spew them with strength and focus. K likes them too.

The Foster Brooks hit the stage loudly. They're a punk-rock bar band who share at least one member with Kingdom First (and today have Marc Turner's hot drums powering them). K and I get up and jump around a bit. She flips because the ridiculously loud, overmodulated bass brings back memories of Flipper, not that the Foster Brooks sound like Flipper. They aren't going to change the course of music history, but we have fun with them.

From a girl's-eye view, Crumb are simply adorable. K swoons over the tall, pretty lead singer, but is even more infatuated with their shoeless bassist and his dainty feet. Tall guys with small feet? From a musical standpoint, they've got a good, youthful pop-punk sound and I pronounce them groovy. As for headliners Knapsack, we both find them nondescript.

There is one more show, but K must leave for home while I drag my way to the Great American Music Hall for the last few thrills.

If the afternoon show was dominated by meat-and-potatoes punk bands, the evening is ruled by impressionistic, arty ones. We begin with a trio almost too obviously formerly a duo, Galaga. I'm not close enough to be sure but suspect the guitarist actually has a couple of bass strings on his guitar, making for a sound you might hear if Rebecca Gates borrowed Charlie Hunter's seven-string instrument. Andre Vogel's unique tuning and richly full guitar sound fill the large room, while Galaga's bassist actually seemed redundant. As a matter of fact, for long, awkward stretches of time he'd stand there doing nothing. While Vogel strummed and picked out enough sound for a whole band he simply hung there. Finally he'd be allowed to plunk out a bassline, looking very relieved. (The last time I saw anyone look that bored on this stage was when Linda Thompson waited for Richard to finish noodling on an extra-long version of "Sloth." She then managed to rally with 30 seconds of the most sarcastic tambourine-playing I've witnessed). Overall, this band's music is marvelously dark, melodic, and sweet.

I always have time for any band with an ex-member of Tiger Trap in their lineup, but despite the familiar face and bass of Jen, Slower Than are quite another kettle of fish from Tiger Trap's exquisite, Heavenly/Marine Girls pop -- or that of post-Tiger Trap bands like Go Sailor or the Softies. Slower Than's first song is a sort of uptight funk number with pained vocals from the boy on guitar. I couldn't catch the lyrics so I couldn't tell if they had anything to say that might have made the uninteresting tune worthwhile. The second song is much better, with a pretty Joy Division-style raga-rock groove. (The old trick of letting one string ring out openly while you move around on the string above it and strum the two together -- way overdone these days but effective and always a nice sound, especially on bass.) The band alternate and sometimes combine these two styles for the remainder of their set. When they obey their more melodic urges they can be extremely compelling, especially when they break into a waltz.

If Slower Than's sublime moments are surrounded by tedium, Scenic Vermont are more efficient; they go straight for the tedium. They wander aimlessly and tunelessly, while their vocals are so shy no one will ever know if their lyrics justify the frankly unmemorable music. I realize I'm approaching the end of a string of almost 30 bands seen in very rapid succession, and I wonder if maybe my ears are tired and I'm just getting cranky. I consider this, then reject it. If a good band were onstage, I'd be excited. I try to figure out what this band are doing. The music is fairly intricate, intelligently arranged, and certainly possible to like -- but they still bore me to tears.

Maybe the next band will offer contrast. Trackstar, playing amiable minimalist pop, do their best with a classic pseudo-Olympian lineup of two guitarists/vocalists and a drummer working their way up from moody Versus to maximum-single-distorted-chord assaults à la "Reuters by Wire." I think it's good stuff but the epiphany I was hoping for does not come. Trackstar have a fanatic cult following locally, and individual members are the subjects of frighteningly obsessive fanzines. I was hoping this show would provide some clue as to why.

They're pretty good, but none of their songs pin me to the wall the way "King of Carrot Flowers," "Turn It My Way," or even "Track Star," a song by the Lookers, all do. Real pop greatness doesn't sit around waiting to be noticed. It takes over your consciousness and drives you mad with pleasure, pain, joy, and despair -- capturing feelings that can be expressed no other way, making you hungry to hear the song again.

So am I jaded and cranky by now? I decide to skip the last band, even though I was moderately impressed by the Modest Mouse EP I've heard. Maybe I've reached the end of the banquet, and cannot have one more portion of caviar, truffle, or tangerine. I've seen and heard some wonderful bands over the last five days; this one will do fine without me. It's time to write up what I've got, and go look for a dozen albums I suddenly find I need. And so I'm gone.

Photos (top to bottom): Harvey Danger, the John Doe Thing, Flaming Lips

go home