Blues Hollers and Hellos
by The Red Krayola
Drag City, Chicago
41 minutes, 19 seconds
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Finding honesty in music is tricky, especially in pop. Lurking around
every insouciant guitar riff or stylish lyric is the preponderance of
self-conscious artfulness. Looking to pop music to be engaged Ķ- as opposed
to merely distracted, as is the current rage Ķ- takes a brave soul. Who
wants to be "had," after all? And it requires an even bolder (sillier?)
soul to look to The Red Krayola for truth. The suspicion that youžre falling
for a tall tale taints every out-of-tune, out-of-tempo sound.
That truth exists in pop music -- no matter
how avantgarde or commercial -- is unquestionable. Countless performers
have sweat and bled pop music for the sake of communicating ideas. The
Red Krayolažs new and lengthy EP, Blues Hollers and Hellos is a
testament to the idea that truth looks brighter, sounds louder, seems
more concrete when delivered in raw and unrehearsed bursts. Typical to
that Red Krayola anti-swing, sincerity supercedes nearly everything else,
including the ability to play instruments correctly or sing in tune and
tempo. Composed of previously unreleased material, Blues Hollers and
Hellos may be just the tonic to the din of shamelessly seductive strivers
in see-through pants and stilettos, and the promise of genuine music making
come alive.
The most wondrous moment in Blues Hollers
and Hellos occurs when the band, led by frontman and founder Mayo
Thompson, "noodles" for several minutes to the repetitive stress disorder-inducing
beat of "Container of Drudgery." Thompson, the conductor (Ižm reluctant
to call him "songwriter"), uses repetition -Ķ much like a club DJ -Ķ to
heighten awareness to the physical. When the listener hears the same rhythm
over and over, he is forced by the sound to reflect inward. (The first
thing any sane person does after hearing the same bar repeated for the
tenth time is ask himself, "Why the hell am I listening to this and why
arenžt I covering my ears?") And any reaction to the drone enables the
music. This is The Red Krayolažs way of balancing the truth of their work
against the truth of the listeneržs ears. Somewhere in between is communication.
Beautiful or not, this is art.
And since pop is ostensibly the marriage
of lyric and melody, and since this Red Krayola material is ostensibly
pop (as opposed to jazz or sonic art), the listener is as vehemently confronted
with lyrics which speak of the same disregard for polish that epitomizes
the bandžs "musicianship" as he is with organized racket. Thompson is
one of those throwbacks to the artsy fartsy 60s, using as much of himself
as of current events to make grand pronouncements on the state of his
and his bandžs music. Pervasive commercialism and co-dependence (on drugs
or people or ideas) make frequent appearances in Thompsonžs work. Like
a civics professor backed by a deranged lounge act, Thompson infuses his
lectures with sarcasm and snaps platitudes like he means it. "Thatžs all
well and good," he sing-talks (his common mode of delivery) on "Magnificence
as Such," "But what about freedom? / What is freedom? / The capacity to
choose." A rare instance where an overtly political message meshes with
its musical backdrop, such a line lends at least the appearance of sincerity
to the bandžs explorations into one-to-one contact with listeners. Even
if youžve never met Mayo Thompson you are inclined to believe he means
what hežs saying, from his declarations of righteousness to his infantile
descriptions of fictional characters. His honesty is admirable and makes
for some pretty decent listening.
No other self-proclaimed and practicing
noise band is as poised to offer an honest alternative to mainstream pop
(which includes the work of any band that can be readily categorized)
than these old-timers. Formed in Houston, Texas, in 1966, The Red Crayola
Ķ- as they were called before a well-known crayon maker voiced objections
Ķ- essentially birthed the art rock movement in the states. After a random
performance in a shopping mall, the band was duly signed by the International
Artists label, which also included in its roster Roky Ericksonžs 13th
Floor Elevators. Ericksonžs band looked downright commercial compared
to Thompsonžs outfit. As interested in deconstructing the rock vocabulary
as in reacting to their social and immediate surroundings, The Red Krayola,
during their brief stay with Internationa, churned out a couple of noisy
albums, and attracted a cult following in and around hep cat centers such
as New York and San Francisco. The Red Krayola was a known commodity until
the late-1960s when Thompson, ever true to his muse, began trying his
hand at other modes of artistic expression. Following a brief resurgence
in the 1970s, the Red Krayola remained off the off-the-radar radar for
nearly a decade. Interest in the band resurfaced in the mid-1990s, when
Chicago imprint Drag City signed The Red Krayola to a deal. Toned down
and tuned up, The Red Krayola has strayed into accessibility. The Red
Krayola remains a true alternative.
Nothing The Red Krayola does is easy listening.
As with any ponderous artistic excursion the receiver is required to be
receptive to the challenge. A recommendation for an evening with The Red
Krayola involves dim lighting, comfortable seating and copious amounts
of weed. Every time I listen to the Red Krayola I make sure I block off
at least two hours; one to wrestle with the sound, the other to recuperate.
And try this at home. Unlike with, say, classic jazz or contemporary classical,
anti-music like the kind The Red Krayola produces doesnžt jibe with a
jog or subway ride or car trip. Therežs no soundtrackability there Ķ-
unless the movie youžre living is of frenetic pace changes and irresolute
personalities and takes place on Mars. The first time I heard The Red
Krayola was during a visit to a friendžs house in the bandžs hometown
last year. My ears heard plain noise, but my heart heard something all
too human in the methodical beats and silly if ordinary words. This is
where The Red Krayolažs most winning attribute asserted itself. The band
hardly takes itself seriously and uses humor to defuse even the most confrontational
moments of songs. When after repeated listening I soon learned that the
band not only signified on rock and blues but also on itself and other
art rockers, I was immediately smitten. Here was a band that could satisfy
anyonežs longings for brainy stimulation while simultaneously yanking
a smile or two from anyonežs face. Climbing a tall-but-not-as-tall-as-a-mountain
hill probably never brought on such delight as withstanding a Red Krayola
tune.
Part of the reason Ižve been so enamored
with The Red Krayola stems from my interest in watching things fail. A
Generation Xer, Ižve grown up under the rubric that failure in art is
glorious Ķ and true. In pop, this state of mind came to the fore at around
the time the Velvet Underground announced its withdrawal from the mainstream
with White Light/White Heat. Being popular and cool was no longer
about being understood or generally fitting in. Individualityžs taking
over of personal vision was, now with enlightened pop stars like VU, Captain
Beefheart and to some extent The Doors, complete. Other bands continued
failing and attracting mainly youth culturežs intellectuals and outsiders
or both. The success of grunge in the early 1990s can be largely attributed
to the avantgardežs influence. Kurt Cobain just put a disinterested face
on it and sold it as something new. Like early avantgarders like VU and
later Sonic Youth, Cobain and his band, Nirvana, played directly into
their speakers and cut songs in few takes with minimal post-production
work. Seeing the iconic Cobain slouch around on stage, and hearing him
slur his words and fudge his solos was baring witness to failure in all
its glorious incarnations. We ate it up.
No less dramatic than grunge, The Red Krayola
sound is glorious failure unbound. The work is for the most part timeless.
Aside from production value nothing on Blues Hollers and Hellos indicates
the approximate year of any particular song. The band avoids referencing
or quoting styles of the day. Songs themselves remain in stasis, a continual
state of becoming. And as soon as one appears to be turning into something,
it ends. The let down is diabolical. You have to smile knowing that the
band is conscious of its tricks. The Red Krayola uses their place in pop
music history and your outside knowledge of them to augment their impact.
Context accounts for nearly every moment of a song like track four, "Is
There?" With an electronic drumbeat going its own direction, a bluesy
guitar going its own direction and a synthesizer going its own direction,
the song is as dependent on its directionlessness as you are on piecing
everything together, per the human tendency to find logic in chaos. You
never knew finding truth in pop music could be so challenging and rewarding.
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