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Lonely Moans
Pernice side project ultimately a mixed bag
By Noel Murray
MARCH 13, 2000:
Massachusetts boy Joe Pernice has recorded under the names Scud Mountain
Boys, Pernice Brothers, and now Chappaquiddick Skyline. In all three cases,
his high, whispery voice spins fragile sugar around mostly hushed,
acoustic-based folk music distinguished by morose lyrics and a pretty
twang. His music leads one to imagine what The Beatles would've sounded
like if they had gone country, instead of The Byrds.
Pernice has said that the reason for all the name-switching is because
the projects are distinct in his mind. Scud Mountain Boys were a
straightforward, stripped-down alt-country outfit, which Pernice dissolved
to form Pernice Brothers and to follow a poppier, more orchestrated trail.
Chappaquiddick Skyline is reportedly a side venture to Pernice Brothers,
which he claims to be his "real" band; it's as stripped-down as the Scuds,
but with the same poppy emphasis as his current main outfit.
In fact, the eponymous Chappaquiddick Skyline album features moments of
such delicate sublimity that one wonders why Pernice didn't just save them
for the next Pernice Brothers album. "Solitary Swedish Houses" has an idle,
kicking-stones-down-the-street sort of arrangement--two guitars and a
loping drumbeat that drop in and out of the mix at different times--and a
hushed vocal that switches into aching mode only as a last resort. The
waspy buzz of the guitar on "Courage Up" (similar to George Harrison's solo
on The Beatles' "Something") ties together the piano, strings, and choral
backup as it puts across Pernice's simple, clap-on-the-back lyrics.
Elsewhere, tunes as disparate as the gentle lullabies "The Two of You
Sleep" and "Nobody's Watching," the Eagles-esque country ballad "Hundred
Dollar Pocket," and the faithful cover of New Order's minor-key technopop
classic "Leave Me Alone" show a musician with an expanding range and a
facility for making downbeat music sound romantic and lovely.
But there's something moderately troubling about the setting for these
gems, surrounded as they are by duller stones. Two of the greatest
weaknesses of contemporary rock artists are indecision and junk collecting,
both of which have led musicians to feed their audience a steady diet of
half-baked songs that should've been either finished or scrapped. Such is
the case here, although Chappaquiddick Skyline is a heck of a lot
better than most time-wasting side projects; still, it's a disappointing
road for someone as talented as Joe Pernice to travel. If he wants us to
take him seriously, he should drop all the aliases and stand as he is--a
melancholy tunesmith with floral prints on his clothes and heart bleeding
beneath.
Steely Dan Two Against Nature (Giant/Reprise)
The critical consensus on Steely Dan has seesawed in the three decades
of the band's existence. When it emerged in the early '70s as a
jazz-influenced boogie band, the group was hailed for breaking apart the
strictures of rock song structure without the pretension that fouled the
similar attempts of British prog-rockers. Also in focus were the lyrics of
the band's co-leaders, Donald Fagen and Walter Becker, who artfully and
archly dissected the perverse lives of desperate hipsters, using colorful
lingo that only the songwriters seemed to understand fully. All of this
precise music and hazy wordplay worked against Steely Dan as the '70s
became the '80s, and punk and new wave made raw directness the new virtue.
But by the time the '90s rolled around, rock scholars began to admit that
they missed the pretty sounds and ugly images that Becker and Fagen used to
put together.
Now, after almost 20 years in solo-act exile, Steely Dan have returned
to a world where contemporaries like Bob Dylan and Santana are practically
tripping over Grammys. But unlike those revitalized icons, Becker and Fagen
have made no substantial changes to their sound on the new Two Against
Nature. For better or worse, they're still pumping out long, discursive
songs with skeletal funk beats, supple choruses, and plenty of tasteful
touches of sax, flute, and virtuosic rock guitar. Given that Becker's and
Fagan's solo work has shown a little more variety--and given that the
inventiveness of the Steely Dan sound pretty much peaked in 1977--Two
Against Nature has to be counted as something of a letdown.
But all letdowns should be this pleasant. Call it wistful nostalgia, but
even without a melody as plaintive and poignant as "Deacon Blues" or "Rose
Darling," Steely Dan's sophistication and aloofness still have the power to
make the listener feel both relaxed and edgy--it's the musical equivalent
of Irish Coffee. And in the middle of the record, Becker and Fagen catch
hold of three straight songs that are almost up to their old standard.
"Almost Gothic" is the prize of the entire set--a warm, swaying ballad
that's heavy on watery electric piano, giddy come-ons, and a tune that
breezes past like a summer memory. That track is followed by the softly
swinging, endlessly receding "Jack of Speed," which is then followed by the
cheerful "Cousin Dupree," a wickedly toe-tapping song about creepy "kissing
cousins." After that, Steely Dan quickly retreat to their likable rote, but
for a brief, wonderful moment, the band hits a stride, and it's like the
listener is driving through a rainy West Coast night, heading from one sour
party to the next and feeling powerfully alone.
Fu Manchu King of the Road (Mammoth)
For the past 10 years, Fu Manchu have been trying to do for Foghat what
the Ramones did for Eddie Cochran--make retro teenage rock into a punk
statement. For the most part, the California quartet's concept has been
best realized in its cover art and song titles. The cheesy '70s iconography
that accompanies each Fu Manchu record is the first thing that catches the
eye--custom vans, Trans Ams, corduroy pants, skateboards, dirtbikes, beach
sunsets, and puffy, decal-like logo letters. Just read the names of songs
like "Neptune's Convoy," "Sleestack," and "Eatin' Dust," and see if you
don't start smelling the aroma of bong resin ground into the shag carpet of
some wood-paneled basement.
On their fifth full-length LP, King of the Road, Fu Manchu keep
on truckin', with no apparent creative advance over their established
style. Dual fuzz-tone guitars blow out power chords over a thundering,
bottom-heavy rhythm section, and what melody exists is carried by the
central riff alone--the choruses typically consist of the band shouting the
songs' goofy titles. Some tracks are fast, some are slow, but all crank up
the volume until the EQ needle is trembling in the red. About the best that
can be said is that Fu Manchu have polished their shtick until it sparkles.
King of the Road is slick and highly listenable, in a one-note kind
of way.
But a funny thing has happened in the past few years. The grunge
"movement"--which attempted to achieve the same sort of '70s alchemy as Fu
Manchu, only sloppier and with more punk attitude--died a messy death.
Since then, almost all the fist-in-the-air hard rock bands have
disappeared. Almost by default, Fu Manchu have gone from being a
dime-a-dozen goof to the best of a vanishing breed. If you want that
irresponsible, Saturday-night, cruising-the-Kroger-parking-lot,
12-pack-and-eight-track feeling, Fu Manchu is just about your only
connection. Unless, of course, you actually want to listen to Foghat.

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