 |
Brattitude
Two rock bands both start to grow up
By Noel Murray
SEPTEMBER 27, 1999:
It's difficult to pinpoint, but it's possible that the word "bratty"
entered the rock-critic lexicon in 1976, when The Modern Lovers released
their long-delayed self-titled debut. The word certainly got a workout with
the subsequent arrival of The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, and Elvis Costello.
Rock 'n' roll had long harbored both arrogant youngsters and musical
primitives, but "bratty" seemed to be the only word appropriate to cover
this new wave of music, where the two impulses intersected. Though prior
wunderkind like Phil Spector and Todd Rundgren had tried to sound
experienced beyond their years, these brats combined precociousness with
infantilism--they'd bake a pretty cake and then smush it into the carpet.
"Bratty" is still applied from time to time to musicians who combine
some or all of the following elements: a doggedly minimalist sound, nasal
vocals, snide posturing, and childlike lyrical obsessions. Lately, the word
pops up in describing two otherwise disparate bands, the Portland,
Ore.-based Quasi and the Scottish group Bis. But almost simultaneously,
both acts are changing; 1999 finds the brats trying to grow up.
Field Studies, Quasi's just-released third album (not counting a
hard-to-find collection of home recordings) doesn't initially sound too
different from 1997's R&B Transmogrification or last year's
Featuring "Birds." That's the curse of staking out a distinctive,
stripped-down sound. Quasi is essentially a duo, with former
Heatmiser/Built to Spill utilityman Sam Coomes on guitar and "rocksichord"
(a modified organ), and Coomes' ex-wife Janet Weiss on drums (the same
position she holds in Sleater-Kinney). Coomes plays his high, sing-songy
vocals off Weiss' more nuanced background harmonies, while both of them
bash away as noisily as they can on their tiny instruments.
It's a good sound, immediately arresting, with accents of flying-saucer
beach pop and West Coast country-rock (especially when Coomes lets his
slide guitar gently weep). But there's only so much to be done with it, and
the seesaw cadence that Coomes applies to nearly all of his spiky lyrics
tends to flatten out the band's records, making each song sound like the
one before it, and therefore less and less special.
Except on Field Studies, which finds Quasi slowing down the
tempos, lengthening the songs, and emphasizing the words. Coomes plays
straight piano as much as he does his rocksichord, and the divorcees bring
in a three-piece string section to sweeten the more frequent quiet
passages. Also, pal Elliot Smith adds bass to a couple of tracks, including
the jaded "All the Same," which pulses like a sounding alarm clock, and the
spare, poetic "Empty Words," which rocks gently until the breaks, when it
crashes like high tide. Unlike Quasi's prior records, Field Studies
displays a subtle sense of variety that keeps the music interesting not
only on the 14th track of the album, but also on the 14th spin.
This goes a long way toward broadening the listener's impression of
Quasi, who previously seemed to be a good-time band shouting perversely
bitter lyrics. Now a song like "Under a Cloud" has a more fully realized
point-of-view. Coomes' wry vocal and "first-day-of-piano-lessons"
key-pounding underscore his brisk nursery rhyme, about how he'd rather live
in gloom because it matches his arrested emotional state--which in turn
matches the intentionally underdeveloped music. What Quasi offers is still
fundamentally the acerbic wail of a know-it-all adolescent, but at least
now the wail is more articulated. We feel their frustration, even if we
don't quite share it.
Bis is coming from a slightly different place. Whereas Sam Coomes of
Quasi is inclined to indict a materialist society for his inability to find
love, the kids from Bis are more likely to complain that it's a school
night, and they can't stay out late dancing.
Starting as actual teenagers in 1994, Bis promoted themselves as part of
a "Teen-C Revolution"--although the Scots' cartoonishly drawn
self-portraits and their lyrics about dinosaurs and rollerblading seemed to
evoke preadolescence. They were part of a still growing worldwide youth
trend, wherein older kids, terrified of growing up, actively try to
recapture the mindless fun of sugar-filled Saturday mornings.
Social Dancing, Bis' second full-length LP on the Beastie Boys'
Grand Royal imprint (following scores of import EPs and domestic
compilations), still relies on keyboardist Manda Rin's angry-cheerleader
vocals and the hyperactive videogame-soundtrack grinding of guitarist
Sci-fi Steve and drummer John Disco. But their non-stop party sound is put
into an interesting context by producer Andy Gill, former leader of the
insurgent staccato-funk band Gang of Four. The young consumers meet the
beat-obsessed socialist, and the tension produces a Bis with a little more
wink behind its brashness.
While the band sings about being a "Shopoholic" or a night at a
"Eurodisco," the musical backdrop is so kinetic that it confronts the
listener with the noisy results of unchecked capitalism. Gill pushes a busy
mix, with buzzsaw guitar, hand claps, and wonky beeps that sound like a
computer overheating. Bis' latent irony (always present in songs like "Kill
Yr Boyfriend" and "Clockwork Punk") is now as prevalent in the musical
arrangements as the band's homages to Japanese pop culture. Even if the
overall results sound mostly like the early Thompson Twins, that's more
enjoyable than it sounds. (Hey, listen to Side Kicks again
sometime--it's still a fun record.)
The main advantage that Gill brings to Bis, though, is an emphasis on
bottom. Bis, like Quasi (and like many "bratty" bands), has no regular
bassist, which means its music lacks the deep sexuality that the bass
guitar adds to rock 'n' roll. Often the appeal of "youth-centric" acts like
Bis--like the appeal of old TV-show lunchboxes and Atari 2600 video
games--is the evocation of a "simpler" time, when young men and women
didn't have to fret about responsibility, relationships, or, yes, sex.
But growing up has its pleasures, too, including both sex and the thrill
of being taken seriously. And listening to a band grow up is a pleasure.
Bis and Quasi both have made entertaining music before, but unless you were
pining for the angst and silliness of middle school, they were hard to
listen to for more than 15 minutes at a stretch. Now it's like your goofy
nephew has stopped talking about his favorite cartoons and wants you to
read his essay on the failings of the two-party system. Sure, you feel a
pang of regret for lost youth, but more than that, you feel kinda
proud.

|



|