Indie Trends: Broken Guitars (January 2011)
by Chris Polley
Vrrrrrrrrrr. Blish blish blish. Kkhh kkhh fffooohh!
Go ahead: try sounding that out. Adding some guttural textures that can’t really be represented using letters and punctuation might help. Does it sound like polyglot gibberish, assorted headache-inducing sound effects from the next Michael Bay film, or purposeful sounds from a guitar plugged into various antiquated effects pedals? Does it fall somewhere in between? Well each of those clauses represents my personal attempt to translate three different morbid sounds of the six-string axe as contorted by the three artists thrust into the spotlight for this month’s edition of Indie Trends.
Obviously the guitars discussed herein aren’t literally broken. I toyed with the idea of playing dumb for this examination and viewing the sounds emanating from the amps as unfortunate mistakes or aberrations of nature, but decided against it because it belies the point (not to mention it’s a gimmick that would likely get old after a couple sentences, much less paragraphs). Rock musicians today and really throughout time, especially those of the critically acclaimed variety, have always been fascinated by the concept of creation through destruction, and this needs to be aired out in order to see the recent evolution of the composition strategy.
Wire “Two Minutes” Red Barked Tree [Pink Flag]
Here’s a legendary band that rears its head every once in a while to remind us how to keep it real, as they have in the past few weeks with both a new EP (Strays) and its companion piece, the more fully realized full-length Red Barked Tree. Since the late 70s, Colin Newman and co. have been infrequently churning out some of the most immediately enjoyable rock music with a destructive bent, largely because they seem more concerned with delighting and enlightening, rather than thrashing and combating. With this twelfth studio album, the band takes the next logical step in their nuanced yet admittedly drawn out progression from jagged and angular post-punk that they helped found in the subgenre’s infancy to the soft and welcoming sounds of (and this is said with as much reverence as possible) a bunch of old dudes who want to mellow out yet hold onto the roots of their ideals.
The last part of this statement is key because while yes it almost floats and soothes in its airy tones and atmospheric swells, they’re still headstrong about breaking their guitars in the process. A warbly synthesizer in “Clay” distracts from the signature metallic steadiness that molds the guitar into an industrial machine. Alone it would sound dreadful, but juxtaposed it’s the backbone of the track. Similarly, bumpy album opener “Please Take” and velocity/volume high-point “Two Minutes” exemplify a dangerous side to the group that has popped up even more intermittently than the band itself over the years, reminding us that a) distortion isn’t off limits once you reach a certain age as long as you b) make sure the textures are crafted rather than chosen, sculpted rather than blasted.
Tennis “Cape Dory” Cape Dory [Fat Possum]
Or there’s always the fuzz or overdrive pedal set at a level three or four, which offers a glaze of brokenness without giving into the extreme transmogrification of the aging experts in sound manipulation, like the Denver duo Tennis does with their debut, entitled Cape Dory. Another bonus derived from this method is that when paired with bubbly female vocals and a bouncy bass line (like on “Long Boat Pass” or the title track), it suddenly sound purposefully retro and playful, a combination which is always fun for the kids. The furtive move that Tennis make that many of their brethren haven’t quite caught onto yet, however, is that as long as the guitar (and on some tracks, a post-production vocal effect) is the only instrument that actually sounds lo-fi, then you won’t have to deal with the baggage that begrudges that label. Make sure the masters crush the original, add reverb to the drums but still make sure they pop with the rest of the low end, and bam! You’ve got yourself a brilliantly subtle take on a genre that has for too long suffered from lack of vibrancy and accessibility.
The downside to this, of course, is that it emphasizes the artifice behind it all. The guitars, which sounded tweefully broken upon first listen, now become cheaters suffused into the background, clashing awkwardly with the punchy glow of the rest of it throughout future headphone sessions. Is the grouping of sounds both past and present so glaringly synthetic that it takes away from the pure pop melodies that drive the whole thing in the first place? Certainly not, because at the end of the day this is a band that loves 90s female-led power pop bands just as much as it loves 50s girl groups, so it makes sense that they’re picking and choosing aural qualities from both piles. Also, if you’re really sick of the throwback craze, understand that they’re just trying to take something that has lost its zest and reinvigorate it one more time before it’s officially done to death. Good on them – they’re getting in just under the wire. Whether or not they have longevity on their side is yet to be seen, but judging by their clever yet subtle re-workings on the broken guitar sound, there is definitely hope on the horizon.
Smith Westerns “Weekend” Dye it Blonde [Fat Possum]
Funnily enough, our last entry comes from the same label as the previous (Fat Possum), which itself is best known for originally trafficking in one of the leading modern experts of the buzzing broken guitar, Mr. Dan Auerbach of The Black Keys. With that kind of pedigree, you know that with a little Pitchfork love and similar squealing fretwork, signing a band like Smith Westerns is kind of a no-brainer. The ease with which this logic works is befuddling to me, as I was bored to tears by Smith Westerns’ performance at the Pitchfork Music Festival this year, but I’m digging the hell out of the recorded version of these woody and sparkly pop gems. (Side note: confounding me even more is the fact that The Black Keys live are always mesmerizing, but I have yet to feel goose bumps while listening to their recorded output, save for “10 A.M. Automatic”.)
As I’m drowning myself in the exploratory guitar sounds laden all over the Chicago band’s sophomore record Dye it Blonde, I keep finding myself wanting to blame the stark difference solely on the innovative production, a quality that often cannot be replicated on stage no matter how talented the musician, but I also have a nagging feeling in the back of my head telling me that it can’t be that simple. Perhaps I just did not give them enough of a shake in that hot hot sun on that crowded, exhausting afternoon. Perhaps I wasn’t paying close enough attention to the magnanimous slide guitar on “All Die Young” or the dying yet manic trills exuding from the steel pickups on “Weekend” as I laid on the hard half-bare ground by the port-o-potties way in the back. Whatever the case may be, I must forgo self-analysis for the sheer joy that comes from hearing the sound of destruction turned into something so celebratory.