Download: Thao with the Get Down Stay Down – “Know Better Learn Faster”

(from Know Better Learn Faster, out now on Kill Rock Stars)

Thao Nguyen is the hetero indie dudes’ dream girl: an adorable multi-instrumentalist who wears her heart on her sleeve yet is secretly really sad (but not too sad to dance). What makes Nguyen an even better catch is that she flies past the whole Jenny-Lewis-bunny-like-adorableness and straight into Ani DiFranco-intensity, with darker-than-Feist throaty vocals. Her first album was mostly acoustic (the songs written while strumming behind the desk at mom’s Laundromat), but after incorporating a backing band called the Get Down Stay Down, Nguyen expanded her perfectly crafted plucked melodies into 2008’s folk-inspired We Brave Bee Stings and All.  But this new album with the Get Down Stay Down is Nguyen’s most mature yet. Know Better Learn Faster is eleven songs and one a cappella intro that attempt to reconcile Nguyen’s new emotions about sex and love with experiments in new musical styles. The first song, “Cool Yourself,” features Nguyen’s signature husky vocals, this time over fuzz-free Fender-plucking backed by shoo-bee-doo-wop piano banging straight out of an early sixties girl group tune.  “Know Better Learn Faster” evokes old Bright Eyes for the first three minutes, and then everything stops—except for a theremin that was probably playing in the background the whole time—and the last minute plays out like a pentatonic Southeast Asian traditional dance accompaniment. Although a few songs drift back into the acoustic minimalism of Nguyen’s roots, the majority of Know Better Learn Faster is rich with darkly upbeat layers and identity-seeking sound experiments. And in the end, listeners will end up like Nguyen—smiling through the sadness.

-Sarah Bennett

Download: The Raincoats “Lola”

(from the self-titled album reissued Tuesday on Kill Rock Stars)

The girls in the Raincoats have covered the Monks, but didn’t originally know the Monks possibly because they were so much like the Monks—formed perfectly from nothing and destined to disappear too quickly and leave anyone who discovered them later wondering how they’d ever happened in the first place. (Like Kurt Cobain, who wrote about them in Incesticide and helped get their albums reissued on CD.) Johnny Rotten famously called them the only band that didn’t make him throw up and that can’t be anything but true, even today. They play their first-ever Los Angeles show on October 11 at the Part Time Punks fest. This interview by Kevin Ferguson.

I see a lot of similarities between the Monks and the Raincoats. Odyshape is such a unique record with no context. People have barely started ripping off the Monks now and how long will it be before the Raincoats? Twenty years?
Ana da Silva (guitar/vocals): It’s strange you say that because a friend of mine just said that to me, and I kind of thought, ‘Actually, I don’t really know anything like it.’ I’m not saying we’re more original than anybody else, but it was our own thing. We tried everything, so it came out sounding quite different. I think you could kind of see that they’re all Raincoats songs, but they’re also very different among each other because we always tried really hard with each song to just try something new and explore things—find room for all the ideas that we had.
Did that hurt the band dynamics later on?
Ana da Silva: They were always difficult! Everybody was always bringing in new ideas. Obviously, that’s always a bit hard to take for other people—when you come in saying ‘You know, I have this idea and it’s different from yesterday.’ The rest of the band has to kind of get around that together with you. There was no problem with writing songs, really. I always found that the most fun. You put something from here, something from there, and everybody brings their own little bit different to somebody else. We never thought you got to a point when things sounded really good, because we never thought it was really finished. Still to this day, if we have a rehearsal for two hours before a gig and we haven’t done a song in two years we’ll still change something. We felt that the music was still alive, and you can always add something else into it if you like it.
Do you think that quote about you guys breaking up because of too many influences is bullshit?
Ana da Silva: I don’t think it’s the influences that are the problem. It’s where you want to go with the band that was the problem eventually. Some members were keen on going in a more palatable way—kind of going away from where we had started—and maybe the other members didn’t like that. That’s true. Like east African music into the Raincoats—to me that didn’t seem to make too much sense. And I think some people wanted to have some kind of more mainstream success. I felt that there was sort of a will to maybe compromise with certain things and I wasn’t keen on that. It just got very difficult.
What’s the most important thing you learned on stage?
Ana da Silva: Concentrate, and don’t drink! I drank one time—just a couple of drinks—and then I couldn’t remember the lyrics. I thought, ‘I’ll never do that again!’ We didn’t really know how to play well—that’s what Gina meant when she said we learned how to play on stage. But we weren’t the only ones. It’s just that there are lots of bands—men don’t usually say that about themselves. In fact, we had a classically trained violinist in our band! Yes, Gina learned to play after we decided to have our band and only a few months after we decided to have a band, we had our first gig. I kind of knew a little bit of guitar—I knew chords but I couldn’t play solo or jam with somebody else. We were ropey, to say the least, but we concentrated on the rehearsals. Instead of learning how to play things really well and getting tight, we just kept changing and changing all the time. I think that’s why she said that we learned to play on stage, because we didn’t know—especially her! She didn’t know how to play. We rehearsed a lot, but it was more creating than getting tighter. We’re still not tight, after all these years.
Do you ever find yourself trying to sound less ‘professional’?
Ana da Silva: No. We just try to do our best all the time. We never did that much practicing at home to get really good at it. We don’t try to sound worse than we already do. That would be terrible! I don’t think tightness is a desirable thing necessarily. It’s just having a lot of ideas and making the music sound good. I think music has to have pleasant things: melodies, harmonies, rhythms, noise and silence … all those elements. To me, music is a really big thing—there’s many possibilities. And that’s the most important thing. Much more than being tight. Of course, nowadays people are used to very tight music because of computers and drum machines. I think there’s room for that kind of thing, but for us it’s more what feels right and comfortable.
What’s the weirdest noise you’ve ever made on your guitar?
Ana da Silva: I don’t know, it’s just the way it sounded. We did the first album at a studio on Barry Street. Maybe it’s the sound of Barry Street!
Do you remember that Johnny Rotten quote about how the Raincoats were the only band that didn’t make him puke?
Ana da Silva: Yes! Is it just the Raincoats or does he mention another band?
Just the Raincoats.
Ana da Silva: We were having this debate with each other: ‘Did he say just say the Raincoats or did he add Delta 5?’ We wondered if we were forgetting somebody else. We were having conscience problems!
How did it feel when he said you were the only good band left?
Ana da Silva: We were really happy. He’s always somebody I’ve respected. I also heard one time that David Bowie said that he really liked us. But I didn’t hear it myself, so I can’t really be sure of that.
Da Silva is a Portuguese name, right?
Ana da Silva: It’s where I’m from! I had been here before for a month one time and I really liked London. I had just finished university and I didn’t know what to do. I just got into a plane and came to see what it would be like, and then it went from there. I didn’t have a specific reason, I just came, worked in a restaurant, and then I decided to study art. That’s when I met Gina—we decided to form the band.
I read a quote from Gina: ‘When I came to London, I had about four albums with me. I had a Prince Buster album, I had Sgt. Pepper’s, and I had a Melanie album, I think the first one. And I had Toots and the Maytals’ Funky Kingston.’
Ana da Silva: I don’t think I brought anything with me, actually. I came with a very small suitcase. I think I brought some cassettes? They were compilation cassettes that I had made, sort of. One of the first albums that I bought after I was here was Horses by Patti Smith. I heard it at a party of a friend—I thought, ‘God, I’ve never heard anything like this before!’ I asked who it was, and they said it was this woman Patti Smith. Next thing I knew I went and bought the record at the Rough Trade shop.
What was it like the first time you played in America?
Ana da Silva: It was great! Going there was great and New York was the most amazing thing. It was a bit like a dream place—so different than anything I had ever seen. You see all that smoke come out of the street and you think, ‘God, I’m in a kind of film!’ But I’ve never been to the West Coast. I never thought I’d go with the Raincoats because we don’t really exist as a working band anymore. I’m so happy that we’re going to San Francisco and Los Angeles and Portland, and I think we’re going to New York as well.
The Raincoats are really different from your solo work—you use a sequencer for most of your solo material and the Raincoats are way more loose.
Ana da Silva: It’s a completely different way of working. You just put the notes there, press play, and then it’s done. I used a sequencer, yes, and now I’m using a computer. I’ve learned how to deal with Logic Pro—it’s a bit of a nightmare but I’m there now. But when I play with the Raincoats, I play mostly guitar and sing. It’s a very different thing. They don’t even cross over.
Just an entirely separate region in your brain?
Ana da Silva: Probably! My hands!
Do people really cry at Raincoats shows?
Ana da Silva: I haven’t personally seen that but I’ve known because people have told me. I’ve cried a couple times—certain songs more than others. I just remembered—when Kurt Cobain died we were doing a gig in New York. We didn’t know he had died because we were in the van going to New York and then we were on stage doing sound check. The person from Geffen was there and he told us. During the whole performance when I was singing my songs, I just kept relating certain lines to what had happened. He used to really like ‘The Void.’ I knew that the audience was feeling a great loss because of him dying and all that. It was a very, very emotional gig. I didn’t cry though, because I was determined not to even talk about it.
Did the Nirvana-era fans treat you any differently from those in the ’80s? What about your fans today?
Ana da Silva: We had quite a lot of respect from people of our time—like Gang of Four and the Slits. Lots of people liked what we did. We didn’t feel isolated in that way. I didn’t know Nirvana’s music when I found out that he was a fan—I heard that later. I was really, really thrilled when I heard it! I liked his stuff and what he carried on doing. We reissued everything on CD, which we wanted to do. These records haven’t been available for a long time—they should still be available. That whole generation and the riot grrrl movement as well—they seem to have been quite inspired by us. I suppose that all those bands during that era seemed to like what we did in that way. Suddenly you think it was worth doing because it’s still having some kind of impact.
Do you think the Raincoats sound feminine?
Ana da Silva: I think they do. We didn’t think of anything like that though. It was just a group of women together playing music. But then we started thinking, ‘Is there something female about this?’ And I kind of think there is. It’s very difficult for me to say and I’m not into a lot of theory and things but I think there is. It’s up to you as a listener though. Do you think we do?
I’m not sure I can say one way or another because the band is so unique. There’s nobody out there to compare the Raincoats with.
Ana da Silva: The other day, for instance, I was listening to Blur. They were playing—I don’t know—Glastonbury or something, and I was thinking, ‘This isn’t even man’s music, this is lad’s music!’ It’s boisterously masculine, a bit like people in the pub singing together or at a football match and they all go, ‘Ahhhhhhhh ruuuuuuuhhhh!’ To me that sounded really male, and our music is female. I guess because it’s by females. Our manager is female. When we recorded we had men producing. At the time I don’t know if there was a woman producer out there even. Any group is a sum of the members of that group; we were four women. There’s characteristics, you know, when we all sing together—it’s just like a bunch of girls singing in a playground!
Do you think it’s different to be a woman playing music today than before?
Ana da Silva: Not enough in my opinion. People sometimes feel very—I don’t know—scared, I think. You need to have a bit of cheek. For any art you need to have a bit of … you could call it courage or cheek, whatever. Just go for it! I think maybe women are a bit more scared with not being very good at walking into a shop and buying a guitar. But a lot of men I know feel the same way—they go into a shop and they feel completely frozen because of the way they play. I think it’s rubbish, really—it’s horrible!

THE RAINCOATS WITH SECTION 25, MEDIUM MEDIUM, KID CONGO POWERS, THE JAZZ BUTCHER, ABE VIGODA AND MANY MORE AT THE PART TIME PUNKS FESTIVAL ON SUN., OCT. 11, AT THE ECHO, 1822 SUNSET BLVD., ECHO PARK. 3 PM / $20-25 / 18+. ATTHEECHO.COM. THE RAINCOATS’ SELF-TITLED LP WILL BE REISSUED ON KILL ROCK STARS ON TUES., OCT. 13. VISIT RAINCOATS AT THERAINCOATS.NET OR MYSPACE.COM/THERAINCOATS.

Check out live photos of the show

Back in 1994, the “good ‘ol days” of alternative music if you will, a little-known duo dubbed Deerhoof managed to rock the socks off the folks at Kill Rock Stars.  Fifteen years and ten studio albums later, this indie rock band has managed not only to keep music fans interested, but to keep them on their toes. When one thinks of seeing a live Deerhoof performance, a playful and twisted musical rollercoaster might come to mind. People trying to dig a little deeper to find a decent description of Deerhoof’s sound have come up with adjectives like “melodically skewed” and “bombastically schizophrenic.” Impervious to the limitations of monikers, their DIY sonic aura has set them apart from most current bands. And that is exactly what Deerhoof fans witnessed Friday, July 31st, at the Echoplex in Los Angeles.

From Satomi Matsuzaki’s perfectly subtle vocals and Greg Saunier’s mesmerizing beats to the dynamic presence of guitarists John Dieterich and Ed Rodriguez, the elements weaved un-relentlessly through songs from their most recent release, Offend Maggie, as well as from their seemingly endless catalog of material. Something about seeing Deerhoof live intensifies the complexities of their music. The combined energy of the musicians and fans experiencing the music together creates an entirely new way to enjoy the band’s impressive and unique arrangement of sounds.

—Taylor Loftin

—Dan Clodfelter

(from Offend Maggie out Tue., Oct. 7, on Kill Rock Stars)

Mudhoney @ El Rey—[INTERVIEW]
The Skeletons / Nite Jewel @ Smell
Deerhoof @ Echoplex—[INTERVIEW]
Little Ones @ Echo
Castledoor / Parson Redheads / Slings @ Alex

[youtube:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1rrnTDDhVnw]

Barr “The Song is the Single”

Brendan Fowler moved BARR from New York to L.A. and added the extra ‘R’ for his friend Mick Barr. He has returned to solo BARR after playing with the BARR band and has another new project called Disaster.

Why were you sick in a Travelodge?
It was my first tour of the U.K., and my immune system was not equipped for the U.K. viral system, and as the song says, I’d just gotten through this insane break-up thing, and I crashed. The guy from Upset The Rhythm—who I’m fortunate to get to work with—just he and I were in a car on tour, and we had to cancel a bunch of shows and camped up in a Travelodge in Leeds which is in the depressing part of England. Classic England—the stereotype of gray and dreary and cold and wet—and I was super fucking sick and so he’d try to leave the room to give me space. He’d walk around in the rain and watch movies and buy records he already had, and I’d be in the room sobbing sick. That was the first time I ever got really super-super depressed. He came back after being out all day—soaked to the bone—and I was sort of asleep, and I woke up and went into the bathroom and was running the shower and flushing the toilet to make noise so he wouldn’t hear me sobbing. I was so sad.
That’s heartbreaking.
That’s real.
Why did you once cry at band practice?
That was with the live band the first time—I’m probably a sensitive person, but if something hits me really hard, I will totally start crying. If stuff is really funny or really perfect or actually perfectly nails the mark—that to me is the ultimate response. That thing with the band—Summary to me is the only record I made that I feel proud of in its entirety. I conceived of it for a band and to have the band actually playing—it sounded perfect! Also I wanted that record to be really—maybe to really break you. To get raw—like if you give into it, you could break apart if you wanted to.
What’s a record that does that for you?
A Microphones song called ‘Gray Ghosts,’ and some Smog record—probably any Smog record. He’s my hero.
Who was your first musical hero?
I think the Cure? My best friend was kind of a sister character—she had older sisters who were older alternative kids—so I got into a lot of ‘80s alternative music. I saw the Cure when I was eleven—my first concert!—and I saw Morrissey when I was 12. We’d lived in Berkeley and my mother and I moved to rural Maryland—total culture shock at age eight or nine. We were from Berkeley so I already had a sense like ‘Reagan is fucked!’
Were you allowed to play with G.I. Joes?
No, totally—blowing up Reagan with my G.I. Joes! But in Maryland, Def Leppard and all was so popular then—really the anthem of the big-hair people I wasn’t psyched to be around—and the Cure was really useful. I got into misunderstood misfit music extra young. I think I was fortunate.
One writer said you were equal parts hardcore and hip-hop—do you agree?
No, not at all. Technically it may be? It’s pretty stripped-down. And I do this gesture live. It’s become called ‘the hardcore pose.’ It’s like a Rollins shot. I think the calmer the music gets—and it’s going in that direction—the funnier the hardcore pose is. I’ll hold it for almost the whole show. And from in terms of the idea of getting people to communicate and participate in dialogue, I appreciate that in hardcore a lot. From hip-hop—I’m kind of tone-deaf, but I’m working hard to learn how to sing. I couldn’t learn to sing well so I started rhythmically talking—people equate it to hip-hop. I love rap and I love commercial rap—I’m sure it does influence me in some way.
In a lot of photos you like like Henry Rollins plus Jonathan Richman.
That’s cute! The photo doesn’t lie!
Between D. Boon, Mitch Hedberg and Jonathan Richman, who would you designate as spirit guide?
Fuck man—you’re good! I feel like in the end, Mitch’s pain consumed him. My dad died of a heroin OD, too. So probably not Mitch for that reason. D. Boon—that was just really tragedy. Jonathan is still kicking it. Richman was a little more a solo dude—like maybe he can’t work with people that well?
In 2006 you said one-man bands were the wave of the future—what changed?
A couple things! I’m pretty reactionary!
Do you shout at the TV a lot?
No, but I definitely do stuff on what I see other people doing—like in reverse. If I see a lot of people wearing a certain thing, I’ll stop wearing it. Part of it was like, ‘Wow, everyone has a one-man band.’ It was really rad and I’m super-psyched for empowerment, but then I was like ‘OK, I wanna have a band now.’ I felt like I took it as far as I could as a solo person on stage, and I was also really interested in how it would sound, and it came out amazing! We did the U.S. and Europe tour for three months, and did the last show in London in May, and then I didn’t play a BARR show. I tried in Portland in September—tried to do an experiment, and it got fucked up because a computer virus at the studio. And then these shows in March—it took that long to get ready and to figure out how to play again. I had to figure out a new way to do it. The new music is really empty and spacious. Sonically there’s a lot of room.
Dub BARR?
It’s not dubby because dub is super not staccato. This is like OOP… BOOP… BOOP.
You’ve described what you do as public speaking about the human condition—how long have you had that idea?
It came pretty early—the first version of BARR when I was in New York, without the extra R. The first BARR was really hostile. Attacking and grabbing people and wrestling the audience—really physical. I moved to L.A. in February 2002 and I was still in that mode and I played a show at Claremont College and I went out and was like, ‘I’m gonna kill these kids!’ And I got there and everyone was so sweet. It’s funny—BARR was really built as a response to that situation. I took a few months off and added a second ‘R’ as a tribute to my friend Mick Barr. It’s directly named after him—his idea, actually! He gave me a rugby with his family crest. And then Tracy and the Plastics—Wynee is a really good friend and I was really inspired and engaged on how it was really overt political dialogue that wasn’t corny. Gender politics and queer and political and personal politics in way that was new and exciting and compelling. It didn’t trick people into being engaged. It wasn’t like ‘Hey, come to this rally!’ She was super-funny and super-charming and the music was incredible—it was so compelling. Almost before you realized you were enmeshed in it. In California, I wasn’t consumed by being anxious and stressed. There was space to make something. I just thought about it like… what do I have? I can’t really sing, I can’t really play—I went to school for drums and I was kind of already speaking, so… I wanted to make something really direct, really communicatory.
Why is ‘Context Ender’ your favorite song?
It’s the first song I made that I felt really proud of that I think is actually beautiful as a song—totally removed from the vocals! The first song I made that I would want to hear.
You can’t listen to your own stuff?
Summary is without a doubt the first record I ever made that’s listenable. When I first started BARR, I didn’t wanna release records. I thought I would wanna watch this, but I would not listen to this at all. And when anybody—and I’m not saying there was a rush on BARR records—but when anyone told me they listened to it, at first I didn’t believe them. And then I was like… wow, man. ‘Context Ender’ is a lot about where you listen to music and listen to songs and how you hear things. It’s a song about Pitchfork. I kind of figured they’d trash the record because they actively don’t like me. They’re immature—this much we know. I’m not taking away from their cultural thing—but you can! But that song—so where do people listen to BARR? The context really really matters. Like listening to minimal techno if you’re on weird speakers—you’re not hearing the sound-sculpting in the bass and you might not be psyched. Or if my record comes on in a crowded car when you’re trying to have a conversation—that’s a nightmare! But I don’t know where—I think England? People are more chatty and neurotic and flipped out. People like it a lot more there. I really appreciate when people write letters—this record was really mean to give people things to relate to. I wanted to write the ultimate break-up song.
What’s the penultimate break-up song?
I don’t wanna answer—I don’t wanna take it away from anyone! But I wanted to approach it differently. The song I made wasn’t like you’re jamming on a melody making you cry. The one I made isn’t even in time, and there’s just one bass hit. I wanted it to sound like it’s in your mind—like how you feel when you’re on the floor crying in a really messy break-up. The way a movie could but gnarlier—but intense because it’s on headphones and it’s in your head. After a couple minutes the bass comes in, like when you get the weird chills when you break up with somebody—like your life is endng or starting over. I wanted it to be functional to people.
Like medicine?
Yeah! I listened once since I made it to check it out—but it’s so painful that I don’t wanna try and relive that song. I feel like ‘Context Ender’—that song is really empowering in a dynamic way that is kind of real. Not like ‘Yeah, man, pumpin’ your fist!’ Not empowering in a ‘We Will Rock You’ by Queen kind of way, but empowering… it’s kind of acknowledging life is super-fucking complicated. It’s a portrait of watching somebody navigate these complicated dynamics and coming through the other side. It’s sort of a positive breakdown—the end is breakdowned out.
What’s the best interview question you ever asked?
I don’t know the answer to that question. I’m sorry. Unfortunately I just stripped you of that potential where the interview ends just perfect.

BARR WITH RELIGIOUS KNIVES AND LITTLE CLAW ON FRI., MAR. 21, AT THE SMELL, 247 S. MAIN ST., LOS ANGELES. 9 PM / $5 / ALL AGES. THESMELL.ORG. VISIT BARR AT BARRBARR.COM.