From Chris Murray, fronter of many fronts, experiments, and minds – and for this purpose: The Hepatitties.
What follows are his thoughts on the passing of Peaches Geldof. The words are his own candid sentiment – a modern-day rarity – servings as the first (and, god willing, the last ) look back at a period in our collective history that is venerable, honorable, and – well – peachy:
I’m not sure what qualifies me to eulogize Peaches Geldof, other than the fact that I briefly fronted a band, The Hepatitties, for which I used various online media accounts of the young woman’s experiences, as fodder to write songs from her singular, and absolutely fascinating perspective.
As author of these songs, I suppose I do have a unique perspective, at least amongst Nashvillians, of what it might have been like to walk even a few miles in her designer pumps, to feel the evening dew thru her ink-adorned skin, to love and fuck and take needle drugs as her beautiful young synapses fire and misfire inside that lonely skull, topped with silken blonde hair…
I suppose what fascinated me with Peaches all along were these dissonances that seemed to be at the very core of her person: she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but never hesitant to use it for melting down heroin with lemon juice. She could bed damn near any man, but chose for her first husband the ginger lead singer of ridiculous electropop/rap group, Chester French. Her face was soft and round, but usually covered in gaudy rouge, and her skin, so supple, alabaster smooth, but criss-crossed with hastily designed ink in her later years. She was an essentially conflicted, and therefor free person, it seemed to me, physically and emotionally untethered.
To me, Peaches represented a unique point on the celestial map of celebrity infatuation: not fully present in any specific time or geographical zone, but existing mostly in, propped up by the digital consciousness shared by Gawker.com readers, and perhaps more importantly, by her reliably tabloid-obsessed home country of England. Peaches gave us the mytheme that we so desperately need for meme. There can be no myth without a people to share it, after all. The fetish object is not a fetish at all, without a pervert.
The second Hepatitties EP, Banality Winkin’, explored Mrs. Geldof’s lately refined emotional sensibilities, her newfound introspection upon the birth of first born son, Astala Geldof-Cohen, as evidenced by her personal Twitter and Instagram feeds. Since the completion of this recording, Peaches gave birth to a second son, Phaedra Geldof-Cohen, and adopted two dogs: Bowgsley and another (whose name I forget,) and seemed to be further distancing herself from the hard-partying lifestyle of her late teenage years.
The Peaches Geldof of old had recently seemed to be dying in favor of a new, more “adult” version of herself. Perhaps she was just not ready to see her real self, her tabloid self, the drug-addled, occasionally chubby society plumb, wilt away on life’s pedestrian counter top.
Goodnight, Peaches. May God have mercy on us all.
“IF YOU ARE A TRUE DEVOTEE OF MUSIC THAT EXHIBITS THE NATURALLY RAW YET SOPHISTICATED UNADULTERATED TRUTH–TO THE NTH DEGREE–THEN THESE PRODUCTS ARE DEFINITELY FOR YOU!!” - Quote from Uuquipleu Records
In 1974, The Lyman Woodard Organization was in the middle of a 2 year, 6-night-a-week gig at J.J.’s Lounge in the Shelby Hotel in Detroit. This live capturing of the band is pure magic, and so much so that it makes me wonder: was this night a highlight of their powers, or did they just obliterate the room 626 times?
Regardless, it is magical none the less. For my ears, this is a fantastic recording of highly in-tune players digging in hard – and often. From start to finish you have the grooves of Leonard King on drums, Norma Bell on sax, the legend Ron English on guitar, and Lyman Woodard himself on organ. Aided on a few tracks by “percussionist” Lorenzo Brown and the powerfully mononymous Sundiata on congas, the resulting music is incredibly funky and tight, veering off on more than one occasion into a freer, jazz-inherited sound that moves beyond categorization and is just fucking awesome.
Reading about all the people involved with the Lyma Woodard Organization, you get the sense that everyone cared about their home town of Detroit immensely. There were multiple local labels ran between them (“Live at J.J.’s” came out on drummer Leonard King’s Uuquipleu Records), with sounds ranging from the Detroit House sound, Jazz, Disco, Funk and any concoction imaginable of those ingredients. They all played on almost exclusively Detroit-based albums, the exception being Ron English, and did so in spite of a lengthy, tumultuous history. On top of it all, Lyman Woodard’s full story is pretty interesting (also, check out is album with his trio and Dennis Coffey of ‘Hair and Thangs’ fame — psych-funk glory).
I’m certainly not spilling any information that can’t be found on the internet elsewhere (and more definitively). The way it’s all recorded, deteriorated yet still clear, sounds just great to me. The recording itself is both close (you can hear the crowd engaging or responding to their stellar performance) and has an objective distance at the same time. Beautiful.
Take a listen below to a track and find the whole album on Spotify. You can also follow us on the old Spotify. Just search “blacktoothrecords”.
I mean, c’mon. If you can’t beat them, hone in on them:
PUJOL – Pitch Black <click twice to DL!>
Noisey may have exclusive streaming rights to this song but I fuck with Noisey and also know how to download and re-up my damn self.
KLUDGE comes out on May 20th via Saddle Creek. PRE-ORDER HERE.
Below is that email Dan the Man sent Noisey in full because it’s excellent and mostly intelligible:
Daniel Pujol: I wanted to make an album that sounded completely fictional. Like a cartoon nightmare. Tiny wind-up orchestra.
One without “RAWKIN’” caricatures of “in the moment authenticity.” Guitar Centered quantification. No goofy loudness war production, etc. No organic cheese crackers.
I saw the new Superman and was disappointed by the obsessively realistic special effects. I don’t understand the obsession with realism in media and entertainment, but the fiction and stories are fantastically nonexistent.
“Oh, man, that CGI Godzilla has a million scales! Oh, man, that guitar amp sounds exactly the way Guitar Center promised me it would!”
I don’t care what Superman would really look like slamming through a building. However, I could be interested in the impossible myth of Superman. Superman could be a personification of human ideals thrown into dilemmas like a litmus test. I don’t care what he eats for breakfast. I want the story. It is more important to me than exactly what that story would look like if it was real.
What does it say about our fantasies if we want them to look HD-realistic? What does it say about our reality if we are entertained by hyper-realistic fantasy?
I don’t want to “be in the room with the drum set.” Or eat breakfast with Superman. Or smell the singer’s breath in stereo. Or count Godzilla’s scales.
I want to be forced to know there is more than what I can think, see, or feel. That there are things I couldn’t imagine on my own because they exist only in reference to themselves. As creations of someone else. To spite solipsism.
*These new “chimera” models are hodge-podged from old toy parts initially created by other people.
The LP’s narrative is essentially a Self “breaking up” with his/her Sense Of Self and rediscovering Other People. Just long enough to be seduced by their own identity again. Luckily, the narrator realizes his/her flesh is not his/her identity. And this could be a cycle. Called growing.
There are a lot of “I/you” songs. Is the narrator singing to another person or his/herself or a concept or an idea, etc? I don’t know.
The models help visualize this narrative without “counting Godzilla’s scales.”
I created an exercise based off of the Burroughs/Bowie “cut-up” method. I go to a specific used-toy store. They have a box of broken toys. I grab handfuls of old, dirty, toy parts and try to make ”sense” of them by creating an “action figure.” As I sort through them, an idea that the figure could personify begins to form. Then I Frankenstein it together. I give the abstract concept a body, the same way a joke has a punchline:
Things I see or read about
People turning into how they act
What a feeling would look like with a body
Personification of Thoughts, Desires, Fears
Personified fear of things we almost understand
“I” and “You” within the same person
Turning Misbehaviors Into Objects
Dirty Toys, used playthings endlessly repairing themselves, being abused and enjoyed by the world… yuck!
They are empowered but also limited by their body. This is one of the reason why they are funny to me. The Sacred Heart of Jesus has to ride on a golden saddle of only two muscular legs. The legs are impressive, but can’t gallop. He can’t GET anywhere. Looks great on paper, but getting around is more complicated. So he must settle for Sacred Heart the Human Kindness Kind. Net gain.
These models are the characters of the narrator’s inner monologue. His/her OWN Superman Reboot. But its birth into our reality is grotesque and exists in reference only to the narrator’s mind, life experience, his/her ”myth.”
They are Frankenstein’s made from the toy graveyard of other human’s dream, ideas, and playthings. Assuming thoughts and feelings are “toys” for humans to “play” with.
The models are the supporting cast of Someone rebooting their “Ideal-Self.”
Is he/she committing the same mistake as the Superman Reboot? Or is it all he/she knows is possible because of the world he/she experiences? And it is the best he/she can do.
*I also became interested in the history of horror and folklore. Monsters being created as explanations of things existing on the cusp of human understanding. Demons to vampires to aliens to inter-dimensional shadow people. This determined the look of some of these models. Contemporary fear.
Is conspiracy theory the new folklore of horror? Lizard people, shadow people, chip implants, MRAP police state, etc.
Photo: Aaron Defourneaux
OpEd: Richard Paul Harper, Jr.
It is on the night after the death of the great Pete Seeger and upon streaming Henry Mancini’s “Best Of” that I write this.
The duel purpose with which the occasion compels me to jostle my thoughts down can also be revealed in the opening sentence. I awoke this morning to read of the news that Pete Seeger – the legendary folk singer and activist – had died peacefully at the age of 94. This is the first monolithic musical figure that has passed this year, but in 2013 the world lost Lou Reed, Donald Byrd, Phil Everly and Ray Price, to name the smallest amount. All major figures, both in the music community and in the popular landscape as well. But none illicit nearly as much of a reaction from me as Pete Seeger’s death did. My initial thought was that stating he died peacefully seemed a bit ill-fitting, given that the current climate in which we live (double meaning intended) can hardly be navigated in a “peaceful” manner. As such, Mr. Seeger appeared to gracefully let go of the torch he (once) carried, while still maintaining his fervor for life. Either that or he probably asked himself every day upon waking, “are you fucking kidding me?”
My next thought immediately went to the onslaughts of tributes that were about to be poured out for the righteous man. A mental rolodex began to spin of all the people who claimed Seeger as inspiration or in his lineage: Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, Bruce Springsteen, Tom Petty, John Mellencamp, The Avett Brothers, Mumford & Sons, etc. etc. and I vowed to skim everyone of them with a dull-attention span and to not go and do likewise. In fact, en route to my relatively yuppie job bar-tending at a locally-sourced burger joint (where I also am in charge of the music during the shift), I said to myself that I wouldn’t so much as even mention his passing to anyone and would play only a few of his tracks – exclusively deep cuts – as I queued up whatever jams for that morning shift. Yet here I am. Human beings are fickle, malleable beasts.