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By Max Conroy
There are several definitions of the word scrummage. It is synonymous to a rugby play called a ’scrum’, but also means ‘a general row or confused fight or struggle’. A scrum can also, according to the Brits, mean ‘a place or situation of confusion and racket; hubbub’, which seems like the closest definition to the venue in Detroit. Here is their mission statement from their site (do not click on this link if you have or might possibly have epilepsy): A psychedelic loft in Detroit’s Eastern Market district. We achieve maximum fun. We have giant parties with totally rad music encompassing all generas. We teach you here at our university that no one is too stuffy to party. This is the place where all your wildest dreams can come true. There is apparently a market in Detroit’s Eastern Market district, but there’s no evidence of it at night; in fact, there doesn’t seem to be anything besides a graveyard, bombed out buildings, and the occasional liquor store and gas station…and this place.
Scrummage University is a huge warehouse that must have been a toy factory at one time, based on the painted signage on the front of the building. I drove by it a few times before coming to the conclusion that this must be the place. There were several flyers that mentioned that it’s the large building that has ‘Toys’ painted on the front of it, but not the flyer that I had. The flyers also stated that the event was to begin at 9PM, which is when I arrived, but there was no one there, except for a few people running the show and the performers. Also, there is no mention of the Silver Apples playing at Scrummage on the venue’s site, so I’d seek other verification that a band will be there before driving through post-apocalyptic Detroit to get there.
The Scrummage gate is barely wide enough for a car to fit through and is situated next to an operational junk yard; I deduced that it was operational based on the five rabid dogs hurling themselves at the fence, attempting to kill hipsters. The parking lot is huge with weeds thriving in the cracks of the asphalt, an active train line in back, and several huge bonfire pits. I walked around for a bit, soaking up the scenery, snapping photos, as other guests arrived. After awhile, I noticed that everyone had 40s of beer, and asked the door guy Ian if it was cool to bring beer here: ‘Sure, man. You should pick me up something.’ He gave me some shoddy directions to a liquor store, but I ended up finding a different one that had all the choice malt liquor and grabbed a 40 of Olde English and Ian a 24oz of Cammo XXX High Gravity for the shitty directions; he was thrilled.
By this time they were throwing huge pieces of furniture into the fire pit and igniting them. When the fire would get low, they, presumably ‘official’ events organizers, would politely ask some people to get off of the wardrobe they were sitting on and then drag it into the fire. This place is the ultimate in blind pigs, anything goes.
You enter the warehouse through a defunct loading dock and enter into a wide open concrete room, piles of debris in the corners and outsider art everywhere. There is a working bathroom that isn’t the worst that I’ve ever seen. From what I gather, people live at Scrummage, so they probably rent the space, or maybe even squat there. The electric hair trimmer in the bathroom also made me think that people live there.
The opening act Benny Stoofy is kind of Scrummage’s house band. They are some talented musicians that blend the low fi aesthetic with competence, much like Dr. Dog. I dug a few songs and then went back to the bonfire with my 40 to chat up some people and enjoy the evening.
The Lotto Ball Show went on next. They’re a synth-driven postpunk outfit from Chicago. They seemed good, but the vocals were noexistent in the mix, so I again headed out to the fire after about two songs.
I went back inside after the music stopped to look at the unattended merch table and to watch people climb dangerously onto makeshift trapezes hanging from the ceiling. Simeon, a perfectly normal looking fellow in his mid-to-late 60s, dressed in a bright green turtleneck, strolled across the floor to his rig and began calibrating or whatever one has to do to a pile of oscillators and beat machines to prepare them for a performance.
The Silver Apples are Simeon now. He manipulates bass and melody sound oscillators over drum tracks, and sings: that’s the sound of The Silver Apples in 2008. After listening to some of their records recently, I’ve come to really appreciate the late Danny Taylor’s drumming. He lays down a hardcore breakbeat jazz style that really propels the monotonous vocals and bleeps and bloops. But the music is essentially electronic music and the last thirty years of music has proven that a drummer isn’t absolutely necessary. The lack of a drummer has actually transformed the Silver Apples sound into what it inspired: electronic dance music. It’s fitting to see one of the pioneers of electronic music performing this way to the city that basically took what he was doing eons ago and went crazy with it.
Simeon played for exactly an hour and politely declined an encore; this isn’t exactly encore-type music. He performed a lot of the ‘hits’ like Oscillations and I Don’t Care What the People Say and did a handful of new compositions. In the middle of the set, about twenty people got on stage a danced their freaky, uninhibited dances. I went back to the merch table and bought the only Apples vinyl available: a limited press of 1000 called Selections from the Early Sessions. I then went up to Simeon’s rig and snapped a picture of it just before he went up to it to tear it down. I said, “Thanks, man.” “It’s a pleasure,” said Simeon.
Click Below for information about the Selections record, some audio of the show, and pictures.
By Max Conroy
The other day I sent a letter to Jandek. Well, I sent it to Corwood Industries; to the same post office box that’s been used by Corwood Industries/Jandek for the last thirty years. I felt kind of lame for doing this because I thought of how many geeks like me have done it over the years. I was also thinking about stories that I’ve heard and read about where Jandek will send radio stations and journalists interested in his music crates of records for years on end, and if at all possible I want crates of Jandek records. I’m not sure if a shit-ton of Jandek records could possibly be healthy in any way, but I’d certainly listen to them and be obliged to review them. Naturally, we focus on vinyl here and Corwood only makes CDs now, so I also wanted to find out if Corwood has any records lying around the apartment. I had also seen in Jandek on Corwood that Corwood Industries would send letters in response to people searching for information about Jandek, presumably from Jandek, that have polite and firmly cryptic refusals to provide any information beyond the records:
The story must be crafted from what you have and know from the music. We cannot provide interviews or other exchanges of information outside of the releases at present. It’s probable that your crafted story would be more interesting than any other. Intrigue goes a long way sometimes.
The examples that I’ve seen of these response letters are typically written in slightly sloppy block lettering and are signed by ‘Corwood’ or ‘Your friends at Corwood’. I wrote the letter and asked for recommended records, since there are 53 of them, any promotional material to review, and asked if they had any vinyl left. In the letter I addressed Corwood as to whom I was writing, referring to Jandek only in the third person. I didn’t really expect any response beyond an order form for CDs, but would love records or even a letter written in the same format that I’d seen.
This was two weeks ago approximately that I sent the letter. I went to my mailbox today, opened it, and there was a single letter in the narrow box. It was a letter from Corwood Industries, the address stamped in the top left corner of the envelope. It seemed eerily appropriate that the letter seemed lonely in my mailbox, as it’s a rare day that it doesn’t get filled with a bunch of bullshit, wasted paper. I took care in opening it, not wanting to destroy the envelope or the letter and noticed that it was written in slightly sloppy, mostly block lettering, the paper looked like it had a rough time of it at Corwood or on the way from Houston:
We literally have no vinyl to offer. We sold all vinyl and moved to CD. Vinyl is in production at:
Jackpot Records, 203 SW 9th Ave, Portland, OR 97205
We suggest you inquire therein.
(No Signature)
I checked out Jackpot Records online and they only offer Jandek CDs. Perhaps I will see if they are going to manufacture Jandek vinyl. The letter seems typical, but there was no salutation or signature. If you’re out there, Jandek, Cousins would love to review some records or hear from you.
Click below to view the actual letter and to hear a jam off one of Jandek’s most recent platters The Myth of Blue Icicles.
By Max Conroy
On Saturday, May 17th Jandek played a free concert at the University of Michigan’s Lydia Mendelssohn Theater. The show was sponsored by WCBN-FM (88.3 on your FM dial), the student-run station of the University, booked by Brendt Rioux, and featured James Cornish on trumpet, Christian Matjias on harpsichord, and Biba Bell on vocals and improv dance. Apparently this was the first Jandek performance to feature live improv dancing. Jandek played hollow body bass and sang. This is what’s known.
This is what’s unknown: the identity of Jandek, the aim of his endeavors, and virtually everything about the production and meaning behind his music. Jandek has put out fifty-three albums in thirty years. The records range from atonal bluesy folk to thirty minute vocal-only tracks and some feature other musicians most likely (even though he does overdub tracks). The lyrical content of his songs are most definitely poetic in nature, possibly autobiographical, and definitely surreal, causing people to speculate as to whether or not this is a sort of diary of a person suffering from mental illness or records to be enjoyed as such, art for art’s sake.
There are only a handful of people who have ever spoken to or communicated with Jandek; and in these instances, the person is known only as a “representative of Corwood Industries.” Corwood Industries is Jandek’s record label and in his only recorded interview, by John Trubee for Spin in 1985, featured on YouTube and as an extra on the Jandek on Corwood DVD, he discloses that he is the “sole proprietor” of Corwood, which has maintained the same PO Box in Houston since 1978. All of his records and DVDs are purchased directly from Corwood/Jandek, cheaply, and none are sold to record stores or libraries. Jandek also mentions in that interview that at the time he was working as a machinist and living in Houston, Texas. The name on the copyright information for Jandek’s records in the Library of Congress is Sterling Richard Smith, born in Rhode Island in 1945 (he mentions Rhode Island in several songs). He originally recorded one record under the name The Units and sent his record to radio stations and record stores, and was forced to change the name when a guy whom he sent the record to in San Francisco threatened to sue him as that was the name of his band. As a result he wanted to find a name that no one could possibly have, so he ended up speaking to a fellow named Dekker in January and came up with Jandek.
The more that I research Jandek, the more his history or what he’s illuminated for us seems to be the creation of a highly intelligent, very sane person, very similar to the way a novelist comes up with material culled from his past, subconscious, and ability to tell a convincing story. Before his days as Jandek, he allegedly wrote seven novels, which he burned after being rejected by publishers. He tells Trubee that, “I put out a product, and that’s it. I don’t want to get too involved.” This smells like bullshit to me, but very good bullshit.
By Max Conroy
![manilaopium[1].jpg](http://cousinsvinyl.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/04/manilaopium[1].jpg)
Hong Kong Blues by Hoagy (ne Hoagland) Carmichael was recorded for Decca in 1942; he penned it and recorded it in ‘39 originally. It’s a unique side recorded by one of the most highly regarded song writers of the first part of the last century. Two of his biggest hits were Georgia on My Mind and the A side of this single Stardust.
The song is a cautionary drug tale about “a very unfortunate colored man who got arrested down in old Hong Kong…for kicking Buddha’s gong.” Kicking Buddha’s gong is a dated term for smoking opium. It took me a second to realize what he was singing about when I first heard the song. It’s fairly subtle till the end of it where he actually mentions opium. He doesn’t mention any specifics about the drug or his habit, only that he cannot leave Hong Kong for his home, which he tells everyone is in San Francisco, but is actually in Tennessee. The geographic centering of the song is kind of strange in that he’s not from San Francisco but later in the song where Carmichael switches from the narrator’s third person to the first person testimonial, he keeps mentioning San Fran as his home. Also, how would an unfortunate brother end up in Hong Kong in the 1930s?
All of this gives one the impression that Hong Kong is opium addiction itself. The only specific moment where you can really put yourself in his shoes is where he sings:
“Won’t someone believe me/I have a yen to see that bay again/But when I try and leave/Sweet opium won’t let me fly away.“
He’s asking his fellow opium enthusiasts in the den to take his desire to quit drugs seriously, but he’s obviously ignored. Also, the use of the word ‘yen’ is a pun here as it comes from the Chinese words for ‘addiction’ and ’smoke’. Carmichael once described his voice “…as the way a shaggy dog looks…I have Wabash fog and sycamore twigs in my throat.” His inflection and the first person voice in the middle of the song made me assume that Carmichael was black, so I was surprised to see a picture of him, white as can be. Another strange thing about this song is that it’s difficult to discern exactly when he’s singing this in relation to his incarceration. He doesn’t lament getting arrested and still has hope that he’ll make it home, so I’m inclined to think that he’s speaking before he got arrested.
In the chorus he sings that he needs someone to love him. When I first heard this, I thought that it was such a 1930s view of drug addiction that finding a good woman could save you from yourself and drugs, but if you listen to the rest of it, he’s asking to find someone that loves him so they can take his body back home. Pretty grim stuff. There’s also a part where he begs for fifty dollars to get home with, but one is left with the impression that he’d blow it on dope.
This music is great for the depressant glow of a burgeoning alcohol buzz, alone. The white jazz comes out a bit more on Stardust, but it’s still worth a listen eighty-one years after it was written.
Hong Kong Blues:
Stardust:
by Cousin Geoff, featuring guest writer Ameritape John:
508 Maus Street in Ypsilanti, former home of Pathway label
I got an email the other day from a guy named John who said that he had read one of my previous posts about the Ypsilanti gospelgrass label Pathway. I’ve written about The Smith Family Sings Your Gospel Favorites LP, and Carl and Evert’s I Have Found The Way 45. John may be one of a handful of Pathway followers out there, excited as I was when I stumbled onto one of their records and became strangely obsessed with the 1960s lo-fi off-tune religious music from Ypsilanti, Michigan. John may be one of the few people in the world who is actually more into Pathway than I am. He gave me permission to publish this piece he wrote for a UK record collecting mag, where he attempts to explain the sacred/weird localistic significance and also provides additional info on other Pathway LPs.
Another concept to consider here is the idea of collecting and searching for “deep” gospelgrass, as opposed to the much more popular digging for rare funk, soul, garage, hip-hop, ect. This “Xian” genre that John refers to is something I’ve also taken an interest in, like my post on The Pathway Quartet out of Sandusky, Ohio. There’s something about this primitive religious music that takes on some sort of an intriguing local, cultural, and almost psychedelic aspect. The thing is, I’m not sure if I even want to publish this. I like being able to find an seemingly endless supply of these records at garage sales and local salvation armys, passed over and passed over, as few people are actually into it like me and John. Like he says, most people don’t even want to talk about it, much less search for it (although I can see some UK folks, some of our best customers and really the heavyweights of record collecting, start getting into it). Nevertheless, it’s a great concept to explore. As Max pointed out in a conversation today and John alludes to, Pathway seems to be very much the essence of what punk rock is, but instead of drugs or booze or fuck the man it’s about Jesus and getting into heaven. And all this coming from the homemade basement recording studio of 508 Maus Street in Ypsilanti.
jsREVIEW:
I can only imagine how weird it would have been to be an avant garde band in Hamburg, Michigan during the early ’80s. I suspect, first of all, that the Inserts were not just an avant garde band, but rather THE avant garde band of 1983.
Sounding heavily influenced by the No Pussyfooting collaboration between Eno and Fripp, this quartet plays mostly guitar synthesizers (and note explicitly that there aren’t any keyboard synthesizers on the album), with a Rhodes for a touch of jazz fusion.
From tracking down Marc Taras, who is thanked in the credits and now works at local shop PJ’s Records, the main halmark of the band was its spontaneous and improvisational nature. They’d roar into the studio, start the tapes and jam, splicing anything that worked back together post hoc. Rather than ending up disjointed, the album feels spacious and anxious with broad washes of taut guitar tones playing over jittery post-punk bass work.
Clean and “modern” sounding, there’s a fairly dystopic sci-fi sound to the ordeal, like Vangelis’s Blade Runner without the plot. Still, for fans of bands like Cluster, Eno & Fripp, or even Psychic TV, there’s a lot to love about The Inserts, and you’ll never see this disc for sale again.
(Having learned that one of the members of the band, then going by birth name Mark Murrell, is now WCBN DJ Ed Special, look to this space once Cousins Vinyl can get him to talk about the album!)
jsREVIEW:
“These previously unissued sounds from the drag strip represent a selection of the finest recoding ever done on those fantastic machines which emanate from the back yards and garages all over the country. Perhaps the builders of these machines are never put to so severe a test (or at least, so concentrated a test) as they are on this record. For here, the results of their tuning and designing are clearly and openly heard, without the benefit of a flashy pain job, or a snazzy crash helmet festooned with red, white and blue foxtails— or anything else that might distract attention.
That most of these builders and designers are successful is obvious in listening; and the ones who fail to do so, we hope, in good spirits and share our laughter at the peculiar sounds made by their goofs.
At any rate, here are the unabridged noises of a fantastic collection of automotive machinery. They deserve some careful listening.”
— From the back of the LP jacket, Riverside Records 5517.
There’s no date on this album, though my guess (based on the rest of the dates for the Riverside label) is that it came out in the late ’50s, when hot-rodding was a growing concern. The album promises “Hot new sounds from the drag strip,” and that’s what it delivers, in beautiful hi-fi mono.
In its most literal sense, this is a “noise” album. There are no songs there, no real intended sounds as such. Nothing that can really be recognized as intended as music. This was, first and foremost, an epistle to America as low media, a record for kids and gearheads to listen to as they dreamed of their own hotrods. The liner notes make it seem like there’s some way for me to tell which of these are the gallant and which the gufus based on the tunings, but I grew up too late for that. This is essentially sounds of machines.
There are three types of noise albums, and I tend to think of this as the third. The first would be those albums that sometimes get called “noise rock.” Merzbow or Nurse With Wound or Throbbing Gristle. They tend to have discrete tracks and show the evidence of being listened to as music, even when they attack the traditional signposts of music. Sounds are often layered and distorted in unnatural ways in the first type of noise album.
For the second type, there’s the sound effects put out for commercial and educational use. Think those blings and boings of a radio ad, or the Wilhelm scream. I could see an argument being made to place Rods ‘N Rails in with these, as it would be handy if I ever had to convince someone that I was at a drag strip over the phone. But for the most part, the engines rev for too long and there isn’t necessarily a good cut point between the cars. Certainly, this would be a pain to cue from.
The third type is the field recording. This isn’t that either, strictly, but it falls closer than any of the other categories. Like a birdsong guide for the freeways of the late ’50s, it reminds me more of sleeping in my grandmother’s house on First Ave., North Riverside, Il., than anything else. The surge then disintigration of cars passing a single mic, then dopplering out, is strangely soothing. It’s a lullaby imagined by Depero.
A beautiful burst of nostolgia for futures past, Rods ‘N Rails is worth listening to both as a document and as an album.
-js
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