Music Writing by Carson Arnold
CONCRETE BLONDE: A CONCRETE UPDATE
Death Valley pours right through you like no heaven. '97. All these delirious large winged bats (Hunter Thompson was right!) and that Hale Bop comet stretching far out to the western rim of whatever belief, power, and answer all people below imagined that blue, dancing streak in the sky might conceive and behold. Take us there, right through this flat, bat desert road and into that one, lone car that tails my parents and I into morning; gargoyle us into some caving escape of Concrete Blonde's almighty, ether grunge, as Johnette Napolitano's spartan voice showers from the tape-deck, distilling all that was known, right on into the cloak of night- dead or alive- who knew. Noir-rock. Floor it.
So around this time, circa the Jim Jones-ish suicide among a full room of cyber-cults in pursuit of the extraterrestrial behind that very Hale Bop itself (now refer to C.B's "Jonestown"), Concrete Blonde, three-piece warriors of their Angelino desert, post-punk genre, had been separated for a few years, demobilized on both terms of endearment for a healthier mind, as well as sheer frailty among the nerves of their seven-year career to middle-earth. "By that time", Johnette Napolitano admitted to me, "we were fried. I was wrecked." She would go on to claim she had no warranted desire to witness her band become a mere caricature of itself- burnt, toasted, and served- the only reasonable motive left was to exit fast, leave afresh. She did. Done. Onward. The very crimson group my dad had turned me onto while relatively still in diapers during the levee of their debut, and following them- and distinctly, Johnette's multiplex, bellowing voice- through every emotional thunder the open-road engaged, apparently, 'twas all over. Rumors began to spread the years of various sightings and scenes of the bassist wandering through Paris in swine, drifting into obscurity upon the desert floor, and along rambling by numerous side projects including collaborations with Holly Vincent, and most prominent, her developing mitosis of Pretty & Twisted- once assisted with Marc Moreland of the whopping Wall Of Voodoo and The Skulls (who Johnette describes as a soulmate then, crossing paths at one point in a Melbourne bar. Marc recently- dead in Paris- kidney failure). But the entire mercury of aching drama would evidently be worth the friction in the end, despite much personal publicity and constant crisis among their ex-drummer, Harry Rushakoff, presently re-altered or either replaced by youngerblood, Maria Fatal's Gabriel Ramirez. Get back, Josie. At eighteen, watching her highschool sweetheart and innocent, drummer-husband forced into the Navy by his resentful and precocious mother (I don't need a soldier), to, later bummin' 50 cents a day off LA's late, awkward 70's, all hailed manic led to be "the ultimate Lifetime Achievement" for Johnette now resting in certitude "like a twelve year old" somewhere amidst the Joshua Tree desert, barricaded by a family of dogs- Frida, Chichinitza, and Coco- that she protects from various scorpions and different snakes of the hot-sizzled sand. Snakes are active this time of year, and though she allegedly hates to kill the litta' buggers, sometimes they just get too close. "I say a little prayer for them, but they gotta go", she added.
Now, you know how it is, only a handful of their songs really made it off their albums. Made it without compass, without point- and careful- they're just liable to explode in some ferocious cloud if indeed mixed. Whether a swaying guitar or a hovering voice into some stretching, roadway romance, the minutes sunk, awakened, and vacated every placid particle within, dead from a world of "discord and beer". Warm blood sprinkling off the awning to reality, these were the bands who haunted even the ghosts, gave breath to the shadows, ran all night, and set sail to the roaring light of a priceless smile. Took love itself aside and weeped with it, paused with it, looked up and blessed forever the invisible kid. Yeah, that's right, the ones who merely gave a damn.
By the time Concrete Blonde's second album in '89 emerged -Free- there was an obvious ecliptic virtuosity visible in the band, and especially in Johnette's angst-roar lyrics- somehow topical, somehow not- that differed from much of the cheddar the group had been compared to outta' the zilla of the early/late 80's. Songs like "Run Run Run" would marvelously embrace The Byrds' old "Turn Turn Turn" into the very opposite, dramatic bloom, bezzled into a fugitive night-song, only recurring down the lore in their gothem-pop "Mexican Moon", where to this day, Johnette is surprised with the month long process they cooked recording the euphoria. "I doubt I'd have that attention span now", she exclaimed. While her mighty vocals were reminiscent to much of Chrissie Hyndes' earlier krypton; still, Hyndes' cover image was the clear model of "chick-rock" that Johnette, altogether collected by Concrete Blonde's echo-euro sound, was tearing into flaming shreds with "God Is A Bullet", and later seducing the torn remains with the sweet, lonely reeds of "Caroline"- mused by Johnette's impromptu Italian-American heritage and Atzlan beliefs (Coco, her dog, an old, loving Aztec breed). "Very heart-driven", she professes, earlier saying how much she had sincerely missed Latino culture when first touring, and later delighted and reluctant by her fond concert recollections while in the glaze of both Brazil and Peru. "No previous references, as it were", she continued. "All new to everyone. Wonderful- those who will respect out of desire to grow and evolve as artists and human beings are there, and get it. There are those who don't, and they can go find another band".
Clues of potential break-up and possible departure were self-reflecting in the '92 pinnacle "Walking In London", where Johnette screams in the loudest compulsion that she had been "everywhere and was running out of places to go". Multiply this to her additional Axl Roseling yelp into a lot of Jesus undertow- my, my what a rats-nest. Once the smoke settled, leaving all remaining members assorted in odd exiles and terrains, one could then quietly observe the great excursion of the band's prolific rum in the highest regard of rock music to date. However, convince the rest of the commercial web- and perhaps the frowning "male" web- of this matter, is a whole other thing, and an invisible gourd best poured under Johnette's romance of knifing-lines and glutter-high-bass. "If I cared any less about it", she began, when asked about popularity, "I'd be dead. What can I do? I love my privacy, I love my freedom". Numbers like the whip-lashing "Ghost Of A Texas Ladies' Man", "Woman To Woman", and their virtual version of the sex machine's "It's A Man's World" (incidentally, all off Walking In London), would reveal and release Johnette's strong wouldn't-be-anything-without-a-girl temperament, ultimately challenging the moondance of both species upon a waking earth. Unlike Michelle Shocked, though, who represented both the "struggle" and the "spectacle" of feminism- thus, partly indulging in it- Johnette, similar to the Kim Gordon's or Linda Perry of the 4 Non Blondes, never intervened this vast, up-heaved area. In her words, yelling crossly "talkin' 'bout woman-to-woman!" as a scrape-anthem chorus, would be a demanding call forward into the relics of sistahood versus the daily, damn infidel. Armed integrity. Dangerously Victorian. Outta' my way! Excuse me, she noted, "men, you know, they do what they do: women I hold to a much higher standard, and it's important to me to be trusted and allowed to be myself without all that funkiness messing things up". (In other words, Lolita, dont'cha be messin with another gal's man!) Yet, backed in the song, her non-prefab to any issue or emotion were symbolized in all natural raw-power without ever once rerouting to a much-encouraged and awarded vice of the unanimous sacrilege. Victor Jara lives on. Together, Concrete Blonde were crass Dadaists of every tender moment and impossible attack that rock music, in its full vanilla fudge, had fled from in bashed fear. Zoot everything. Thus, little could understand them. Thus, lost fans. Thus, lost members. And thus, allowed the supreme isolation to think aloud. Push to open, here the scream.
Bloodletting's been on for hours. Need sleep fast. Doubt it'll come.
"Out here I see no one", she explained, going on into further detail about how the roadie life never once shuts its racketeer and hound. Of course as opposed to staying out naked for endless months now, the band only travels for two weeks a spell, just in time for Johnette to venture back home to her remote studio where she collects, from a gracious museum friend out in the big city, scrap-wood and various second-hand paints that she passionately receives for certain free ideas. Her notorious artwork, too, becoming much of a manifestation and exhibition itself with her neo-Frida sunskull-covers sprawling red indigo across a variety of faces, albums and other quiet places of portrait. She would merrily go on to say, "I got a stack of vinyl from the thrift store the other day for $4.50. Herb Alpert, Glen Campbell, Russian Folks Songs. It just gets better every day". Between describing to me the overflowing stock of geriatric material in one of her favorite used stores nearby- particularly one popular item: toilet-seats-on-legs- midnight meteors crashing down the hills, inflatable pools, and Baja, it was detected a warm milieu of paradise embodied the entire vacant setting, enthralling much of the preconceived notions and franticia built upon their half-decade-or-more hiatus. Furthermore, Jim Mankey, her long, relied, rapport, and underrated guitarist for the band, would miraculously live some five miles down the road as well. "We'll probably go for Mexican food today", Johnette remarked, relating how Mankey keeps well propelled at his own music by the Everest of computers and other prongs; supervision of Johnette's dogs from his parents as they perform and haul abroad are indeed occasional.
While the late 70's can be narrated by many homeless minstrels both then and now, Mankey, and a destitute Johnette, would immediately concur during profuse sessions with the everywhere rascal Leon Russell. Johnette added, "everyone who worked for Leon ended up smoking pot and hanging around the studios after hours writing and recording. Jim and I seemed to click, musically". Mankey of course, was this bagged legend outta LA's rock-cabaret under the Mael Brothers- The Sparks- whom his brother Earle, was a co-maestroid of. The two were admittedly private, socialable to a certain degree, often shuttling themselves away indoors, satisfied exploring the toyland of tape-machines with its unlimited hark and wonder. While West Coast canyon-rock wore on, dear hallway drop-ins would be a regular atmosphere greeted by the electro-spun Roger Linn on accord inventing up his fury drum machine, transcending the 80's gum into an electrical blizzard soon afterwards. I don't need to remind you of what. Even Blonde's albums were compressed in a sea-of-honey, tight, cinematic and downpour production, bothering the clef of many. As for the formation and diversion of the group... "We really had a hard time creating the band", Johnette strummed. "We had no deal, no following, no image...I ended up learning bass because we couldn't keep a bass player". Destined nowhere, little attended their shows. "We had no plan, no idea, all we could do was be ourselves". Finally- though, considerably older than most of their contemporaries (perhaps even a lucky element, due to the quenching standard of production by then)- the two fetched up a rash Ep hexed under their original name, Dream 6 (reissued now!). From there, the story floats hung over. Go listen. Core frustration between label mud and emphasis for a seed album would aspire the three to attempt the essential once again, this time, directed by brother Earle (a musical subsidy throughout all future work). However, sails away, they only wound themselves averted by "Miles Copeland", decisive anvil of IRS Records then, breathtakingly signing them into the wild heap without any further liaison. (Also, and a word from yours truly, Miles was the eldest C.E.O-brother of what was mocked upon as the "Copeland Empire". By then, he and his other two brothers had carved a type-of financial "ring" 'round the music world, distributing and smacking out a good portion of Punk earth; booking forth scoopfuls of CBGB artists from brother-Ian's large firm. This was of course via the box-success from brother-Stewart's band, The Police. Remember "Roxanne"? Miles would quickly make/Ian would endorse. Even more, their father was reportedly an underground CIA claw, leaving much rumor, conspiracy, and speculation on why The Police of all bands toured so extensively throughout the third-world during the late 70's. But no one questioned. Punk was served, Sting would win awards for Walt Disney. Miles' newest label- Ark 21- would rattle recently in 2001 when one of its acts- Oakland's best, The Coup- announced their latest release shall display The Trade Towers gutted to flames. But whoops, declared only a few months prior the actual event! Hail Hail rock 'n roll...) REM's scouter Michael Stipe, from whatever stimulus, perhaps a spin-off Marley's "Concrete Town", would treasure and erect their new name- Concrete Blonde- hydrating forth a grand debut, and in Johnette's words, the rolling brick soon afterwards was tossed: "nonstop after that...we were on the road endlessly, for years. It's called paying dues, and we paid, that's for sure".
Closest thing to dyin' is sneezing. I would realize this yesterday while C. Blonde splashed out into the sunlight. Not one thing moved. Like a floating bottle circling the earth. Some sudden pastoral would knit our hearts when we first laid our heavy eyes upon Blonde's revival last year, Group Therapy. But god knows, man, by then, everybody had forgotten about 'em. The firehot, past hit "Joey" that Johnette had chuckled about paying rent in expense from, would be a sailing pirate across the threshold of chatter; a methodical tune adopted by millions of Steve/Ian joint-cover bands celebrated throughout pleasantry weddings, bars, reunions, and limo graduations. Fool that, though, "Joey", unlike "Jenny I Read", wasn't their best. In fact, it 'twas their most predictable, or should I say, the most trained. Hell, rock never should be "on-time". It should never arrive. "Caroline", yea'; infancy of young 'n old; leave 'em waitin' at the station, rocket into the unfolding ostrich of the elsewhere land. That, and the air-guitar off "Mexican Moon", cutting like a dancing knife, kissing all docile earth. Beautiful. Nevertheless, as the world sweated out the sweetest sting of perfume stirred with the haggis blend of body odor, "Joey", however indeed aired, would continue to render rays of familiarity within the temple ears of all habitual past. One person could recall their every verse between the song- a life, a joy, a pain- without ever once knowing, and possibly not once caring, where the wheel had spun from, and who had written the blasted thing turning. All stores would glance down at Blonde's records in irreverent dismay, slightly curious, but shrugging 'em off- the sharks- thirsty no more. I quote one: "You know, we used to stock them, but no one bought 'em. I can order it, though". Methinks, what is wrong with everyone... "I've sort of talked about that ad noisome", replied Johnette, speaking on behalf of the warp time before Group Therapy. And I do believe it.
Like other stranded LA-coyotes such as X and even rock-prophets Los Lobos, Concrete Blonde would truly taste the predella dirt as deep listenership descended into sharp decline and thus, nestled rapture. Wonder-lust remained, though, even as northern tales of mental ictrus printed over their retreat into seclusion. Let the gossip drool upon Mankey's surrounding internal state- the motion behind his basement-window, solo bag of synth-guitar oceania in Jam (jazz-twid Sandy Nassan also entitled this same name long ago). How 'bout Harry Rushakoff's endless curse of behavior, convictions, etc? Evaporating and fleeing from a Kansas City gig, riddance just full moons after his re-presence off Group Therapy- abruptly vanished- forced to wrap yet another skinner aside, with fond memories of Roxy Music's Paul Thompson abiding from other random albums. And then there was the belling of Johnette. Supposedly knockin' on Mankey's door, clutching a bible- beseech- "let's reform". Or maybe 'twas during lunch. Whatever, bro. A distant touch she had to feel. Where ducks plunge underwater and a child learns to swim, Concrete Blonde would eventually endeavor, singing and believing all fresco it had breathed for those subtle, few years 'neath- the europium of all open eyes. Amen. "There are a lot of ways to make a record", Johnette began. "The major work on Group Therapy was the result of free-form-jams, taped, listened to, and refined...the best of everyone's licks, creating hooks...utilizing everyone's personality. And everyone should have one".
Written and rehearsed in about two months, and recorded in a tight cavity of ten days, personality, as always, would be a severe, dramatic bestow with Blonde's Group Therapy. The magic, illuminate mesquite, though, converging throughout prior work, seemed to be lost in emotional pillage, tossed flank, sensitive to the kowtow of older age and the rough, tired inevitable. Yet, even despite an unprecedented album cover to their usual sashing embryo (an electric-chair- Johnette originally voted for straight-jackets), it was loved, appreciated, and invoked royally. Johnette's subterranean voices arose again, touching the ember of all restraint, coloring the embodied epoch. Diva of the desert. Van's 'ol lyric we were born before the wind. Joni's I hate you some, I love you some. De Falla wingin' the cave of climaxes. This was her. Them.
No, it's doubtful they'll ever bash-daddy like the old days. Redemption, sure. Retrospect, why not. But all love-collie rustles back in the hidden ferns. Eden ain't home, you know. Anybody knows that. And Concrete Blonde resides in a deep, dawn house; eyes open, curtains pulled, garden outside. That's the song, man. Where the true has blue. Yet, something shall become outta' the groom...they promise. Mojave, as Johnette's been calling it, apparently shadows away from such conventional depth that was amours to and under earlier lights ago. Evidently "the chair" wasn't referencing their last seventy-nine steps to the dark side. Nah, Mankey presents mix-tapes he's assembled during previous nights- something broils. Supposedly free-form, written hooked-free; and the Mexican moon, we hope, impends, shines and dances on, forever allowing sight and step. What ever will it be? The ol' writer process for Johnette was-a-once strenuous grave into expression, harpooning for that one vast portrayal that would devour her oblong demons into the concerto of the world, eyeing all who could understand, entrusted to see into and past the great, damn dismal. "I am not a person who a) enjoyed them b) want them around forever, or c) am neurotic enough to manufacture self-induced crises in order to write", she said. Give us art vanity cracked in half, yes...And the bolero sings a lonely crowd in Johnette's newest solo-dig, Sketchbook. Sparse and ocular, the conclave of both lingering music and night-yawn lyrics are a montage to the celestial bone. Grand. You can find that online. You can find me here. 'Cuz as Johnette would say, "there is nothing else I'd rather do, and no one else I'd rather be". Floor it. And that's for you, Death Valley.
--Carson Arnold - June
22, 2003
copyright 2003 Carson Arnold
H(ear) is an online music column consisting of interviews and articles written by Carson Arnold. As an independent writer and musician living in the woods of Vermont with his family, Carson widely encourages one to submit their art, writing or any interesting piece of material that you would like to share. H(ear) is accepting both promos and demos for review or any other valuable music-related subjects. If you wish to make a comment or would like to receive H(ear) weekly by email please contact Carson at [email protected]
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