(from Welcome to the Monkey House)
SO YOU WANNA BE A DANDY WARHOL, EH?
Before I review The Dandy Warhols' Welcome To The Monkey House (a title which I can't write without spilling over in laughter), there's just something about the album I'm reminded of. Amusement parks, for one, the roar of a rock concert when the dudes take the stage, and my friend's copy of Beatles For Sale, which is so scratched, when listening to "No Reply" jolt at a thousand skips per second, it almost incarnates a new hybrid definition of music and "Beatles", making us crack up like, I dunno, monkeys.
Which is why I love this new Dandy Warhols record: the fun; after all, not only is the vinyl edition orange like a lifesaver (yummy), but the music is hot, hot, hot! Well, more like cute, as in, "You're cute, but I think it's better if we were friends." First off, I should point out, this album contains some of the more juicier (produced like The Turtles built a playground in heaven) choruses I've heard since the eighties went haywire with pop harmonies, which every so often sparked music that melted in our mouths and added a skip to our walk. I've never understood people who remark that they're shamelessly addicted to "pop", but I suppose I know now. I mean, this album is the drama of the sixties tangled up in disco, and I get the feeling here none of the members wanted to quit the fun of rehearsing any of these tracks (which is a beautiful sign, kinda like me writing this, and don't worry, I will do my best to keep this as long as the record). Now where was I?
Oh yeah. Robert Christgau in The Voice already nailed this as a sizzler this past year, which caught my eye in our local library (where I usually catch up on media stuff), and I knew either he was plain crazy or pure right and I tended to trust him anyway. So, I ran to a store with one of those machines (you know, the ones where you can listen to any album as long as it's cool and in its memory bank) and gave it a whirl. The first song, which I came to later know as a prelude to the heat, was "Welcome To The Monkey House"; a short, catchy riff with just Courtney Taylor-Taylor whispering at us that we were monkeys so c'mon/c'mon, with his raw electric guitar making it sound as if I were trapped in the walls of the amp itself. Excellent. A real burner, which is great, 'cuz there's nothing better in rock when you can hear the squeal of a singer's earphones squeaking through the mic. The whole fruity hot-rod of this group is reminiscent to the Flaming Lips or Beck, who as much as I dig, lately, can never find them natural, and like a Quentin Tarintino film, are a sha-bang and mock on the radio dial itself. Back in the store, unfortunately, the machine wouldn't let me pass that one song, leaving me craving to what other feedback lay ahead in the rest. Rats. I set the headphones down and watched the screen invite me into its foxy lights. You bet, I was your new sucka.
So what. "...Monkey House" kinda haunted me for a few months, and one rainy afternoon while waiting for a call back from the management for The Coup (they never did), I even pulled out my 4-track and recorded my own version inspired by the song (although mine was called "Pass Me By", and as you can guess, a lot grimmer than the Warhols'). Eventually this record became a recent Christmas gift, and for the last few days, have found it spinning its party on my turntable during the space of any hour (it's hard to hear the phone ringing 'cuz much of the music resembles a phone). The first time I listened, it was incredibly late and dozed off, waking up ten minutes later with Taylor repeatedly chanting in his usual multiple angel-dragon voice:
Yeah/Uh/I am a scientist/We gotta live on science alone/Yeah/Uh...
...And again and again. Each syllable like some rhythmic hickey, and the drums like human hips going at it. In fact, every song repeats its title track, usually surrounded with cow-bells and fuzz-guitars (the occasional bongwater), as if the band set every excuse to use all the instruments in the studio. Aw right! Only thing is, if Dead Prez's lyrics were Ak-47s, these guys (and one girl, which always makes a band a little more tender) would be dead by tonight for their slacker whatever-jingo (because looking at this genre, really, it means nothing except a new testimony of rock, which means wha'?). When I think about this, it does make me wanna immediately sell the record, however, I suddenly envision all the long faces within the hipster nation and remember: this is their sombrero-- their thing. And mine, too, because not too many albums today pick-pocket candy rhythms into a psychedelic white light for no more than two minutes per song. Which is ultra cool knowing you no longer have to sit through that salty minute after the second chorus that most modern rock bands adopt as their section for breezy wailing (god, thousands of songs have been ruined with this pretension). Very few groups know what to do with a "bridge", and is a tactic that rode along with those boys from the Moody Blues who made rock 'n roll too damn smart!! I, myself, prefer the non-stop hurricane that rushes at you in its bass and hand-clappings; music that cause both car-crashes and first loves on a warm Saturday night. Like "Plan A"-- its snazzy carnival is everything ridiculous and yet both dramatic and cool; or as my friend use to say while lighting a cigarette with a barbecue torch, "Just chillin' like a villain" (who'd ever think I'd be borrowing that phrase for the perfect rock philosophy? Then again, that is rock philosophy. The Dandy's answer: All of us sing about it). This doesn't mean I'll buy any of their other albums-- simply because they gotta have the stupidest name in history: "You're not on the guest-list, what's the name of your band?" "Uh, oh, The Dandy Warhols!" Nor does it mean I'll attend any of their shows, or have an interest in interviewing any of the members, because-
Wait, what am I saying? I would do all those! a chilly keyboard in "Hit Rock Bottom" just told me. And of course I'd do an interview; my first question would be to take me on a tour through all their trendy pictures on the back cover, where I can tell I'd wanna hang out with them, which usually isn't the case with most musicians I admire (the coolest rockers tend to be the biggest creeps). Also, the cover-art has gotta be a classic among vinyl junkies, and for those of you who aren't familiar with it, it shows a banana being unpeeled down the middle with a large zipper-- portraying the genuine clash of The Stones' Sticky Fingers photo, and duh, The Velvet Underground's Andy Warhol. Which can mean two things: this is what Mick Jagger had in his pants all along, and two, according to the Dandy's, what they discovered behind the skin of Andy Warhol's Peel Slowly And See statement was none other than (a bird? a plane?)...no, nothing but a stupid banana. Rock 'n roll morons were right! (who said they were wrong?). This reminds me of David Hemmings in the film Blowup where he skips out of a Yardbirds show and, disgusted, throws Jeff Beck's shattered guitar into the street after being chased by a mob of teensters for the hot item. The songs are sugary, simple; a combination of eighties synth-pop and early rock 'n roll ba-da-bing, loved up with an undercurrent of cunning verses (all of them I've written down in front of me, though, there's not many): When Michael Jackson dies/we're covering "Blackbird"...or at least that's what I think Taylor hushes. I guess he means Jackson owns the rights to all Beatles material (he does), and thus when dying, in eulogy, all the commercials will chirp McCartney's "Blackbird" cited from our pop-perversity culture, narrated by that sincere but corny song...or something...
I'm not sure why I brought that up, plus, I kinda think "Blackbird's" a nice song (my parents long ago named one of their dogs Blackbird). Maybe I've had a little too much of this album because I do feel particularly intoxicated by "You Were The Last High". What is this song? Where did it come from, outer space? Is the sweeping chorus really human? What I meant was: let's lay off Radiohead, kids, those guys couldn't rock themselves out of a Spinal-Tap songbook-- this record is where it's at, at least today (and those who claim Radiohead does rock, then The Four Freshmen are psychedelia). This one doesn't gang up on music, which is a cool bit, no kidnapping it, just a lotta yes, pleases, and ooh, that sounds SO good, can ya turn that up a little louder?
Ahh, but the record's over, too bad. I know I promised you I'd wrap this up, but Monkey House has grown fifty times greater than when I started this, what can I say? A few nights ago I was in a record store and all the girls were dancing to a funk album (this will mean something, I assure you). It might've been Parliament or even Beck's Midnight Vultures, which I think it was, but they were all swaying and smiling. Waiting in-line to purchase a copy of The Isley Brothers next to two kids who were joking about getting a Pantera album for their dads, I began to imagine if any of these lyrics we groove to in funk actually came true-- meaning, if we woke up one day and James Brown's words were happening in front of us-- obviously no one would be a virgin, and doctors wouldn't perform any operations 'cuz they'd be too busy, according to Beck's album, requesting a lap-dance for: Hot milk/Mmm.../tweak my nipple/champagne and ripple/shamans go cripple...Goddamn! And the booty goes on. With The Dandy Warhols, I wouldn't think twice about choosing this record as my substitute for real words. The music is fun, a fantasy, and if you're worried about standing alone at the next show...well, close your eyes and you'll hear this album soon enough. Because hey, our torn jeans are famous already. See ya when the lights come on (if they ever do).
--Carson Arnold - January 12th, 2004
copyright 2004 Carson Arnold
H(ear) is an online music column consisting of interviews, articles, and investigations written by Carson Arnold. As a freelance writer for various magazines and liner notes, 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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