Billy Corgan may have a very high opinion of himself, but for some reason, I tend to perceive James Iha as being more emblematic of Smashing Pumpkins than its auteur leader.
Perhaps it’s because Iha is the rare Asian-American in what is essentially a white man’s music. Maybe it’s because he has enviable hair. Most likely, it’s because he could provide serious crunch to a generation-defining rock band, when his own music is far more sunny.
His only solo album, Let It Come Down, bears no resemblance to his work with Smashing Pumpkins. It’s that ’60s-era revivalist pop sound which informs his collaboration with Japanese pop artist Chara on "Skirt".
Iha wrote the music for "Skirt", while Chara provided the lyrics. I almost wish the pair recorded an entire album together. Iha’s retro writing fits well with Chara’s aesthetic, and her distinctive voice suits his sound wonderfully.
Where Key Lime Pie was panned, praise was heaped in mountainous mounds on Our Beloved Revolutionary Sweetheart. Perhaps I exaggerate, but I know my favorite rock magazine at the time certainly weighed in thusly.
I purchased Our Beloved Revolutionary Sweetheart on cassette a few months after getting Key Lime Pie back when the ’80s became the ’90s. I didn’t fall in love with it the way I did its successor, but the strange effects that close "She Divines Water" stayed with me.
I upgraded that cassette to CD a few weeks ago, and the album still can’t penetrate my subconscious. That’s probably because Our Beloved Revolutionary Sweetheart is all over the place. Camper Van Beethoven throw everything into a song, and the results can overwhelm each other.
I always felt like the album was ending when "She Divines Water" comes on. It’s only the fourth track of the album.
There was a lot of bad press when Camper Van Beethoven released Key Lime Pie back in 1989. So much so, the band flaunted those reviews on an early design of its web site in the early part of this decade.
Back then, I couldn’t really tell. Key Lime Pie was the first — and for a long time, only — album of Camper Van Beethoven I listened to. For an 18-year-old kid fed a steady diet of corporate media for most of his life, Key Lime Pie was a refreshing taste. I wasn’t burdened with the history of the band’s oeuvre to pass judgment on the album’s merits.
For all I knew, this album was the most brilliant thing they’d written. It was certainly an album I loved listening to again and again. Still do.
"Sweethearts" is the first country song I ever liked. And no, you may not tell me the twangy guitar on this song is not country. In Hawaiʻi, it’s a cultural requirement to despise country music categorically. There is no shade of difference between Lucinda Williams and Faith Hill.
"Sweethearts", however, was my first introduction to what would eventually be called "alt-country" — country music far enough outside the mainstream to encompass punk rockers and old timers. In fact, the track predates Uncle Tupleo’s No Depression by a year.
When Caitlin Cary released I’m Staying Out 13 months after her debut, I questioned the speed of the turnaround.
As it turned out, I’m Staying Out stood on its own feet, although it didn’t possess quite the same level of catchiness as While You Weren’t Looking.
By that, I mean there wasn’t a track as good "What Will You Do?" on the album. "Cello Girl" comes pretty close. One of the bona fide rockers on the album, the song features a catchy chorus and a storyline that could have fell into sentimentality but doesn’t.
Cary’s rich voice suits any environment it’s in. She’s powerful on fast songs, touching on slower songs. It’s a telephone book or shopping list voice — one that could sing either and sound great doing so.
This isn’t the first time I’ve posted this song to this web site.
Back when Musicwhore.org was a webzine, I reviewed both of Catilin Cary’s solo albums, and I included a track from each album for each review. And I’m featuring them again. Mostly because I’m lazy, but conveniently because they’re very good songs.
"What Will You Do?" is the most poignant track of Cary’s debut, While You Weren’t Looking. Cary’s voice just aches with regret, and the haunting melody can’t easily be forgotten.
It’s been almost five years since Cary released that album. For the past few years, she’s teamed up with Tonya Lamm and Lynn Blakey as Tres Chicas, and she’s recorded a duet album with Thad Cockrell. Tres Chicas released its second album last year, so there may not be room for a third solo album by Cary in the near future.
But the two albums that are available shouldn’t be missed.
So far, "Pinche Juan" is the shortest offering of all the files I’ve loaded to this site.
Clocking at 33 seconds, the track is a punchy punk song without actually employing very many punk conventions. There’s the double-time tempo, the shouted vocals and the concise length. That could be considered punk.
The rest of the song is propelled by accordion, bass and keyboards.
It could be argued the song isn’t really punk at all — just very hopped up traditional Mexican music. Perhaps some aspect of that remains.
But pogo-ing to this song wouldn’t be inappropriate.
The only Café Tacuba album I don’t own is Avalancha de Exitos. I would probably enjoy it if I listened to it for a while, but there’s no way I could understand it. (As if I possessed any understanding of Spanish.)
Avalancha de Exitos translates to "avalanche of hits". In short, it’s a cover album.
I did borrow it from a friend of mine back in 1999, and it was the first Café Tacuba album I ever heard. I was immediately drawn by the group’s angular sound, but instead of getting Avalancha de Exitos, I went with Re.
I’m still hesitant to get Avalancha de Exitos because certain interpretations have contexts beyond my experience.
"Ojalá que llueva café" is one such song. To a gringo such as myself, "Ojalá que llueva café" is just an energetic piece with textured rhythms, virtuoso playing and stratospheric singing. But to a native listener, it’s a display of sharp wit and cleverness.
The original by Juan Luis Guerra is performed as merengue, very danceable and very pop. Café Tacuba, however, transforms the song into huapango, also very danceable but far more traditional. It’s like turning a Shania Twain country-pop song into bluegrass.
That analogy, unfortunately, doesn’t take into account the national identities attached to such a transformation. You might cross state lines by making Shania bluegrass, but to turn merengue into huapango takes a leap across a sea.
If there is one thing my gaijin ears understand is energy, and "Ojalá que llueva café" has it in spades.
I learned about the departure of cellist Joan Jeanrenaud from Kronos Quartet not from any news item but from the liner notes of Café Tacuba’s double album Reves/Yosoy.
Kronos appears on one of the tracks on Reves, and Jennifer Culp (who has also since left the group) was listed as cellist. Huh? What happened to Joan? That discrepancy spurred me straight to the quartet’s web site, where I found an announcement about Jeanrenaud’s exit.
Thanks, Café Tacuba.
Although Kronos doesn’t discriminate against rock music in its repertoire, rock bands haven’t been a prime source for new commissions. Café Tacuba, however, has had two pieces performed by the ensemble.
"12/12", available on Kronos’ Nuevo, is a sprawling work, and the most daring piece on the album. When Café Tacuba is weirder than Silverstre Revualtes, something is definitely up.
"M.C." is an instrumental version of a song from Yosoy titled "La Muerte Chiquita". Kronos included the track on its own album, Kronos Caravan.
I hope the band provides more music for Kronos. I can’t imagine a better collaborator for the quartet. (Sigur Rós does come close, though.)
Some producers have such a cachet, when their names appear on the credits of an album, it’s practically a stamp of approval.
Dave Fridmann earned that name recognition with me for his work with the Flaming Lips and Number Girl. Gustavo Santaolalla did as well with Molotov and Juanes. When I heard both producers would be working on Café Tacuba’s Cuatros Caminos, I couldn’t wait to hear what would happen.
As it turned out, the Fridmann-produced tracks weren’t terribly impressive. The songs were introspective numbers that didn’t really require the kind of up-front sound Fridmann coaxes from his performers. Santaolalla’s tracks, however, seemed as if they were channeling Fridmann — the band sounds confident and audacious on a level previously unheard.
"Hoy Es" almost sounds like something that could have appeared on a Flaming Lips album. The way the song develops gradually, getting progressively psychedelic, has the same kind of orchestral grandeur, say, anything off the The Soft Bulletin. "Hoy Es", however, was not produced by Fridmann — it was helmed by Santaolalla.
Santaolalla brings out some punchy performances from the musicians who work with him, and this track certainly shows Café Tacuba at a zenith.
I’ve written about Café Tacuba numerous times before, but I don’t feel I’ve written enough.
However much I love Shiina Ringo, Björk or the Flaming Lips, nothing in the US, Europe or Japan compares to the manic eclecticism of Café Tacuba. The quartet catapults the music of its region so far into the future, it would probably still sound ahead of its time many years from now.
Beck saw fit to have the band open for him back in the mid ’90s. The most challenging piece on Kronos Quartet’s Nuevo was composed by the band. And as daring as the members of Café Tacuba are as rock musicians, they work from a firm foundation of traditional Mexican music.
"El fin de la infancia" comes from the band’s sprawling second album, Re. In the first half hour alone, Café Tacuba jumps from genre to genre, employing death metal guitars on one track, disco beats on another.
This track demonstrates the band’s willingness to go for the crazy. That drunken intro is something mighty dissonant.
To make up for all the time I haven’t written about Café Tacuba, the next few days will concentrate on the band’s music.