THEY DON'T CALL HIM THE MARTIN HANNETT OF THE '90s FOR NOTHING
(EYEWITNESS RECORD REVIEWS)
By Steve Albini in Forced Exposure #17, 1991
Record reviewers have been at an enormous disadvantage since the advent
of the multi-track recording in the late 1950s. No longer can any
assumptions be made about the conditions under which a record was
recorded. I am now able to write the first truly informed series of
record reviews since the dawn of that accursed technology. I can comment
on records I saw being made.
When I am hired to record a band, I make it plain to my clients that I do
not wish to be associated with their charming little records. I will do
a good job for them, but that does not include shouldering any
responsibility for their lousy tastes and mistakes.
When I was employed as a photo retoucher, I was often involved in the
alteration of reality for the noble purpose of increasing cigarette
sales. Not once did I expect or desire to see "produced by Steve Albini"
on a Marlboro ad, simply because it was this, and not some poor other
sap, who toned down the excessive lipgloss on Darryl's pout or removed
the unfortunate sarcoma from his forehead. I apply the same logic to my
current occupation.
Often these clients disregard my wishes and publicize the fact that I
worked on their records. Oh, man. Today, they get their just desserts.
I will make little comment about the actual music on any of these records
(figuring everybody has formed an opinion already or couldn't care less),
and will say nothing except "Bless you" about those who have respected my
anonymity.
A word about my fees: I charge whatever the hell I feel like at the
moment, based on the client's ability to pay, how nice the band members
are, the size and directly-proportional gullibility of the record label,
and whether or not they got the rock. For example, Slint or Mudhead I
would lend money to. The Didjits or Fugazi I would do for free. Shadowy
Men on a Shadowy Planet and Jesus Lizard would pay beans. Most everybody
else pays $150 -- $450 a day, except that anybody on a major label gets
fucked whole-dong outright, figuring that they're never going to get paid
anyway, unless it's somebody like Ministry or Depeche Mode or Guns 'n
Roses or Bullet La Volta who suck so wildly that I wouldn't endure them
for a fortune.
The straight skinny from an eyewitness:
A patchwork pinch loaf from
a band who a their top dollar best are blandly entertaining college
rock. Their willingness to be "guided" by their manager, their record
company and their producers is unparalleled. Never have I seen four cows
more anxious to be led around by their nose rings. Except that I got to
rewrite their songs with a razorblade, thought the drums sounded nice,
and managed to get Nate the Impaler on the LP as a cameo, I remember
nothing about this album, although I thought it was pretty good at the
time. During the recording, a sibling of the sexual partner of a Pixie
was lounging around making little fuck me noises, so I took her home and
got stiffed. Had to retreat to Byron's "den of satisfaction" and run a
batch off by hand. I seem to remember that their Filipino guitar player
was pro-Marcos, but I could be wrong. The album took about a week; maybe
two all tolled. Fee: $1,500.
I later recorded a single track with them for a label-stroke compilation
album. The band had been getting the Big High Building "pampered
performer" treatment for a couple of years by then and were consequently
bored and dour. It took a couple of hours after dinner one night. Fee:
$4,000. About a year later, Bob Krasnow, the geeb at Elektra's Big High
Building who fathered this dumb idea sent me a truly revolting
nickel-and-gold Omega wristwatch (the kind Record Producers wear), with
tacky Biz inscription and tacky presentation case. As soon as somebody
at the pool room offers me what it's worth, I'm gonna have a hell of a
nice dinner.
I was told they
wanted to record three songs, we ended up recording six, the most
embarrassing of which is an as-yet-unreleased adenoidal rendition of
Penetration's "Don't Dictate." I should say right out that the band are
truly swell guys. Nice enough to go our with your sister and everything,
but Jesus, are they vulnerable. They started out like any independent
band, and now are in the unenviable position of trying to operate like
one while unquestionably in the jaws of a Big High Building-type record
company. These poor guys are under the delusion that the staff of RCA
actually gives a shit about whether they draw breath or not. They sweat
their tours out in a tiny rented van, pinching every penny, lost in the
assumption that the label dorks back in the Big High Building "feel" for
them in some way. Meanwhile, I'm chatski on the cellular phone in the
limo, keeping my appointment with the club car of a Britrail, where I'll
be treated to a fucking filet on my way to my private room in the four
star Hotel Picadilly in Manchester (where the three telephones and
electric towel warmer are an ergonomic distance away from the toilet, but
the closed-circuit porn movies have the penetrations and cum shots
excised.) "Not to worry," the grand dork says, snapping the Amex down on
whatever Formica is handy, "it's recoupable." It took about four days.
Fee: $9,500 plus "niceties."
The band recorded three songs in Chicago during a break in their US tour,
and while the music was otherwise a big improvement over the songs
recorded for "Brassneck," I have to report that they also did a version
of a Steve Harley song called "Make Me Smile." Supposedly this was a
smash hit in the Bad Music Era across the pond, but back in Montana I
only knew one guy who ever listened to Steve Harley. He was a Sparks fan
and he later died of a brain tumor. I'm not going to risk it myself.
Fee: $4,260.
For reasons too subtle to describe accurately [boing! -- Hat Ed.], I really enjoyed going to Scotland and working on this. The actual record is nothing special, of course, but I have a much deeper understanding of the twin phenomena of synchronous menses and breast swelling than I previously would have dreamed. The only chafingly unpleasant thing about the experience was an unbearable shithead gopher who loitered around the studio during those hours when he wasn't actually engaged in plugging the guitar player (the only function he truly served). Josephine, the bass player, looks quite a bit like an emu, except that her hair is thinner. The studio owner had a pathological fear of raw eggs, and entertained us with stories about the
ex-Bay City Roller he buys beef from. His wife, a voluptuous, once-attractive singer, would occasionally strip down to her frillies at the bountiful dinner table. I pounded everybody through the album in
about a week, but the label insisted that we stay at the studio and dream
up another three weeks of work for me to do. The drummer accepted any
excuse to go across the road to the pub and get stupid drunk, and
finished one evening dancing in the arms of a Freemason transvestite
named "Dora" (John). On the last night in Scotland, the drummer went to
a meeting of the Angler's Club, and didn't return until well after
closing time. Presented to the front door by two Anglers, each holding
an elbow (the little drummer's legs had failed hours earlier), Shannon
was completely blackened with soot from the fire, except for bright blue
rings drawn with pool table chalk around nose and chin. Anglers, I
swear! The well-plugged guitar player (noted above) tipped me to a bit
of Boston gossip. It seems that Suzy Rust has been getting some social
mileage out of a rumor that she and I are well-acquainted with the
contours of each other's nakedness, and once traded orgasms in the
growler at Chet's. Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I have never
been in the toilet at Chet's. Fee: $4,000.
Tad
Salt Lick EP:
There has been debate in some
quarters about the validity of the whole Tad thing. Such talk comes from
mouths unassociated with either ears or brains. That Tad now introduces
himself as "Tiny" whenever he gets a chance is only further evidence of
apparent genius. His first words after stepping off the plane and
enveloping my forequarter with a handshake however, were, "Say, do you
know where we can get any pot?" Fortunately, a terrible band of my
acquaintance was recording in the studio upstairs from us, with a singer
known to travel with commercial quantities. "I'm not carrying that much
pot nowadays," said the singer, his expression inverting. "I'm tired of
getting arrested all the time." Tad was not a happy Tad that weekend.
Fee: $600.
They had a really fruity drummer for a while, but I think he died of the syph. This one took two days. Fee: $300.
Daisy Chain Reaction LP:
Their current drummer, Crazy
Bob, does occasionally scream "Hey, fuck me in the ass Steve, right here,
right now!" from across a crowded room at me, but somehow that isn't as
irritating as wearing a beret and scarf simultaneously. While recording
their second record, Crazy Bob got to meet Aerosmith, whose drummer
shared this joke with him: How do you get a nun pregnant? -- Fuck her. I
laughed. Fee: $2,400.
Listen, all I did was help
three college bozos remix some sorry class-project recordings, and all of
a sudden, Ding! I'm their "producer." Listening to this poor wittle
wecord is about the dumbest thing you can do with it, especially if
you're short on dinnerware. I did work on an actual record of theirs
later, and it wasn't unpleasant, but Orestes "Toast" Delatorre, their
drummer and interesting member, has left the band to pursue dog grooming
in Alaska or someplace, so who really cares. That B'gnet routinely fires
Jon Fine (token hebe) immediately after each recording session is
testament to his personality. Fee: $100, I think.
Recorded before the band existed, and therefore neither representative nor any good. They recorded with a drum machine, against all advice, instead of waiting for their excellent actual drummer (a sort of tragic genius) to materialize. A shame, considering how tremendous a band they've become. This record is a blight on a soon-to-be-enormously-significant career. Bands have overcome more shabby beginnings, but not many. The only one of their their three records that is not absolutely stellar, but boy is it lunar. Fee: about a buck, I think.
Bastro
Rode Hard And Put Up Wet LP:
See previous review. In my opinion, a Zoviet France tattoo is stupid even when compared to genital piercing.
Whitehouse
"Thank Your Lucky Stars" 45 and LP:
William Bennett can effortlessly play almost any Yes song you could be pained to
mention on Spanish guitar. I shit you not. Each of the songs Whitehouse
recorded was structurally mapped by a famous heavy metal song. So much
so, in fact, that all Bennett used as a headphone cue was a cassette
recording of whichever Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden or Deep Purple song the
track was based on. Tidbit -- three guesses which later-famous
synthesizer guy that is on the back of that Prag Vec record you haven't
listened to since 1980. Ding! Give that man a banana. Fee: $600.
Membranes
Kiss Ass Godhead LP:
I did not produce this
record, despite what it says on the jacket. I worked on a couple of
songs in Chicago, and helped them mix a few more songs in Leeds, but I no
more "produced" it than did I reach into my butt crack and discover it.
(Speaking of which, I have a good friend and billiard associate named Jon Spiegel whose magic act involves the disappearance of a volunteer's
hankie and the subsequent appearance from between his own magnificent
butt cheeks. It's a real PTA pleaser.) Neither Homestead nor Glass, the
Membranes' two labels, ever paid me. John Robb is a stand up fellow, but
he has lousy business associates, and talks like a Ferriner. Fee: Still
nothing in the mailbox Seymour, you lying fuck.
Gore
Wrede LP:
The title is a Dutch pun combining the
words "cruelty" and "peace." Oh you guys, you crack me up. This is a
double album, made up of four monolithic instrumentals, the longest of
which clocks in at nearly half an hour. I arrived after the band had
spent three weeks recording, so there was basically nothing for me to do
except oversee overdubs and mix one song. And take sauna baths. And eat
like a pig. My favorite victual in Dykenland is a peppered raw beef
called "filet American." Must be another Dutch pun. I also learned to
love Vlokken, a chocolate shred that is eaten on toast. I met a writer
for the Dutch music magazine Oor (Ear), who always wore a glove on his
right hand, which was always balled-up in a fist. I found out why when
the conversation turned to fireworks, and he demonstrated (by sticking a
thumbtack in it) that his hand was wooden. He had blown it off with
fireworks as a boy. He asked me why Americans have such a low opinion of
the Dutch. I told him that Americans seldom even thought of the Dutch,
except for their elm disease, which we thought highly of. He gave as
evidence the expressions "being in Dutch," "Dutch courage," and worst of
all, "Dutch treat -- why that's no treat of all!" I told him that they
were all puns. The other engineer on the record was Theo Van Eenbergen,
a swell guy who now handles live sound for Henry Rollins, a fate I
wouldn't wish on a dog I didn't like. Theo told me about the pot farm he
used to live on. Sometimes he and his friends would run naked through
the plants and collect the resins from their skin to smoke like hashish.
Neat. Things I now know how to say in Dutch: "Zet je koptelefoon op,
mietje, voor ik je tegens jehersens knal." ("Put your headphones on, you
little faggot, or I'll come out and crush your brains.") "Vall kapot!
Late we eten." ("Fuck it, this is a disaster! Let's eat.") I also
learned why you should never asked a Dutch guitar player to hand you his
"pick." Fee: $1,200.
The original artwork for
this album said "Dustbowel," which I quite liked, even when I found out
it was a mistake. My involvement here was limited to remixing a record
that was fine before I touched it and got no better for the effort. I
also had to endure the presence of Justin Pile, HOD's measly drummer, who
spent long hours bemoaning the state of his hemorrhoids, playing with his
dreadlocks and eating greasy vegetarian food (the better to fart you
with, grandma) -- the turd. Fee: about $500, I think.
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Reid Fleming / cDc / mmot / rfleming@crl.com