King Tuff wrote the best T. Rex song you’ve heard in decades with “Black Moon Spell”, the title track off of their recent album, and for five minutes the listener is transported back to the early-70’s and the heyday of glam rock. It was one of the best singles of 2014, and while the rest of Black Moon Spell doesn’t quite reach the heights of its opener, the record still has its charms. Kyle Thomas (aka King Tuff himself) shows a knack for writing fun and infectious melodies that are quick and to the point, and knocks out dozens of memorable fuzzed-out guitar lines that will rattle around in your mind long after the record has finished playing.
I first heard King Tuff when they opened for Wavves on their Afraid of Heights tour, and one can easily see how those two groups could find common ground, as they share an irreverent attitude and a commitment to stoned-out rock. King Tuff ingratiated themselves with the crowd that night with displays of both their humor and musicianship, and I made a note to keep an eye on them for the future. “Black Moon Spell” made the effort worthwhile, as I quickly fell into the spell of its captivating groove, with its memorably hypnotic riff that brilliantly plays around the contours of its chord progression. It may not be high art, but goddammit does it ever rock, and most of the album follows that template.
Most will point to the obvious inspirations of Diamond Dogs-era Bowie and the aforementioned T. Rex, but it is the unexpected influence of another generation that helps make Black Moon Spell sound fresh enough for modern audiences, that of mid-90’s indie rock. King Tuff filters the touchstones of glam-rock through the lens of the Elephant 6 sound, namely the psychedelic pop experimentation of The Apples In Stereo and the Olivia Tremor Control. The bright and sunny attitude that is prevalent throughout the album immediately recalls Robert Schneider and his group, while elements as diverse as the lo-fi “I Love You Ugly” and the quick sound collage from the mesmerizing ballad “Staircase of Diamonds” bring to mind memories of the latter band, with King Tuff’s vocals emphasizing the melodic sides of both bands.
King Tuff’s approach of glam-via-the-garage makes helps make Black Moon Spell an intriguing and often-exciting album, but it does drag a bit in spots, even with most songs racing by at around two minutes apiece. The album sags a bit toward the end, which is why this recommendation is being published months after its initial release; though many of the songs are not intended to leave much of a lasting impression, a lot of the songs after the mid-way point end up being rather disposable and probably should have been excised. However, even these tracks grow on you after multiple listens, so even this minor caveat should not discourage you from throwing on some face paint rocking some platform shoes with King Tuff, at least for forty minutes or so.
Unlike a lot of listeners, lyrics have usually been at most a secondary concern for me. That’s not to say that lyrics are completely irrelevant or unimportant, but that they are normally rather low on my priorities list when assessing the merits of a particular song or evaluating the work of an artist. It’s only after the first few listens that I pay attention to the lyrics; melody, rhythm, instrumentation, and interaction between all the parts are all more pressing concerns in my mind. If a band succeeds with those elements, I tend to view good lyrics as a bonus. It also helps to have really low expectations for lyrics in general–there’s way too much information to convey in a restricted manner, so if everything doesn’t work out perfectly on the page, it’s probably best to let it slide.
Despite this predisposition, sometimes lyrics can make an immediate impression even on the first listen. It’s not a big deal if a chorus gets stuck in my head or that I remember an opening line, but the more noteworthy cases are when it’s a throwaway lyric in a middle verse that catches my attention. Probably the best personal example I can think of is the line “My old portrait heads of Gertrude Stein” from the Olivia Tremor Control’s “Define A Transparent Dream”–it’s a phrase that stuck out immediately the first time I heard it, and after numerous subsequent listens to Music from the Unrealized Film Script: Dusk at Cubist Castle I was still able to pick out and enjoy that particular lyric, even without full knowledge of its context. It was a long time before I even knew the name of the song or where it appeared on the album, but sure enough every single time the song played I could jump in and sing along at that moment.
This phenomenon occurred when I listen to the self-titled debut from Alvvays, and something that was briefly mentioned in our review. In an otherwise rather weak year for newcomers, Alvvays stood out from most with its bouncy melodies and sun-soaked atmosphere, with sugar-sweet hooks that never dipped into saccharine territory. The album created a compelling marriage between the retro-revival of 60’s garage pop with the gorgeous arpeggiated guitar melodies of contemporaries like Beach House, and was successful in conveying a soothing sense of calm throughout.
But within the general good vibes, there was one lyric that poked through, and it successfully stuck in my mind precisely because of the way it was set up by the previous songs. The album begins with the playful “Adult Diversion” before smoothly transitioning to the soaring “Archie, Marry Me”, which sets the mood for the rest of the album. “Ones Who Love You” seems to follow in much the same manner, delivering a slight variation of the breezy summer music that we previously heard. Then the third verse comes, and it shocks you with the final line “You can’t feel your fucking face.” This sudden use of profanity from out of nowhere immediately makes the listener reconsider the meaning of the rest of the song, inspiring wonder as to what had been hidden under the surface this whole time.
The rest of the album more or less follows the template of the first two songs, with their wistful nostalgic tones, which makes the “you can’t feel your fucking face” lyric stick out even more and gives the line even more power. It’s strange to praise a writer merely for using the f-word, but this is proof that when it is strategically deployed that it can have a powerful effect on the listener. It knocks listeners out of their comfort zones and forces them to reassess their take on the material, even if this wasn’t the intention of the band.
That said, even after going back and searching for meaning in the lyrics of “Ones Who Love You,” I have no idea what the song is about, but rest assured every time I hear it I’ll be singing along with that line.
Neutral Milk Hotel’s reputation was built on the strength of its magnum opus In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. What is it about this album that it has inspired rabid devotees ready to proselytize about its brilliance at the drop of a hat? In this next part, we will closely examine the particular genius of Aeroplane and why it is worthy of such deference.
It is difficult to enjoy In the Aeroplane Over the Sea on the first listen; to borrow a term from economics, appreciation has “a high barrier to entry”. The bizarrely-stocked orchestra of cheap instruments, the ramshackle production combined with lo-fi recording touches, and Jeff Mangum’s raw and unique voice (some kind people may call it “untrained” to be charitable) all become qualities that you come to love, but it takes some time before this occurs. It can be tough to overcome those initial impressions, and that’s how you end up with reactions like this Rolling Stone review (I don’t know if there’s a more “Rolling Stone” review than this, which when not engaged in strained allusions (Tusk and the MacArthur awards committee both get a mention) manages to do everything it can to show that the reviewer missed the point entirely (“burying the hard gem of songcraft under layers of bizarreness”; “most of the music is scant and drab, with flat-footed rhythms and chord changes strictly out of the beginner’s folk songbook”), all capped with a generic three-star rating).
The chord changes that the Rolling Stone reviewer derides are actually one of the quiet strengths of the album. Most of the songs only rely on three or four basic chords, all of which should be familiar to the average listener’s ear. The effect is that it grounds the songs into something that is immediately identifiable to the listener, and allows one to appreciate the more peculiar touches without allowing one’s attention to completely drift away. The title track is a perfect example of this: it’s built on a common progression, G – E minor – C – D, or as I like to call it the “Last Kiss” progression (the I, vi (relative minor), IV, V chords for those inclined), over which Mangum sings a sweet and pleasant melody, and gradually more and more instruments are layered to provide distinctive accents, like the various horns and especially the eerie singing saw. Mangum never changes the chords but in the bridge he makes a slight adjustment in their order, beginning each phrase with the E minor chord instead, which changes the tone of the entire section to something darker. These little touches help bring out certain lines in the lyrics; a perfect example is how the singing saw helps embellish the line “how the notes all bend and reach above the trees”, providing an aural representation of the image depicted in the lyrics.
The brilliant “Holland, 1945” is another excellent example. It’s even simpler than “Aeroplane” in that it uses only three chords: C, G, and D, the most basic chords in all contemporary music. In fact, most of the time it switches only between C and G, with the D thrown in occasionally to provide the bridge between those two endpoints. The simple structure also allows the song to retain the same amount of power when it’s just Mangum and his guitar. That said, there are few things that equal the magnificence of this song when it’s the full band playing–the fuzz bass that gives the low end that buzzed edge, those horn lines which provide glimpses of triumph, and that excellent driving percussion that is always on the threat of falling apart but blisters through nonetheless. Just listen to those crisp snare rolls and how they push the song into the next line, or those kick drum hits that accent the walking bassline in the coda.
It’s almost amazing that I’ve spent this many words analyzing the album with only passing references to the lyrics, because the story behind the words is often what is most familiar to those with even a passing knowledge of the band (“Oh, they’re the guys with the ‘Anne Frank’ album, right?”). The discussion of the mythology of Aeroplane is certainly a factor that draws in many fans, and Mangum’s lyrics definitely invite further scrutiny. Much of the album was indeed inspired by Anne Frank’s The Diary of a Young Girl, and she is referenced in many songs throughout the album (the bulk of her appearances is in the middle of the album, with “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea”, “Holland, 1945”, “Oh, Comely” and “Ghost” as significant examples). However, it needs to be seen through the eyes of Mangum’s intense reaction to her ordeal and not just a recounting of her story. Mangum uses several other characters on the album, as he weaves scenes of an impoverished modern family with fantastical characters and the ghost of Anne Frank, all as attempts to process all the terrible things that happen and how we are often powerless to stop them. Individual lines alternate between sweet, childish simplicity and bizarre horror, all processed through a particular straightforward innocence.
It is an extremely affecting and compelling work underscored by Mangum’s raw and impassioned vocal performance. What initially comes off as harsh at worst and amateurish at best becomes warm and comforting after repeated listens. You can feel each and every sentiment that Mangum goes through as he journeys through the emotional roller coaster of an album; the album veers from the affectionate “The Earth looks better from a star that’s right above from where you are” to the stark “I know they buried her body with others, her sister and mother and 500 families…I wish I could save her in some sort of time machine” to the redemptive “And when her spirit left her body, how it split the sun; I know that she will live forever, all goes on and on and on.” It’s the reason why one of the most powerful experiences in my life was when I listened to this album and then visited the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam.
However, it’s not just the brilliance of the album itself that has inspired such fanatical devotion, but the mystery surrounding it. While it’s easy to pick up on the general story behind the songs, the often cryptic lyrics filled with fantastic and grotesque imagery have inspired wild theories and intense discussion. And fans were left to argue their meaning among themselves, because Jeff Mangum rarely spoke about the album and conducted very few interviews once it was released. Actually, I may be understating Mangum’s reluctance a little bit, as his silence led to stories of him becoming a recluse in the face of the overwhelming reaction to the album, so much so that Slate published an article in 2008 that dubbed Mangum “The Salinger of Indie Rock”. The continued silence of Mangum over the years fed a cycle that increased the hysteria behind the album, and as nature abhors a vacuum, people rushed in to fill the gaps and speculate on the meaning of what seemed to be the last musical release of an eccentric genius. With nothing to compare it to, the stature of the album was destined to grow, a pattern we’ve seen before (My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless is an excellent example of this phenomenon).
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Which was why it was such a surprise when Jeff Mangum eventually began his return to the spotlight a couple of years ago with a scattering of solo appearances, and why segments of the internet exploded in euphoria. Finally, we would be able to hear from the man himself!
A triumphant return.
In the years leading up to his return, fans had to make do with scattered bootlegs and a tantalizing glimpse of the early form of Aeroplane-era songs with Live at Jittery Joe’s, a recording of Jeff performing solo before friends and an otherwise indifferent audience in a tiny club in Athens, Georgia between On Avery Island and Aeroplane. It was remarkable to hear Mangum interact with the audience and give brief explanations and insights into his songs, and the casual nature of the set helped undercut some of the self-serious reverence that some fans had developed over the years. This was music made by an actual human, not some ethereal muse or other mystical creature.
Jittery Joe’s also provided a clue as to how some of those early return shows would sound like, as Mangum seemed weary of returning the band as a whole. Instead, he gradually introduced other band members in various performances and only for certain songs, generally performing by himself just with a couple of acoustic guitars. I had the great fortune of seeing Mangum on these early tours twice, and it was a concert experience that few could possibly match. It was amazing to watch a crowd that over years and years had connected on a deep emotional level with an artist that they had no idea they would ever have the chance to see, finally confronted with the opportunity to witness the source of their passion in person. It was a mixture of joy and adoration, and took on the tone of an almost-religious revival. I can say with some authority that the only person that could get a bunch of young Portland hipsters to yell “I love you, Jesus Christ” would be Jeff Mangum.
But still, there was something missing from these performances. Jeff and his guitar may have been the backbone of each of these songs, but we had come to adore all the extra flourishes over the years–the thrashing drums, the buzzed bass, the kitchen-sink orchestra, et al. So we were welcome to the new experience of seeing “Neutral Milk Hotel” as a whole perform these songs that we had come to know by heart.
Fellow Elephant 6 comrades The Minders and Elf Power were the opening bands, and they did a good job of keeping the energy of the crowd up. We got an unexpected highlight when Elf Power covered the Olivia Tremor Control’s “Jumping Fences” in memory of Bill Doss, who had tragically died two years ago. It was a reverent take of a brilliant song whose greatness was somewhat unappreciated by most of the crowd, who apparently had not delved into the oeuvre of the other band in the collective that often matched the brilliance of Neutral Milk Hotel. One of the greatest concert experiences I ever had was seeing the Olivia Tremor Control perform a raucous set in a tiny Portland bar during Music Fest Northwest with a bunch of their friends from Elephant 6, and I wished that the other people in the crowd had been there so they could have been as excited as I was for this cover.
After Elf Power, the audience grew impatient as the moment that many had spent at least a decade to see was growing closer, but soon their fears were allayed as a lone bearded figure climbed up onto the stage. Jeff opened the show with a stirring solo version of “Two-Headed Boy”, buoyed by a raucous crowd singing along. And in a manner that perfectly matched the performance on the album, the rest of the band gradually made their way in a procession to the stage as they played the instrumental segue “The Fool”, and we could finally say that we had lived to see the return of Neutral Milk Hotel. When the band launched into “Holland, 1945”, I could barely contain myself, and I shouted the lyrics along with the band as they played my favorite song of all-time. It was an unbelievable moment, made better by the fact that you could see the joy of the band as well.
In those earlier Jeff solo shows, there was always a delicate tension between performer and audience, as the crowd was careful not to disturb a potentially emotionally fragile performer. There was a strange dichotomy at work, as there was a connection between Jeff and the crowd because of the music, but also a distance between the two, as the crowd didn’t want to cross any imaginary line. With this in the back of my head, I was therefore interested to see how Mangum would react with the rest of his band during the show. Instead of being withdrawn and remote, Jeff seemed most joyous when he was playing along with his band. He was still somewhat on an island off to the far right of the stage, and the nature of the songs meant that often it was him by himself facing the crowd, but the sense was not of “Jeff Mangum & Some Guys” but more of a cohesive unit called “Neutral Milk Hotel”.
The band had a varied set, shifting between songs from throughout their career. There were of course several songs from Aeroplane, but they also hit highlights from their debut like “Gardenhead-Leave Me Alone” and “Song Against Sex”, as well as tossing in rarities like the early single “Everything Is” as well as “Ferris Wheel on Fire”. The band saved the best for last, as they ended the show with an encore of the ending trio of songs from Aeroplane. There’s “Ghost”, which manages to create this unbelievable tension as instruments pile on top of each other while the upbeat is hammered incessantly, while at the same time there is some relief because we have the potential relief of Anna’s ghost being free to escape. Then there is the instrumental segue “Untitled”, which has the aura of a carnival celebration and where the band let loose, led by unusual instruments like the zanzithophone, which handles the main melody. One of the indelible memories I will have of the show will be of Jeff jumping around with his acoustic guitar as this joyous circus performed along with him. “Two-Headed Boy Pt. 2” then closes out this set, as we revisit characters from throughout the story as gradually everything fades away, and we’re left with Jeff alone with his guitar. However, he doesn’t leave as he does at the end of the album; instead, Jeff has one more sing-along for the audience, and the crowd joins in on the fan-favorite “Engine” to close out the show. It was the perfect ending to a memorable show, and we exited into the night to the sounds of “Pink Moon” filtering through the Crystal Ballroom sound system. That’s about as good as a Sunday night gets.
I remember a recent conversation where an acquaintance asked a question along the lines of “How did Neutral Milk Hotel become so popular?” For the vast majority of the American public, this would seem to be a preposterous question, especially for a group that has yet to sell even a gold record; furthermore, I’d imagine that most of these people would be clueless as to how those three words could possibly fit together.* However, depending on the community, this bewilderment is understandable. Within the right group of people, Neutral Milk Hotel, and especially their masterpiece In the Aeroplane Over the Sea, have taken on an almost hagiographic glow, and both now exist as shorthand for raw, cathartic genius and simple, pure brilliance.** Not bad for a few guys from a small town in Louisiana.
One of the signs that you know you’re in my office.
I’m going to twist the original question a little bit, and rephrase it as “How did Neutral Milk Hotel reach this level of acclaim (with the corollary ‘Is it deserved?’ answered with a quick and resounding ‘Yes.’)?” Looking back to their origins, there would be few clues as to how these guys would become the most influential voices in the independent music scene of the last two decades. As the story has been recounted before, it dates back to the early days of childhood friendship in Ruston, Louisiana, the home of Louisiana Tech. It began with the sons of a couple of professors bonding over their love of strange and exotic music, and together they navigated following their cultural ambitions with the realities of small town life. Sharing records eventually led to experimentation and making recordings themselves, and it was from those humble beginnings that the Elephant 6 collective was born.
Those childhood friends were Robert Schneider, Bill Doss, William Cullen Hart, and Jeff Mangum, and their bands and their subsequent offshoots would create some of the greatest music of the 90’s. The Apples in Stereo, The Olivia Tremor Control, and Neutral Milk Hotel all trace their origins to those days in Ruston, and they in turn would inspire and work with several other bands like Beulah, Elf Power, and of Montreal that would shape the sound of independent music from the mid-90’s to today. But while I feel this history lesson is beginning to drag us away from the question at hand, it does provide the proper context to understand Neutral Milk Hotel. It was within that setting that a culture of sharing and experimentation developed, where bands and genres blended as necessary, all in the name of making beautiful and heartfelt music. It was from these humble beginnings where you can also hear the origins of the Elephant 6 aesthetic. The sincere belief that merely lacking the trappings of an expensive studio is not a good enough excuse to prevent musicians from emulating the psychedelic sounds of the Beach Boys and the Beatles, when all you need is a bedroom, a tape recorder, and a bunch of friends to help you.
The story of Elephant 6 is significant, but the particular importance of Neutral Milk Hotel still needs to be explored. One can find momentary glimpses of future genius in their debut album, On Avery Island: songs like “Gardenhead”, “Song Against Sex”, and “Naomi” are great examples of the warped take on folk music that would be the hallmark of the band’s sound. In a way it captured the old-time spirit of folk music, which wasn’t the sixties stereotype of the singer/guitarist in a cafe, but friends gathered together playing whatever instruments were handy. This atmosphere was enhanced by the lo-fi recording techniques and production, which emphasized the do-it-yourself spirit of the group. And on top of all this were Jeff Mangum’s cryptic and often bizarre lyrics, which draw your attention and invite endless speculation. However, there was little that would prepare fans to the great leap forward that would come next from the band.
Next door to the Anne Frank House.
I still remember my first introduction to the band, back during my freshman year of college. I was looking at the away messages that my friends would post on AOL Instant Messenger, and one of them had posted a few lyrics from the song “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” and had listed the name “Neutral Milk Hotel” underneath. I found the words particularly moving, which led to further research to learn more about these guys. After reading a few reviews filled with lavish praise, I immediately used the intra-college network to download the album, since we had long passed the halcyon days of Napster (quick aside that attempts to justify my actions: this was before the days of YouTube and other streaming possibilities; the nearest record store was two towns over and I lacked a car; and I have a strong habit of purchasing what I like after the test preview download as soon as I can).
Those unmistakable first acoustic guitar strums of “The King of Carrot Flowers, Pt. 1” soon were filtering out through my computer speakers, and I was subtly intrigued. It was a catchy little progression, with a playfulness that was reminiscent of old nursery rhymes. And then that distinctive and idiosyncratic voice came in, and I was momentarily taken aback. At this point, I had limited experience with such an unconventional vocal style, where emotion and passion took priority over a pleasing tone or technical accuracy. So I was put back on my heels a little bit at this point, and I was still listening to the first song at this point. There’s a slow transition into “The King of Carrot Flowers, Pts. 2 & 3” as a sustained organ chord bridges the two songs, followed by a staccato banjo arpeggio, and then…
“I-I-I LOVE YOU JEEE-SUS CHRIIIIIIIIIST! JEEESUS CHRIST I LOOOOO-O-VE YOOOOOOOOU!”
At that moment, my first thought is “what the hell have I just gotten myself into?” And when I played the album for the first time for each of my friends, that was the exact point where they would produce an identical reaction. I have expressed a similar philosophy as Hank Hill when it comes to Christian Rock, and so this moment was quite jarring: the combination of the raw emotion and the nakedness of the proclamation itself were a bit much to take on first listen. But then that triumphant trumpet kicks in, the drums begin to ramp up, and then the song morphs into the most punk rock folk song I had ever heard in my life. My initial concerns were slowly fading away.
It was then that the title track came on, and my conversion was soon complete. It’s a gorgeous ballad, filled with gorgeous unique touches, like the eerily beautiful singing saw that wavers in and out throughout the song. Yet it was the lyrics that had slowly captured my attention, language filled with gorgeous imagery and a sentiment of sweetly innocent longing, an emotion that Mangum’s voice wonderfully captured. And by the time I heard the last verse, I had reached an epiphany.
“What a beautiful face, I have found in this place that is circling all around the sun; and when we meet on a cloud, I’ll be laughing out loud, I’ll be laughing with everyone I see. Can’t believe how strange it is to be anything at all.”
That last line continues to stick with me to this day; I have never heard a more perfect summation of the absurdity and majesty of existence, and the mere acknowledgement of this fact proves the sentiment in and of itself. It’s in moments like that instant connection with that particular lyric that reveal how a band can inspire such intense devotion.
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To be continued in Pts. 2 & 3
* The best explanation that I remember reading of the band name was that “milk hotels” were a specific lodging that I believe sprang up during the time of the Gold Rush, and they were not stocked with alcohol. “Neutral” didn’t describe the non-leanings of the hotel, but rather was the name of a town. My search skills are failing at the moment, but I will edit this when I find more information.
** It can also exist as shorthand for people trying to make a quick joke about hipsters or as a comment on seemingly pretentious and inscrutable music, but fuck those guys.
Note: The book from the 33 1/3 series on In the Aeroplane Over the Sea written by Kim Cooper was an invaluable resource in helping to flesh out some of the backstory of the Elephant 6 Collective, and I highly recommend picking up a copy if you want more information.
Rust Is Just Right 