Though I’ve always been more of a Step in the Arena (1991) and Daily Operation (1992)-type of dude, I’m still taken aback by how good Gang Starr’s Moment of Truth (1998) is every time I hear it. Which is slightly absurd, given my near-decade of familiarity with it and the ‘classic’ tag it has arguably been given by the general populace over the years. Moment of Truth has essentially become my own brand of noise pollution to the public these days, as I am wont to blare “The Militia” and “Work” out of my car speakers with all windows down on the first 70+ degree day of the year; if my side and rear view mirrors aren’t buzzing with distorted reflections on every kick hit, it’s not loud enough. That’s right. Public nuisance-style.

Yet the other day, as I was forcibly subjecting the citizens of Boston to my favorite cuts from the album, I was suddenly struck by how playable Premier’s beats were – and by “playable” I don’t mean “MPC-programmable,” but more applicable to live instrumentation in a small group setting. Granted, one could argue that most hip hop beats could actually be replicated to a certain extent by real musicians, a somewhat obvious point given its sample-based aesthetic. Still, there is something about Preemo’s musicality and approach to production on Moment of Truth that lends itself to transcription more so than, say, his jazzier leanings on Gang Starr’s earlier records and the stark, often atonal sound collages from his mid-’90s work with Jeru and Group Home. Here are four of the more notable selections.

“You Know My Steez”

Premier’s reconfiguration of the intro to Joe Simon’s “Drowning in the Sea of Love” forms the basis for Moment’s opening cut, which is guided by a drum track constructed from those classic Grandmaster Flash beatbox drums. Other than a brief trombone swell lifted from the Simon sample, that’s about it, but there are two distinct features of note here (disregarding the fact that there is no bass line). First, from a sonic perspective, “You Know My Steez” possesses the unique characteristic of sounding spacious and claustrophobic at once, the chunks of guitar octaves colliding with the slightly distorted, overcompressed kicks of the drum track. Secondly – and this is purely subjective – but to these ears, the guitar ‘melody’ appears to be arranged backwards; the bars should be flipped so that the stuttering F# pattern should follow the rising and swelling motif in the previous bar. Yet not only does Preemo’s ‘reversed’ interpretation work marvelously, it gives the two-bar loop a circularity that a more logical arrangement would lack when repeated for more than 16 bars. Guru seems particularly inspired by the music, showcasing, in this author’s opinion, his finest lyrical moment on wax.

“You Know My Steez” – Gang Starr 3:44 (Moment of Truth, Noo Trybe 1998)

“Above the Clouds”

“Above the Clouds” is proof positive that the the art of creating music from sampled sound extends far beyond a cracked copy of Fruity Loops and snippets of imported audio from a few CDs. The best beatsmiths all have an unidentifiable ability to ‘hear’ arrangements and musical structures from the most unlikely of sources and recycle those sounds into something their own. Premier, unsurprisingly, is one of these individuals. His production for “Above the Clouds” is absolutely brilliant and ranks among the finest of his career; how someone could make something this bangin’ out of the first few seconds of John Dankworth’s “Two-Piece Flower” is beyond mortal comprehension (I’ve offered the original source below for this example).

Incidentally, “Above the Clouds” lends itself surprisingly well to transcription, despite its overall weirdness and the audible repeated triggering of selected samples in the beat. What sounds like a shamisen on the original recording could be played by a palm-muted and slightly flat guitar, and two oboes would be required – a tad unorthodox, yes, but crucial for the counterpoint in the latter half of the second bar (unless a polyphonic oboe can be found as a substitute, of course). Premier wisely chooses to leave the bottom end open, only inserting two emphatic bass hits to signal the loop; he’s cleverly reminding you that it’s there, but he’s not going to clutter the track with it. Note the 32nd-note pinched kicks before the first and third beats, which give the track a sense of propulsion that the more common 16th note pinches would lack, as well as help enforce the impression that the tempo is faster than it actually is (roughly 86 bpm). It’s hardly surprising that Inspectah Deck straight-up destroys this cut with a verse that surpasses any of the other guest spots on the record.

“Above the Clouds” – Gang Starr feat. Inspectah Deck 3:41 (Moment of Truth, Noo Trybe 1998)

“Two-Piece Flower” – John Dankworth 4:04 (John Dankworth and His Music, Fontana 1967)

Bonus link: Try to play the melody from “Above the Clouds” on this virtual shamisen! Fun!

“Itz a Set Up”

Most of the fodder for the suspenseful “Itz a Set Up” derives from keyboardist Les McCann’s “Beyond Yesterday.” The two-bar loop begins with a sequence of two- and three-note clumps from a parallel guitar and bass lick, followed by a brief stab of electric piano, then concludes with the soft trilling of a trumpet for the final three beats. Premier keeps the drum track relatively straightforward to prevent any clashing with the three distinct colors from the other instruments, though he can’t resist adding some shuffle to the hi-hat track in the second beat of each bar. One gets the slight feeling that he could have constructed something like this in his sleep, but regardless, the music would have fit right at home on M.O.P.’s Firing Squad (1996) or even Jeru’s Wrath of the Math (1996). “Itz a Set Up” is also one of the handful of tracks on Moment that would sound amazing as interpreted by El Michels Affair (on a limited-edition 7″, no less).

“Itz a Set Up” – Gang Starr feat. Hannibal 3:49 (Moment of Truth, Noo Trybe 1998)

“The Rep Grows Bigga”

One of the highlights during the second half of Moment of Truth is “The Rep Grows Bigga,” a choice example of what Preemo could do with a piano, a drum track, and little else. When transcribed, the music reveals a wealth of subtle complexities that a cursory listen would fail to notice. The foundation of the track is a looming, inescapable piano that stomps down on each beat and would grow incredibly tiring in the first minute were it not for Premier’s drum track, which takes advantage of those 32nd-note pinched kicks and a well-placed hit just before the fourth beat of each bar. The harmony is about as basic as it gets, a i - v progression that almost screams “open-close” every two beats; note the mangled dissonance of the second chord with the addition of the B natural.

The tonality changes on every eighth bar with the appearance of an odd Eb diminished chord, which is introduced chromatically and decorated with a brief flurry of notes. It’s a terrific way to bring a sense of closure to the somewhat static seven bars before it, and curious unresolved nature of the chord helps to keep the listener engaged.

“The Rep Grows Bigga” Gang Starr 3:31 (Moment of Truth, Noo Trybe 1998)

Again, my apologies to anyone experiencing site difficulties for the past three weeks now. It appears – and I can state this with confidence now – that all issues have been resolved (fie on Yahoo! Web Hosting) and regular posting should resume soon. For those who have bookmarked or linked here in the past, please note that “/blog2″ is no longer in the url; it’s just “http://floodwatchmusic.com” now. While I finish repairing some older posts and fixing links in the Archives, enjoy this guest drop I wrote for Scholar’s excellent Souled On last summer.

The late, great Barry White created a body of music that has different meanings for everyone. Some will forever associate him (and moreover, his voice) with the idea of tender romance set to music, his songs occupying the centerpieces of those dime-a-dozen “Midnight Love” compilations, his sound encompassing the very definition of sensuality. For others, the his name signifies the worst of ‘70s excess: vulgar fashion trends and hairstyles, endless all-nighter coke binges, nauseating disco lights. Many unfairly lump him in under the “music I’ll never listen to outside of a wedding” category. What most overlook is the indisputable fact that Mr. White, aka The Maestro, aka The Man, was a phenomenally talented songwriter, arranger, and producer that the industry has rarely seen before or since. In fact, few Soul artists dominated the ‘70s charts like he did, and the amount of quality material in his catalogue extends far beyond well-known party favorites like “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe” and the exhaustively-parodied sex jam “I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More, Baby.”

My affinity with White’s music has grown into something more complex a dozen years or so into our relationship. Sure, at times it’s bordered on unhealthy: I’ve snapped on more than one person as the result of some innocent jibe about the man’s weight or hair. I played his records for nearly fourteen hours straight when I heard the news of his death a little over four years ago. I’ve often fantasized about the number of house keys – somewhere in the tens of thousands – mailed to him over the years by housewives of all ages, with notes containing nothing but an address and the hours of the day when their husbands aren’t home. So understandably, it took me hours to narrow down my five favorite Barry White songs that follow.

05. “Your Love - So Good I Can Taste It” Is This Whatcha Wont 20th Century 1976

Without a solid chart-topper in two years, White’s popularity had waned a bit by 1976, but that didn’t stop him from releasing two full-lengths that year, Let the Music Play (1976) and Is This Whatcha Wont? (1976) Both records had their share of duds, but it was the centerpiece of the latter, the twelve-minute bedroom epic “Your Love – So Good I Can Taste It,” that justified its purchase entirely. Essentially a two-part suite, the first half is an instrumental showcase for White’s own Love Unlimited Orchestra. All of his signature musical elements are in place here: caressed Fender Rhodes keys, gently sweeping strings, weeping guitars, all atop an irresistible quiet storm groove. If there’s one thing that White didn’t lack, it was patience – the track has the feeling that the music could continue on forever, a concept that formed the backbone of his whole “we’ve got all night, baby” steez. The actual song itself enters around the halfway mark after a slow buildup, at which point White begins pushing the limits of taste with another one of his signature love raps: “You know, ever since I was a young boy, I used to get in devilment and I used to do all kind of things with little girls, but when I become a man I put away childish things.” The pendulum-like 12/8 rhythm provides the foundation for White to describe his late-night fantasy: “Whole lotta lovemaking, a lotta butt-shaking.” As the track concludes, his delivery has escalated into an urgent declaration, and one can just envision the beads of sweat glistening off his forehead and off the tips of his Jheri curl. It’s corny and crass, overblown and overlong, and that’s what makes it so marvelously effective.

“Your Love – So Good I Can Taste It” – Barry White 12:32 (Is This Whatcha Wont?, 20th Century 1976)

04. “Never Gonna Give You Up” Stone Gon’ 20th Century 1973

The success of “I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More, Baby” (from White’s 1973 debut I’ve Got So Much to Give) was so overwhelming that what did The Maestro do? Replicated it, of course, but in doing so he actually surpassed the original. “Never Gonna Give You Up” takes the structure and mood of “I’m Gonna Love You” and injects it with more everything: more grandiose orchestration, more provocative lyric content, and naturally, more dirty talk – note White’s orgiastic “uugh!” as the music enters, after a long, tension-building intro with the drums and strings. Every arranged bit of music here radiates with steamy sexuality: that throbbing bass, the electric harpsichord, those rapturous flute runs. This was one of my earliest introductions to White’s music, as a standout on a record full of highlights, the soundtrack to the film Dead Presidents (1995). It has remained a favorite since.

“Never Gonna Give You Up” – Barry White 7:56 (Stone Gon’, 20th Century 1973)

03. “Oh Love, Well We Finally Made It” Can’t Get Enough 20th Century 1974

“Can’t get enough” sums it up about right, as I’ve been known to play this song on repeat for hours. Originally composed by White for his Supremes-like project Love Unlimited, he eventually got around to covering his own version of “Oh Love, Well We Finally Made It,” nestled into side two of his best selling album Can’t Get Enough (1974). It could have been the song’s unique structure that kept it off the airwaves, which eschewed the usual verse-chorus routine for an extended orchestral intro, multiple sax solos, and more key changes than the average listener would detect upon first listen. While I have a special place in my heart for Love Unlimited’s more stripped-down (relatively speaking) version, it’s ultimately White’s take that wins me over, and with the female trio providing animated backing vocals, it’s like the best of both worlds in my book. Just listen to the amount of push and pull in the shuffle, which makes it nearly impossible to sit still for the song’s duration. There are also two sonic curiosities in the production that deserve mention, as they give White’s version even more character. For one, Nathan East’s thick, rounded bass tone is jacked up alarmingly high in the mix and almost seems like it could explode out of the speakers; it would likely be a hindrance were his playing not so remarkably tasteful. Secondly, the amount of reverb on the strings borders on grotesque, but instead of washing out every other instrument in the stereo field, the effect creates a swirling, hypnotic bed of sound that’s the aural equivalent of standing in the rain during a sun shower. Studio tricks aside, what really matters is White’s inimitable ear for melody and arrangement, of which “Oh Love, Well We Finally Made It” demonstrates at the height of his abilities.

“Oh Love, Well We Finally Made It” – Barry White 3:54 (Can’t Get Enough, 20th Century 1974)

“Oh Love, We Finally Made It” – Love Unlimited 3:52 (Under the Influence of…, 20th Century 1973)

02. “All Because of You” Just Another Way to Say I Love You 20th Century 1975

For me, few songs embody the essence of summertime like “All Because of You,” an achingly gorgeous, uptempo ballad that is perpetually overlooked in discussions of White’s contributions to the R&B songbook. But the real effectiveness of this track lies in the contributions of his band, beginning with East, who thumbs out a lovely bass solo to open the track. This leads into yet another extended interlude of syncopated bass hits under a floating string arrangement by White and Gene Page. White certainly loved that skipping 12/8 rhythm, and when it kicks in nearly halfway through the song, the band shifts into the groove like they’ve been anticipating it for years. The sleazy porn guitar from “Love’s Theme” is all over this track, slithering around every beat and dropping those scratchy wah-wah slides that Charles Pitts (from the Isaac Hayes Movement) was lacing tracks with at the time (listen at 5:53 for an example). It’s unfathomable for me to place this song in the context of winter or cold weather, but even if I did, I would still be able to detect the aroma of a nearby barbecue, hear a light breeze rustling through the trees, and feel the late afternoon sun warm my skin.

“All Because of You” – Barry White 6:37 (Just Another Way to Say I Love You, 20th Century 1975)

01. “Playing Your Game, Baby” Sings for Someone You Love 20th Century 1977

Take a moment to think about a song that, theoretically, you could listen to once a day, every day for the rest of your life and not tire of it. Not easy, is it? Since this is the kind of topic I spend most of my free time musing over, I can state with full confidence that White’s “Playing Your Game, Baby” is one of those songs. As the opening cut on Sings for Someone You Love (1977), this track, and the rest of the album for that matter, revitalized White’s career after a mid-decade drag, in no small measure because of his decision to enlist outside songwriters for the bulk of the record’s selections. “Playing Your Game, Baby” was penned by Austin Johnson and Smead Hudman, two gentlemen whose identities I know nothing of, and frankly, couldn’t care less about. Put simply, the seven minutes that make up the duration of this track are some of the sexiest ever committed to analog tape. The arrangement is responsible for a significant chunk of the song’s potency, as the orchestra is relegated to the background, serving to accentuate the interplay between the rhythm section, keyboard, and horns. “Playing Your Game, Baby” also displays White in a rare mood, as he concedes his avoidance of the typical playful bedroom shenanigans and uncharacteristically says, “bring it, girl.” The song is seductive tease, baadasssss attitude, funky pimp strut, and sweaty, carnal sexuality all wrapped up into one, and there isn’t another selection in White’s discography like it.

“Playing Your Game, Baby” – Barry White 7:13 (Sings for Someone You Love, 20th Century 1977)

A long time ago I came to the obvious realization that there was something inherently wrong with feeling guilty about enjoying a particular song, artist, or style of music. Part of the reason why I started this site was to encourage a wide variety of healthy music appreciation, to unravel popular taboos about what kinds of music people are ‘supposed’ to like, and to let others know that it’s perfectly normal to mention Cannibal Corpse, Morrissey, and New Edition in the same sentence, much less in the same listening session. Still, there are certain genres of music that, while I wouldn’t say I feel a sense of guilt for enjoying them, I’m not exactly chomping at the bit to discuss them here on this site – possibly for fear of public flagellation, the revoking of my long-earned Ghetto Pass, or a sudden and permanent dive in site visits. That’s about to change, starting now.

Bubblegum Rap

Remember the days when hip hop was fun? I’m talking about the days before scowling faces, endless gun talk, Tony Montana posturing, and monosyllabic retard-speak over thumping keyboard beats. When male backup dancers were a requisite on every hip hop video set, singles without vocal hooks were often the most successful, and originality was prized over SoundScan numbers. I’ve just dated myself something awful, but it appears that unabashed honestly is the underlying theme of this post. When was the last time you listened to Candyman, Heavy D., Chubb Rock, or Father MC? Don’t front – you remember how much you loved that first Young MC record, how you still get goosebumps from the dance sequence with Tisha Campbell and A.J. Johnson in House Party (1990), and how L.L.’s “Around the Way Girl” kicked off that mixtape you made for your grade-school sweetheart. Granted, I’m not going to study Kwamé & A New Beginning for some insight into rhyme prowess or production techniques, but I’ve been known to have cravings for cornball lyrical eye-rollers like, “Is this Christmas? ‘Cause everybody’s (w)rappin’” and Minnie Riperton recitations that provoke every dog in the neighborhood to howl for mercy.

“The Man We All Know and Love” – Kwamé feat. A New Beginning 6:20 (The Boy Genius, Atlantic 1989)

Fusion-y Jazz-Funk from the ’70s

I’m talking about the stuff that would hold interest with crate diggers, rabid sample seekers, and not too many others. The kind of music that must have been a slice of heaven for the musicians who played on the record and masturbatory overindulgence of the worst order for the rest of us. You know the ingredients: heavily-phased Fender Rhodes piano, synthetic strings, trebly slap-bass, disco-like flourishes, possibly Latin percussion of some kind. Song titles that invoke the cosmos, one’s “inner self,” or a shallow understanding of Eastern mysticism. I’m not sure why this music holds such an interest with me; perhaps it’s my own form of ironic amusement or the fact that it sounds like it should be soundtracking some ridiculous low-budget, color-saturated skin flick from the late ‘70s.

“Exotic Mysteries” – Lonnie Liston Smith 4:28 (Exotic Mysteries, Columbia 1978)

Slicked-Up, Saccharine Disco

Guilty as charged, and yeah, this one is a little tougher to admit. By “disco” I don’t mean the usual suspects found on hundreds of Time Life compilations, your average Bee Gees or ABBA LP found in yard sale crates across the country, or some of the more upbeat platters in every wedding DJ’s arsenal. The obscure stuff is what I’m after, blatant yet horribly unsuccessful stabs at the trendy disco market by otherwise talented individuals, squarely focused on selling “product” with no regard to artistic integrity whatsoever. I’m fascinated by it, really, marveling at how many variations on a singular, recognizable style could have been possible back then: “sensual” female vocals, thinly-veiled sex and drug references in the lyrics, sweeping string orchestras that obliterated everything in their path, and animated bass lines that admittedly were often the best part of a song. It’s like an aural lollipop, the kind that stains the lips and tongue for hours and induces a throbbing headache when the sugar rush finally subsides. It’s no wonder why die-hard rock ‘n roll fans went apeshit over the massive popularization of this fad back then; I’m still a little threatened by it some thirty years later.

“Thinking of You” – Sister Sledge 4:16 (We Are Family, Cotillion 1979)

’80s Quiet Storm Honeys

Sade. Anita Baker. Patrice Rushen. Regina Belle. All of these honeys make me melt, and no amount of synthetic production tricks – “Ice EP” keys, digital cowbells, synth-bass, gigantic snares with 20-second decays – could possibly deter me from enjoying every moment of it, and bonus points if they wrote the material themselves. Remarkably, “Smooth Operator” or “Sweet Love” would have had me immediately scanning for the nearest exit ten, maybe fifteen years ago, but now that my ears are able to recognize the stellar songwriting and musical quirks (listen to the brilliant syncopation in the bass during “Sweet Love”’s chorus), no amount of effort could move me from the speakers when this stuff comes on. Perhaps the most refreshing aspect is the fact that there’s no oversinging, an impossible feat for today’s pop divas whose auto-tuned wailing is damn near inescapable (save for maybe Aaliyah, R.I.P.). Who said the ‘80s killed R&B? It’s high time for a resurgence in this kind of classy, sophisticated, late-night soul.

“Sweet Love” – Anita Baker 4:19 (Rapture, Elektra 1986)

Painfully Mediocre ‘90s Alt-Rock

A large part of me grew up on the early- to mid-‘90s “alternative” revolution, and I still carry a torch for some of these bands, probably because no one else will: Gumball, Dig, Eugenius, that first Sponge album. Even more obscure groups like Gruntruck, Paw, and Polara (notice a pattern here with the band names?), whose chief common factor is that their entire catalogues have been out of print for years. I own not one, but all three Ned’s Atomic Dustbin records, and yes, I occasionally listen to them, probably once a year or so. Oddly enough, if I heard these bands today I’d likely eject the disc after a song or two, but my nostalgia weighs heavily on me, recalling a time when I was just beginning to explore guitar-based music that wasn’t on the local “hard rock from the ’70s and ‘80s” station. To think that fifteen years ago, my friends would stand in wonderment at my discovery of these great unknown bands; now if I played, say, Ned’s “Legoland” for them the best response I could get would be a collective grimace akin to catching wind of a foul odor.

“Legoland” – Ned’s Atomic Dustbin 3:11 (Are You Normal?, Chaos/Columbia 1992)

Kool G Rap & DJ Polo “Men at Work” Road to the Riches Cold Chillin’ 1989

It takes an ungodly amount of pre-street date hype to get me enthusiastic about a hip hop release these days, which is half attributed to the numbing daily barrage of PR spam and the other half to my own personal feelings about where the music is headed (not going there). Reissues of the classics, however, are a different story, which happen to be the specialty of Quincy, MA’s Traffic Entertainment. The label has devoted itself equally to higher-profile reissues like Criminal Minded (1987) and unearthing Mobb Deep rarities as well as almost-forgotten joints like Ed OG and Da Bulldogs‘ Life of a Kid in the Ghetto (1991) (”Be a Father to Your Child” was my joint back in middle school). I was excited beyond belief when Traffic dropped their remastered-with-bonus-tracks edition of Kool G Rap & DJ Polo’s Road to the Riches (1989) over a year ago, and when a revamped Wanted: Dead or Alive (1991) appeared last summer, I prayed that the label would eventually complete the trilogy with Live and Let Die (1992). Sure enough, my man Dan at Traffic has confirmed that the final installment in the G Rap and Polo series is on its way (no date yet), so to whet my appetite I’ve been exploring the B-sides, outtakes, radio appearances and other miscellany that accompanied the first two.

I’m asked the question “What it is about G Rap?” almost as much as I receive “Pete Rock again?” comments, and on my lazier days I eschew elaborate justifications for three words: “Men.” “At.” “Work.” It’s an odd phenomenon when one simply cannot grow tired of a song, and despite the fact that I can recite every drum hit, sample, scratch, and syllable backwards, I’ve never been able to exhaust myself with “Men at Work,” whose familiarity is nearing twenty years now. No other item in the G Rap canon tops to the verbal dexterity here, the endless strings of multi-syllabic rhymes, the labyrinthine patterns of wordplay, the forceful, lisp-assisted delivery exemplified. Usually, those who pose the query of my G Rap idolatry are familiar with his lesser, more forgettable output around the turn of the millennium (and there’s a good reason why Half a Klip [2008] wasn’t covered recently on this site). They just don’t know, and explaining the “favorite rapper’s favorite rapper” theory often yields little progress. When I hear another MC spit 68 – that’s sixty-eight – bars of fire over an “Apache” loop at 112 beats per minute and my attention doesn’t falter for a second, perhaps I’ll concede G Rap’s GOAT title to them. Until then, aspiring rappers, here’s the manual.

“Men at Work” – Kool G Rap & DJ Polo 5:05 (Road to the Riches, Cold Chillin’ 1989)

On another note, my apologies to anyone who has been experiencing difficulty loading the site over the past week or two. Without getting into the mundane details of tech-gibberish, I’ll just say that it’s not the wisest idea to upgrade your version of WordPress without first checking the list of compatible themes, in addition to assuming that said upgrade will remedy the occasional server hiccup or corrupted index file path. Ahem. That being said, if anyone needs IT assistance in the Boston area, MacShaman is that dude. Thanks to those patient souls who provided words of encouragement when I was ready to throw my hands up in the air for good.

There are probably more deserving candidates for the title of the most unfairly maligned, unjustly ignored, and criminally underrated band of the ’90s, but for my money, no one tops Oxford, UK’s Swervedriver. The group’s list of misfortunes and just plain bad luck borders on comic, from their drummer leaving the tour bus at Niagara Falls to “go get a sandwich” and never returning, to being dropped from their longtime label a mere week after releasing their most anticipated record. Swervedriver were one of those bands who were almost universally acclaimed during their decade of exposure (roughly ’89 through ’99), yet paradoxically suffered from piss-poor record sales while their imitators were topping the charts. Recent news of a reunion tour this summer has not only quickened my heartbeat in anticipation, but prompted a thorough reevaluation of the band’s catalogue, which bears the shocking distinction of being entirely out of print (save a two-disc retrospective). The following guide is for the curious “Swerve who?” readers who, once converted, will join me in demanding reissues of all Swervedriver material – CDs, LPs, singles, everything – with the frenzy of a full-scale riot when our peaceful protests are ignored (end Perfect World scenario).

The nutshell presentation: Swervedriver was officially formed in 1987 by vocalist/guitarist Adam Franklin, second guitarist Jimmy Hartridge, bassist Adi Vines, and drummer Graham Bonnar. The group secured a deal with Alan McGee’s Creation Records in 1990 when Ride’s Mark Gardener slipped the label head a demo of “Son of Mustang Ford.” Debut Raise (1991) garnered widespread acclaim from the UK music press, unimaginatively (and incorrectly, really) lumping Swervedriver’s roaring, guitar-driven rock with the then-popular ‘shoegaze’ movement. After Bonnar’s abrupt departure on their first U.S. tour, the remaining members recruited Jez Hindmarsh to occupy the drum throne and constructed their masterpiece, 1993’s Mezcal Head. Battling the onslaught of clones from the mid-‘90s Britpop trifecta (Blur, Oasis, Suede), Swervedriver released Ejector Seat Reservation (1995), which received next to zero promotion from their Oasis-crazed Creation label, who severed ties with the band shortly after the record’s street date. A brief but fruitless stint with Geffen brought nothing but legal woes over the release of their fourth full-length 99th Dream (1998), which eventually saw release on the near-bankrupt Zero Hour Records. Following tours of the UK, US, and Australia, Swervedriver announced their break-up later the next year.

Raise Creation 1991

Raise’s opening salvo, the blistering “Sci-Flyer,” must have confounded curiosity-seekers who picked up the record because the band’s name happened to be mentioned in the same blurb as My Bloody Valentine and Slowdive. Quizzically, the musical traits that defined shoegaze – dreamy textures, androgynous vocals, the ubiquitious “wall of sound” – are nowhere to be found here, just 45 minutes of high-octane guitar rock punctuated by Franklin’s drugged ruminations on, well, cars. Fast, loud, flames-on-asphalt cars. The entire album is propelled by its own kinetic energy, and the titles only hint at the kind of movement contained within: “Son of Mustang Ford,” “Sandblasted,” “Pile-Up.” To be sure, few songs sound better at 140 decibels while cruising down an empty highway at 90 mph than “Rave Down.” While the production of the record would likely qualify as “dry” by today’s standards, Swervedriver proved themselves masters of a multi-tracking technique pioneered by J Mascis in the ’80s, what a friend of mine refers to as “secret weapon guitar.” You’ll know it as soon as you hear it: just when it seems like the mix couldn’t possibly handle another layer of sound, in swarms a scorching guitar lead that sends a rush of electricity throughout every nerve of your body. Raise’s somewhat flattened mix causes the pacing to meander near the end, but as far as debuts go one could hardly do worse, and many fans adhere to the belief that this was Swervedriver’s finest moment. It’s certainly tough to argue with that assessment.

“Rave Down” – Swervedriver 5:08 (Raise, Creation 1991)

Mezcal Head Creation 1993

I’ll sheepishly confess that I’ve never spent more on a compact disc than the $50 I shelled out for an out-of-print Mezcal Head after my dubbed cassette had worn itself down to a fine magnetic dust. Keep in mind that this was long before the days of file sharing – hell, CD burning – and the only thing that kept me from financial shame at the end of the transaction was the fact that it was worth every last cent. Simply put, Mezcal Head is how electric guitars are meant to be played: amplified beyond distortion, strings walloping the fretboard, ripping through the mix like it was tissue paper. Lead single “Duel” meticulously collected all of the best features of Raise, honed them to a science, and condensed the formula into six minutes of perfection. “Last Train to Satansville,” is a hot rod chase through a scorching white desert set to a classic surf rhythm. “Girl on a Motorbike” and “Blowin’ Cool” radiate with a blue-flamed ferocity that belie their nature as gorgeously constructed pop songs. Honestly, there are too many stellar moments to mention, though a tip of the hat must be given to drummer Jez Hindmarsh, who deftly navigates through one dense layer of multi-tracked guitar after another with aplomb and determination. Absolutely, inexcusably essential, and a pinnacle of ’90s guitar rock.

“Blowin’ Cool” – Swervedriver 3:55 (Mezcal Head, Creation 1993)

Ejector Seat Reservation Creation 1995

Coming off Mezcal Head’s heralded reception and following a successful world tour of Japan, Europe, and the U.S., Ejector Seat Reservation should have taken the planet by storm. Sadly, two obstacles stood in the way – in the forms of labelmates Noel and Liam Gallagher. Creation needed to expend more of its resources coddling, er, promoting Oasis and Swervedriver’s less-accessible brand of edgy rock appeared to be a cog in the machine. Other than the complete absence of label enthusiasm and resulting fade-out from the popular radar (the record wasn’t even released in the States until Sony reissued it briefly in 2003), Ejector Seat’s only flaw lies in its presentation, a disgusting, overcompressed mess of frequencies that requires the utmost amount of patience to sort through. (Given that Alan Moulder was behind the boards for both this outing and Mezcal Head, this tragedy seems inexplicable.) Which is a shame, because underneath the steamrolled detritus lies a respectable pop album, more immediate than Swervedriver’s past work and finding the band experimenting with acoustic textures, strings and horns, and general psychedelic weirdness. Cuts like “How Does It Feel to Look Like Candy?” and “The Other Jesus” are marvelous pop gems, yet remain firmly grounded in the group’s guitar-based aesthetic. But records don’t sell when they’re not easily available to the public, and Ejector Seat was collectively forgotten in a matter of weeks.

“How Does It Feel to Look Like Candy?” – Swervedriver 3:40 (Ejector Seat Reservation, Creation 1995)

99th Dream Zero Hour 1998

99th Dream was Swervedriver’s make-or-break record, and although circumstances eventually sided with the latter, time has aged the band’s swan song remarkably well. Following the Creation fiasco the group was picked up by Geffen, only to find themselves in label limbo when their A&R rep got canned in a bout of corporate streamlining. A few legal headaches later and Swervedriver retained the rights to their record, which found release on the troubled Zero Hour Records. While distribution was spotty at best, those who were lucky enough to get their hands on 99th Dream were treated to the band’s most adventurous album to date, an expansive tapestry of sound that incorporated acid-tinged experimentation with the sugary pop structures established on Ejector Seat Reservation. The opening title track is as gripping as anything off Mezcal Head, fueled by a muscular surf guitar lead. Album centerpiece “Electric 77″ is notable for creatively utilizing each note of the 12-tone Western scale in its root progression without sinking into an academic exercise in technicality, and closer “Behind the Scenes of the Sounds & the Times” recalls the intricately intertwining guitars that dominated Raise. When Swervedriver finally threw in the towel shortly before the turn of the millennium, few could complain that they went out on a low note; 99th Dream beautifully summarizes what made the band so exciting since their inception ten years earlier.

“Electric 77” – Swervedriver 7:34 (99th Dream, Zero Hour 1998)

Sanctuary Records affiliate Castle Music released Juggernaut Rides ‘89–’98 (2005) a few years ago, a two-disc compilation of Swervedriver’s singles, notable album cuts, B-sides, and other treasures, and while I’m usually hesitant to recommend ‘greatest hits’ collections, it’s one of the finest of its kind and is the ideal place to start for those who’d like to explore this phenomenal band’s music. Unfortunately, with the rest of the catalogue currently in deletion, it might also be the place to end; here’s hoping the upcoming reunion tour will spark a renewed thirst for Swervedriver material.