#12
Strange Time To Be Hazing
What can be said about this magnificent alt-rock unit that has not been pre-blathered before in some of this reviewer’s short but sweet words of praise for either Kristin Hersh or Throwing Muses?
Well… nada really. I love them and they illuminate my world. When things go dark, they switch on the lights. When I feel ice inside the lining of my soul, they break through the frost and make me warm again. Is there higher praise than that for a band? That they make you feel glad to be alive and want to celebrate existence as something to be cherished and not loathed with a vengeance? If so, I’d love to hear it. Those who care can reach me at The Tower in Penn State.
University is the best release from Throwing Muses and an album which has enhanced and transformed my existence in ways mere mortals such as you will not be able to understand. It also helped me survive my time at a literal university in the austere town of Edinburgh, which raises an ironic chuckle for those who like that kind of incidental humour. For those who do not, I blow my nose at you. Twice. Parp parp.
Released in 1995 on 4AD, perhaps the finest independent record label in the multiverse, this record has timeless appeal and has been played back so many times I can predict each and every note of each and every tune that is coming on the stereo system nexty-next. That’s what we call tautological disgrace readers. It’s when the brain scrambles to write something interesting but fails. Ehm. To the songs…
Bright Yellow Gun opens the album with what can only be described as a howling beaming screaming wall of marvellous sound and then some. Although some might favour a different descriptive method. The song simmers with an elegant contempt; finding itself somewhat lost through the squalling lead guitar and the bounce of the ecstatic lead melody where the sheer command of Kristin Hersh (chief songwriter, vocalist and guitarist) comes through with pizzazz and powwow as she proclaims: “I think I need a little poison!”
Start is just as infectious with its dizzying opening lick and the tumultuous drum work of David Narcizo (the only fixed member of the group since its inception) and towers into an overdubbed chorus where Hersh leaps out the stereo in a daze of mesmerising sexuality and pop mastery; out-Heroding most of her male alt-rock contemporaries with the one of the finest mantra lines in modern rock: “I start at his knees and I end in his dreams!”
Hazing begins with a suggestive curl, building into a shrieking kewpie doll of jubilant frustration where Hersh gets to flex her lungs and demonstrates the twisted genius in her guitar playing. Bassist Bernard Georges can barely keep up with the fiery little lass in this outstanding tune (especially in the magical third act).
Shimmer has a more downbeat flavour to it and battles through its trapped feeling into a finale that becomes really something else. One important fact about all of these songs is that nothing is predictable in their lyrics, music or structure at any given stage. It is this adventure and discovery upon each new listen which makes University completely unmatched in the nineties alt-rock staple.
Calm Down, Come Down is one of two the mysterious bridge pieces and acts as a tense little segue before the Los Angeles shimmer of sunbaked ballad Crabtown.
In this tune Hersh translates the delicate beauty of her solo work into a wistful and cryptic piece about lost love on the beach which is both romantic and affecting. With the sparse line of lead guitar and the forlorn coo of her backing harmonies, the listener can feel the sand at their feet as they lose themselves in Hersh’s plea of: “Kiss me over Crabtown, baby brown.”
No Way In Hell is a punchier affair, beginning with the elegant cello flourish of Jane Scarpantoni who features on a number of these pieces and who also added so much to Hersh’s first solo record Hips and Makers. There is a fire in her lead guitar here, which squalls through the silence into a venomous tune about some male vagabond who makes off with her clothes. Rotten apple. Has he never heard of thrift stores?
Surf Cowboy has a real jangle-pop feel to it, more of a throwback to earlier sound from the group, and is such an infectious nugget one can forgive its melodic simplicity. Just joking of course. This is just as mind-bogglingly original as the rest of the wonderful music here.
That’s All You Wanted is one of those tunes which acts as a nice warm cuddle in front of the fireplace, and the cello work lifts the soaring pop harmonies into a plateau of brilliance that for me represents the pinnacle of this band’s mid-nineties powers. In earlier albums there were but one or two flickers of the heights of elegance they would reach here, but this record takes all that unrealised talent to a brilliant apotheosis. Teller has a wearier inflection to it, a story-song with an unfathomable narrative but some of the most sublime chord sequences on the record.
The most haunting moment on the album comes with the title track where Hersh records a dark little guitar line over the first attempts at music from her son Dylan Hersh, resulting in a short piece which is quite effective at delivering a profound and mysterious moment of climax to the record.
On 1991 LP The Real Ramona Hersh also dedicated a track to her son, and given the personal nature of all her work, the listener can appreciate these moments of insight all the greater; given the deep introspection she invests in all her artistic endeavours. Very surreal – but very moving.
Snakeface has a more laid-back feel to it and some creative bongo percussion keeps the mellow beach-side feel alive and kicking. Even in the later songs on the album the ideas and originality are kept burning. Note the appearance of the organ and guest turn from Trina Shoemaker.
Flood is a fine penultimate track and almost bottles the incredible sound of rapture and beauty which permeates this magisterial record to be passed around as a sound fragrance. You sound try and avoid Phil Collins “Essence of Phil” perfume. It stinks. Fever Few is a grand closer which indulges in its longer running time and almost gets away with the fade-out and fade-in trick it pulls on us at the end. A commanding and neat closer.
University is a phenomenal achievement. It is one of the few albums I take out for regular spins after a year of purchase and never grow tired of hearing. It is also the finest album from this remarkable and overlooked group. You know what to do. For those who don’t, try picking up a copy of this album at once.
Rating: 10/10
Strange Time To Be Hazing
What can be said about this magnificent alt-rock unit that has not been pre-blathered before in some of this reviewer’s short but sweet words of praise for either Kristin Hersh or Throwing Muses?
Well… nada really. I love them and they illuminate my world. When things go dark, they switch on the lights. When I feel ice inside the lining of my soul, they break through the frost and make me warm again. Is there higher praise than that for a band? That they make you feel glad to be alive and want to celebrate existence as something to be cherished and not loathed with a vengeance? If so, I’d love to hear it. Those who care can reach me at The Tower in Penn State.University is the best release from Throwing Muses and an album which has enhanced and transformed my existence in ways mere mortals such as you will not be able to understand. It also helped me survive my time at a literal university in the austere town of Edinburgh, which raises an ironic chuckle for those who like that kind of incidental humour. For those who do not, I blow my nose at you. Twice. Parp parp.
Released in 1995 on 4AD, perhaps the finest independent record label in the multiverse, this record has timeless appeal and has been played back so many times I can predict each and every note of each and every tune that is coming on the stereo system nexty-next. That’s what we call tautological disgrace readers. It’s when the brain scrambles to write something interesting but fails. Ehm. To the songs…
Bright Yellow Gun opens the album with what can only be described as a howling beaming screaming wall of marvellous sound and then some. Although some might favour a different descriptive method. The song simmers with an elegant contempt; finding itself somewhat lost through the squalling lead guitar and the bounce of the ecstatic lead melody where the sheer command of Kristin Hersh (chief songwriter, vocalist and guitarist) comes through with pizzazz and powwow as she proclaims: “I think I need a little poison!”
Start is just as infectious with its dizzying opening lick and the tumultuous drum work of David Narcizo (the only fixed member of the group since its inception) and towers into an overdubbed chorus where Hersh leaps out the stereo in a daze of mesmerising sexuality and pop mastery; out-Heroding most of her male alt-rock contemporaries with the one of the finest mantra lines in modern rock: “I start at his knees and I end in his dreams!”
Hazing begins with a suggestive curl, building into a shrieking kewpie doll of jubilant frustration where Hersh gets to flex her lungs and demonstrates the twisted genius in her guitar playing. Bassist Bernard Georges can barely keep up with the fiery little lass in this outstanding tune (especially in the magical third act).
Shimmer has a more downbeat flavour to it and battles through its trapped feeling into a finale that becomes really something else. One important fact about all of these songs is that nothing is predictable in their lyrics, music or structure at any given stage. It is this adventure and discovery upon each new listen which makes University completely unmatched in the nineties alt-rock staple.
Calm Down, Come Down is one of two the mysterious bridge pieces and acts as a tense little segue before the Los Angeles shimmer of sunbaked ballad Crabtown.
In this tune Hersh translates the delicate beauty of her solo work into a wistful and cryptic piece about lost love on the beach which is both romantic and affecting. With the sparse line of lead guitar and the forlorn coo of her backing harmonies, the listener can feel the sand at their feet as they lose themselves in Hersh’s plea of: “Kiss me over Crabtown, baby brown.”
No Way In Hell is a punchier affair, beginning with the elegant cello flourish of Jane Scarpantoni who features on a number of these pieces and who also added so much to Hersh’s first solo record Hips and Makers. There is a fire in her lead guitar here, which squalls through the silence into a venomous tune about some male vagabond who makes off with her clothes. Rotten apple. Has he never heard of thrift stores?
Surf Cowboy has a real jangle-pop feel to it, more of a throwback to earlier sound from the group, and is such an infectious nugget one can forgive its melodic simplicity. Just joking of course. This is just as mind-bogglingly original as the rest of the wonderful music here.
That’s All You Wanted is one of those tunes which acts as a nice warm cuddle in front of the fireplace, and the cello work lifts the soaring pop harmonies into a plateau of brilliance that for me represents the pinnacle of this band’s mid-nineties powers. In earlier albums there were but one or two flickers of the heights of elegance they would reach here, but this record takes all that unrealised talent to a brilliant apotheosis. Teller has a wearier inflection to it, a story-song with an unfathomable narrative but some of the most sublime chord sequences on the record.
The most haunting moment on the album comes with the title track where Hersh records a dark little guitar line over the first attempts at music from her son Dylan Hersh, resulting in a short piece which is quite effective at delivering a profound and mysterious moment of climax to the record.
On 1991 LP The Real Ramona Hersh also dedicated a track to her son, and given the personal nature of all her work, the listener can appreciate these moments of insight all the greater; given the deep introspection she invests in all her artistic endeavours. Very surreal – but very moving.
Snakeface has a more laid-back feel to it and some creative bongo percussion keeps the mellow beach-side feel alive and kicking. Even in the later songs on the album the ideas and originality are kept burning. Note the appearance of the organ and guest turn from Trina Shoemaker.
Flood is a fine penultimate track and almost bottles the incredible sound of rapture and beauty which permeates this magisterial record to be passed around as a sound fragrance. You sound try and avoid Phil Collins “Essence of Phil” perfume. It stinks. Fever Few is a grand closer which indulges in its longer running time and almost gets away with the fade-out and fade-in trick it pulls on us at the end. A commanding and neat closer.
University is a phenomenal achievement. It is one of the few albums I take out for regular spins after a year of purchase and never grow tired of hearing. It is also the finest album from this remarkable and overlooked group. You know what to do. For those who don’t, try picking up a copy of this album at once.
Rating: 10/10
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