Mirrors – Hands In My Pockets (2001, Overground Records)

 

You’re around some music-savvy grumps tenaciously talking shit about shitty rock bands to prove how they are always punker than you, then you probably heard of Mirrors. And fancying Mirrors is mandatory and proof positive of the civilized in a certain habitation which only exists and can be seen by its inhabitants who unwittingly chose to live according to its code by his or, rarely, her own nature that must be acquired to reveal its true color. In this world, it’s only a matter of time for the ignorant to become the knowing, and you could be not aware of something, in this case, Mirrors, but you can’t not love it once you get to know it. If you have no idea what this world I’m talking about, stop reading this post. Mirrors are not for you.

Otherwise, enjoy ! To my shame I couldn’t remember Mirrors from seminal ‘Those Were Different Times’ comp. It’s like you watched a certain movie masterpiece but can’t remember it because then you were too young and clumsy to rightly appreciate it. Mirrors are like castoffs’ Velvet Underground if velvet is replaced with foul rusts and molds of some semi-dilapidated crypt ambushed in some no name sprawl, crackling, crumbling in unison with delightful uproars that’re virtually remodelling it. And these voluntary castoffs’re much more punks than hippies but they haven’t yet broken off their LSD habit, which means you can expect a sweet amount of West-Coast experiences. Besides, affectionately gay, too.

*
Mirrors, a truly seminal band! Appearing in Cleveland, Ohio at sometime in 1972 they started performing in 1973 before disbanding in September 1975. They were the formative band of the legendary ClePunk scene that lead to the inception of such important acts as Pere Ubu, Electric Eels, Styrenes, Dead Boys, Pagans, Styrene Money Band, Rocket From The Tombs and a host of others.

Debate amongst commentators is often around the subject of whether Mirrors were proto-punk or proto-no wave? Well, maybe both or maybe neither. What we do know is that they sounded like no other band! Jamie Klimek formed Mirrors having witnessed the Velvet Undergound at La Cave in Cleveland. The experience inspired him to take up guitar, vocal and songwriting duties. Other members: Jim Crook (guitar), Jim Jones (bass – later to be replaced by Craig Bell), Michael Weldon (drums) and Paul Marotta (keyboards/guitar) followed.

Initially gigs were sporadic and generally poorly attended as the band were a minority of one in a non-existent scene. Inspired by Mirrors other bands formed. Jamie Klimek arranged a couple of live extravaganzas and on December 22nd 1974 at The Viking in Cleveland organised the second Extermination Night, the line-up: Mirrors, Rocket From The Tombs and Electric Eels. All for 75 cents!

The band drifted apart as other members formed new bands or joined others. It wasn’t until 1977 that erstwhile fan of the band David Thomas having started his own label released a single ‘Shirley’ b/w ‘She Smiled Wild’ (Hearthen HR 105). Only 1000 copies were pressed and it remains a much sought after collectors item.

In 1989 Mirrors reformed and in 1992 released an album on the Resonance label that closed the day after the record was released. In 1997 Scat included tracks on their Cleveland retrospective ‘Those Were Different Times’, but this Overground compilation is the only Mirrors material currently available.

With the split of Mirrors Jamie Klimek left music before reforming the band, Paul Marotta joined the Electric Eels and formed The Styrenes, Jim Jones joined Pere Ubu, The Styrenes and Easter Monkeys, Craig Bell joined Rocket From The Tombs, Michael Weldon edits ‘Psychotronic’ magazine and Jim Crook left the music business.

The 19 tracks include the single, 13 previously unreleased tracks and 2 versions exclusive to this release. Cover art is by Electric Eels’ John Morton and contains previously unseen photos and sleeve notes by Christopher Stigliano, publisher of Black To Comm.

 

Matterprinted

 

I hit upon Berlin’s Sleek magazine quite a while ago when I was sifting through WWW to ingest the images of the world’s quality magazines. Putting aside its fashion part, it had great Art contents. And I really liked the cover, like, a german girl’s take on british mods, which now you’re looking at. It, I believe, was open-source and online-only at the time of the encounter but it didn’t take a long time for it to turning into a pay magazine and herein lies the reason why I have been unmindful of this stunning mag until now.

Now Sleek has a blog like every magazine does, if a little too much fashion-inclined. And thankfully, it came back to its roots, meaning you can read it free in case you don’t feel like buying its materialized form. There isn’t a high chance it’ll be frequented by me a fussy being, however, considering what I was given by the very recent visit to it, nor that’s entirely improbable.  I’m talking about Matterprinted.

*

Judging by cover. 

Matterprinted is a project showcasing covers of magazines we had the chance seeing and flicking through. With no particular rules, just judging by cover, we will be uploading favorite magazine covers paying attention to a good tagging system that should hopefully result on a great database for the future. Each cover is individually scanned with love by us. Support matterprinted by spreading the word and feel free to contact us for suggestions and ideas. 

 

Add Matterprinted to your favourites. It’s jolly good as you can see.

nyun

by Terry Richardson

 

SKELETONS BIG BAND

 

SKELETON$ usual quintet is expanded here for two nights of new compositions, arrangements and ideas. A rare opportunity to hear the band explore the outer limits of their work – with a huge band of players from the wide spectrum of New York’s underground music scene.

 

Jonathan Leland – drums
Jason McMahon – guitar
Matthew Mehlan – vocals, guitar, alto sax
Mike Gallope – organ, piano
Peter Vogl – electric bass. synth
Sam Kulik – trombone
Elliot Bergman – tenor sax
Johnny Butler – baritone sax
Justin Frye – bass
Amy Cimini – electric viola
Adam Markiewicz – electric violin
Dan Peck – tuba
Justin Walter – trumpet

 

nom

 

Endless Boogie

(The cover of their fresh album looks Sacred Bones-y, that’ not to say it’s bad but I like this much more and find it more pertinent to their music. And I wasn’t able to come by hi-res one of the new)

 

So, this band was New York’s best-kept secret. But the secret has been divulged. Now what (we call’ em)? New York’s best keeper of Rock ‘N’ Roll? That sounds proper. Their new is even more magnificent than their last. These dudes not only keep it but also better it.

I could gain access to the ex- secret via VICE records review where they won Album of The Month title. I like to read VICE records review in a tongue-in-cheek manner as they do their job, but being a colossal music snob, I wouldn’t have minded Endless Boogie if they weren’t on No Quarter which is a totes awesome label releasing some of the finest records in these days, in spite of the cajoling approval by the indisputable hipster magazine; And they often smile at shitty muzak, barf at righteous music (how they could cap on Little Claw? YYYs rip-off? Utter Shenanighans !).

Further to Endless Boogie’s hipster cred, they were even featured on PAPER Magazine, fashion-conscious, rather mainstream hipster culture mag which is nonetheless quite fun and helpful online. Here‘s what PAPER said about them (Carol Lee, who wrote this article is indeed very cool for a fashion person. Korea would be a trifle more liveable if Korean-Korean dimwits got at least 10% of this Korean-American hipster mogul).

And more from PAPER;  “What if your band plays in Miami and nobody knows who you are?  New York rockers Endless Boogie played the Max Fish pop-up during Basel/Miami and Miami New Times had to offer a reward to ID them. PAPER, of course, has known who they are for a long time.”

Huh, Max Fish? That denotes New York hipster socialites may be aware of them. But Endless Boogie are not for everyone, to wit, lameasses, as Doug Mosurock says in the below review. It’s about time I should give my two-cents. Hmm.. Endless Boogie are Endless Boogie as they are. New York Dolls/The Heartbreakers, The Groundhogs, Edgar Broughton Band, Royal Trux, Stephen Wolf…, They wake up all of them while I am intent on boogalizing (anyway, what this word means?) within my dream of their cocktight, singular brand. Sorry, I’m no use in this case. I am too psyched listening to their music to catch up this post.

 

Read VICE review instead. It’s for their previous album but will always be valid for militant stuckists who they are.

 

New York’s best-kept secret is not the dumpling place that only I know about in Chinatown, nor is it the jack shack near Wall Street where smiling Korean immigrants will adroitly jerk you off for ONLY TEN FUCKING DOLLARS, nor is it the whitefish salad at this one place where I won’t even tell you the neighborhood in case people start overrunning it, nor is it the best bar in Manhattan, which is a dead ringer for the dockworkers’ bar in season two of The Wire, the name of which I guard like my unborn daughter’s cherry. Nay, the best-kept secret in New York City is Endless Boogie, the best hard-psych band around right now. This is the kind of shit that meth-manufacturing bikers would decree “righteous.” It is the kind of shit that makes you want to simultaneously “make it” with a “foxy mama,” peak on four hits of pure windowpane, and fire off a greasy, hot AK-47 indiscriminately into a forest, all on New Year’s Eve, which also just happens to be your birthday and you just got out of jail. So Endless Boogie, with their most ultimate and powerful trance-inducing extended-jam ridiculousness, was, up until the publication of this review, the best-kept secret in this otherwise boring fucking town. God bless you, Endless Boogie. God bless and keep you.

 *

And the aforementioned Doug Mosurock one. I don’t quite like this review. But it’d help you.

 

Nothing if not consistent, Endless Boogie provides more examples of its casual approach to rock music. Full House Head is a good hour-plus demonstration of its craft. Proficient at its instruments, its membership keens toward a unified front, this self-aware everyman presence that eschews virtuosity in favor of togetherness, as these four men squeeze their way through a swamp-assed tromp in the wilds of nasty blues and Southern rock. Most of their songs hover past the 8-minute mark, so that anyone just walking into the bar they’re playing gets more of a chance to grab a lick. It’s incredible background music, and when/where/why you decide to pay attention depends solely on you. And when you do, GREAT! Dip in your friendly conversation with Boz Scaggs? Zen moment in the mens’ room, honkin’ on bobo? They’re your boys.

Endless Boogie is not high-concept, and as such, their music is easily deconstructed. There’s pop songwriting — then there’s these guys. There’s very little build-up to get to their songs. You’re there. But wait! Time travel is for suckers. You want to extend your time on Earth because it’s all you got. The triple-length jams that roll out of this forge give the illusion that everything’s the same, while robbing you of your time. Robbie Robertson wrote “you put the load right on me.” Hard rock, blues rock, psych rock … these are obsessions, the weight of the obsessed. I’m one of them. You might be, too. I’m aware that huge chunks of the world slip right past my view, choosing instead to go deaf in search of the righteous vibe. Its poison is the allure. It’s not for everyone, but it is for some. People with lots to do wouldn’t dig this too much.

There’s no Krautrock in their approach, no attempts at minimalism or pop jockin’ or rebranding of the form. It’s nothing more than riffin’ and blue-collar soloin’. And you better love those riffs, because it’s gonna take ‘em a while to resolve. Their music comes from confinement, in the garage, revvin’ in neutral, trying to get a base high. Class and personality is not on display. The public-facing organ of Endless Boogie, Paul Major, croaks like Fred Cole doing Chris Griffin from Family Guy. He barks about grabbin’ some “Mighty Fine Pie” and the sensible throngs drift off, as a pack of wolves up front leer like escaped cons from the foot of the stage. It’s dirty.

This is a band that has four full-length albums to its credit. Never has it bent or changed. Humans take a break from everyday life to do something they love, and in the case of these gents, they attempt to give back. We made ourselves this way. I’m far from a generation that told me it was a good idea to listen to Free. I had to travel backward to get there. It took a long time. That search, that struggle is represented in the 9-minute asphalt melters and the fumes they generate. You’re either impressed with their single-mindedness, or you’ve stopped reading this review.

Endless Boogie uses the infinity symbol as its logo. The problem with Endless Boogie is its solution.

 

Television

Television, before giving away Hell

 

There was a deplorable Television video on youtube years ago. That feautred ‘Tom Verlaine trying to show bassist Richard Hell how to play “Venus”. Hell gets frustrated and keeps asking where Richard Lloyd is’. A kill joy that it’s no longer available. You cound have grown more animosity towards Tom Verlaine. 

 

nom

Richard & Johnny, Hell Thunders

 

 

nom

Richard Hell, Legs McNeil, And Andy Warhol, 1976, New York. Photo Roberta Bayley

 

Legend has it that Richard Hell had the biggest cock in New York.

 

nyun

 

Noob: How can I become a successful Riot Grrrl like you?

Riot Grrrl Power That Be: Scream to the bottom of your pubic hair, then just see what comes along.