I’ve been off burrowing down rabbit holes the past month and change — diving into Pacific campaign documentaries and foreign resistance films during WWII, binging the between war exploits of the folks in Birmingham, and catching up on other compelling revisionist histories — but today felt like a good time to resurface for my primary obsession, serving the non-existent fanbase here to talk music. We’ll start with one that’s been sitting in my queue to talk about for months now, the Bozeman-based Richy Mitch and the Coal Miners. They’re another of the Spotify spillovers, discovered when one of my playlists ended and the algorithm helpfully suggested another artist/song to keep the thread going (fittingly, the playlist I was listening to at the time was the one for this page — Sunshine Radio, available at all times on the right-hand side of the page) and they immediately grabbed my ear.
Sounding a lot like early Local Natives (before that band devolved into the glossy synth pop terrain I loathe so much) these guys have a great sound and laid back vibe. The trio (originally from Colorado, having had an additional member or two prior to their current three-piece setup it seems) consists of singer/songwriter Mitch Cutts, guitarist Nic Haughn, and drummer Jakob Evans who have known each other since high school. At that time their goal (according to their website) was to write and record an album before their senior year concluded, which became their self-recorded, self-titled debut, RMCM, released on their graduation day in May 2017.
It’s a fantastic little album, mostly consisting of Cutts at the piano and Haughn on acoustic guitar, giving it an extremely intimate feel — tracks like “Lucerne” and “Porcelain” are lovely little tunes, drawing you into their quiet cocoons with their beautiful melodies and harmonizations, while those like “Evergreen,” “Sweetwater,” and “Iodine” add in some Bon Iver-style flourishes to positive effect. (To say nothing of absolute kneebucklers like “Lake Missoula” and “St.Paul,” which are the best of a really good bunch.) Their second album Solstice came out the following year after the three had split up and gone off to college, recording the album “on breaks and weekends.” It shows no signs of that disjointedness, sonically sounding like a companion to their debut — the hushed introspection of the title track and “Florissant” could easily have originated there and they sit perfectly next to slightly more upbeat offerings like “ACT!” and “Silo.” (And all benefit from their proximity to songs like “Chakra in Basel,” this album’s absolute beauty.)
Their latest was 2019’s Subliming, which the band says took them “over two years of long distance to create and perfect.” It’s their briefest overall, clocking in just a bit beyond a half hour, but it’s another solid outing. I get glimpses of the Cure from the riff on “WET SOCKS” and a hint of Coldplay on “Somersault” to go along with their more traditional sound on songs like “backburner” and “Bins.” (Or this album’s slice of lush perfection, “BC, Victoria.”)
It’s been mostly quiet since then, with a handful of singles finally appearing this past year. Hopefully that’s a sign another album is on the way soon. In the meantime we’ve thankfully got these three to keep us company, which are a lovely triptych to immerse yourself in this weekend. Start at the beginning with my overall fave and its stunning “St.Paul.”
We’ll shift gears to close with a trio of readers, two remembrances of recent anniversaries and the other of a recent passing. We’ll start with the latter, a really nice writeup of Television frontman and transcendant guitarist Tom Verlaine who passed away at the end of January. The article does a good job of highlighting his importance (if for some reason you’ve never been convinced just by listening to the flawless majesty of the title track from their debut Marquee Moon.) I particularly loved the description here — “There was something nearly pitiless in the precision of his fingers… He seemingly trapped notes, agitating and destabilizing them before letting them go.”
It’s a wonderfully apt characterization from a man/band whose music is undeniably worth remembering. Check out another example of that prowess and another of my faves, the pristine shine of “Prove It” here:
Up next comes the recent 20 year anniversary of Cat Power’s You Are Free, an album I used to spend a lot of time with back in the day and still my favorite of hers overall. The article does a good job reminding us both about the uncertainty surrounding the album (it was her fifth of original material and her first in as many years, having contemplated quitting after the surge in popularity generated by 1998’s Moon Pix) and the ongoing struggle she faced during performances. (Like the author, I never saw her during one of the oft-reported meltdowns or back-to-the-audience affairs, but it was abundantly clear she was not one who thrived in the spotlight at the time — something she seems to have managed to surmount in recent years, thankfully.)
At the time I was more drawn to those haunting piano ballads, just Marshall pouring her heart out into the discomfort and darkness, but those songs had solid counterpoints this time with more muscular, slightly angrier tracks like “Free,” “Speak for Me,” and “He War.” Those got her more radio play and made for a livelier show, but it was (and is) always those ballads that stopped you in your tracks. From the opening “I Don’t Blame You” to tracks like “Fool,” and “Babydoll,” Marshall regularly reminds us of this dynamic from the piece — “[she] digs deep into the depths of human desperation and depravity, but she always makes it sound so beautiful. Marshall’s voice — soft, honeyed, always somewhere flickering in the distance — still casts its spell even when she’s singing in an expensive studio.”
Nothing highlights that better than her flawless cover of Michael Hurley’s “Werewolf,” a track whose brilliance is directly disproportional to the smoldering sensuousness and ferocity she quietly conveys. She more than makes the song her own and it remains a highlight on a really good album. Give it a listen here:
Last of the readers is the writeup of the White Stripes’ masterful monolith, Elephant, which also turned 20 recently. This one represents the brash, unabashed half of our anniversaries, every bit as loud and punishing as Marshall’s was quiet and soothing, and man what an album it is. This was the Stripes’ massive, undeniable swing for the fences and geezus did they nail it. As the article reminds us, it STARTS with “Seven Nation Army” — as clear and unequivocal an opening statement as you’re likely to receive. There’s no slowly slipping into the album, letting the listener adjust to their surroundings before punching them in the face by the third or fourth song. No, this was a both barrels blast to the face from the outset, throwing the listener into a shark-infested wave pool with a suit full of chum. “If you can survive this, you can survive anything…” they seem to be saying, almost daring you to level up as much as they had. And if you manage to meet them in the stratosphere, it’s a hell of a trip through the heavens.
Besides that monster of an earworm “Army” there are innumerable other headwreckers on display — there’s Jack’s blistering solo in the rollercoaster ride of “Black Math,” the facemelting gospel chorus at the end of “There’s No Home for you Here.” The sex god swagger of “Ball and Biscuit’s” seven minute duration balanced by the breathless, all out sprint of “Hypnotize’s” sub-two minute span. The deranged glee of “Girl, You Have no Faith in Medicine” with its unexpected delight at shouting “acetaminophen” at full volume. There’s nary a bad note to be found (although I, like the author, also tend to skip the closer, the power and perfection of the album having long since been cemented by then.)
The pair would never reach these heights again, leaning into the stranger aspects of their sound on 2005’s Get Behind me Satan before closing out strong on 2007’s Icky Thump, which recaptured some of this one’s thunder before they broke up, just in far smaller doses. (And Jack himself would repeatedly show the true value of Meg on his subsequent solo outings, working with potentially more technically skilled drummers, but never coming close to the primal bashing and emotion generated by his former partner.)
Thankfully we’ve still got things like this to go back to, aptly named monsters that allow us revel in past glories and joy no matter how many times we return to them. As the article notes, “An elephant is a noble beast with a long memory, and maybe that’s how the White Stripes saw themselves — history-minded congregants carrying the flame for dying traditions on a crass and heedless age. But an elephant is also a big motherfucker who will stomp you to death, and that’s what we hear on “Seven Nation Army.” (And the rest of the album, for that matter.)
Crank up that insane choir in the aforementioned “Home” and see if you survive:
We’ll close with one last item, a new song from another old fave, fittingly returning after a long spell in the dark. The band are the legendary Underworld, those UK electroheads who’ve been giving us amazing tunes for well over 30 years now. They’re back with new material, their first since 2019’s very cool Drift project, which found the duo releasing new songs/art/videos every week for the entire year. That was by and large another solid affair, but they’ve been quiet since then, only recently resurfacing for some live shows where they debuted some new tracks. One of those is this one, a front to back banger of old, which is hopefully a sign that more is coming from the pair soon. In the meantime, enjoy “and the colour red” here:
That’s all for now — until next time…
-BS