These Things Take Time: Tunabunny & Minima Moralia

Nothing Tunabunny does is accidental.

I’ve listened to the group’s new album, Minima Moralia, for  the past month and started this review at least half a dozen times. I’ve embraced it as a new classic and, metaphorically at least, ripped it from the turntable and smashed it against the wall. I think I’ve come to the point now where I can just accept it for what it is: a document of guarded secrets, plagued with self-doubt but holding its own and wrapped in smirking half laughs. It’s an uncrackable mountain covered in detour signs. Attempting to engage it on any common terms is like trying to look backward through one-way glass. It begs to be taken seriously yet violently thwarts every effort by its own pushmi-pullyu personality that screams TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY!/I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE TAKING THIS SERIOUSLY!

The danger in taking any work of art seriously, in attributing depth and meaning, is that you’ll find there’s nothing there. But that’s not 100% the case with Tunabunny. There is a there there. Whatever meaning is found, that is to say whatever meaning one can take away from it, is of one’s own creation. They’re never going to tell you what they mean. They’ll name their album Minima Moralia –literally meaning “little moral” or “cheap ethics”–after Adorno’s book (which was telling subtitled “Reflections From Damaged Life”) which not only grants them automatic association by dictum but a way of making a joke that purposely conceals, perhaps, the underlying sentiment. They’ll take promo photos with a member holding up a copy of Kathy Acker‘s rewritten,but still pretty similar, Don Quioxte. A similar shot was taken with Bolaño‘s The Romantic Dogs, although it merely lies on the table and is not gripped such that it masks the member’s face.

They will do everything in their power to outwardly express that their demons are unimportant or, at worst, imaginary. Nearly every single thing about the way Tunabunny places itself in the public sphere is a self-balancing stance covered in defensive wounds.

In the scheme it matters most that Tunabunny created this record and much less whether anyone gets it because art doesn’t have to explain itself and engagement doesn’t necessarily mean interaction.

Functionally, the band has always pushed through its lack of traditional dexterity (i.e. a nearly total absence of cataloged rock cliches) and used off kilter chords, single note riffs, noise, screeching, et al. This comes to a head on Minima Moralia where Tunabunny demonstrates that it’s learned (or, at least, accepted) enough of the common language to create a pop record somewhat in the vein of post-post-punk/never-punk. This is especially present on the relatively sing-songy “Perfect Time, Every Time” and The B-52’s-colored “Subterranean.” There’s a clearly missed note in the first bars of “Happy Song” and, since none of this was recorded to super-expensive tape, it’s obvious it was left there intentionally. Tunabunny doesn’t unlearn itself; It adds to itself. The one-sheet (industry garble for the piece of paper that introduces a record to reviewers) says “[Minima Moralia] signals a Tunabunny that is more pop, yet more intense; more accessible, yet more desperate; more comforting, and yet more uncomfortable.” God damn if that’s not one sentence that any other band would like to use truthfully.

The one-sheet ends by saying, “On last year’s debut album, Tunabunny was out to destroy rock music. With Minima Moralia, they intend to redeem it. And with their third album, already in progress, and due sometime in 2012, they are planning to go beyond it.” Really? So, in the past Tunabunny was Throbbing Gristle and now the band is Springsteen? Next they’ll be, what, Emerson, Lake and Palmer? Let’s ignore that last possibility for now and concentrate on the first two. As hyperbolic as it sounds, they’re not really that far off the mark. But Minima Moralia isn’t Born To Run; It’s Born To Run Away. The sketches  it presents are horrifying in their lack of detail, like stark photographs that have no discernible subject and no center. They are diary entries that are too real to bring into full clarity. (Note: not everything on Minima Moralia is this way. “(Song For) My Solar Sister” seems less a vehicle for lyrics than for the music itself which hinges on a superb guitar riff worthy of The Feelies or The Reivers. They also made a party-scene video for it which helps lighten the mood further. “Killer of Sheep” is a pretty straightforward 1990’s-ish ALT-ROCK retelling of Charles Burnett ‘s film.“Cross Wire Technique” sounds like a lost demo by 1997-era U2. I mean that as a compliment but am pretty sure Tunabunny won’t take it that way.)

Those examples aside, though, leave an album full of anxiety.

The alternately soft-spoken and shrieking “Only At Night” (“I saw you there/Waiting at night, waiting at night/Never in light,only at night/… History was written by instigators/When will they do right?/Never in the daylight”) creeps through the skin while “Happy Song” warns (“I bet you’ve seen something like this before/And if not, well I hate to say you probably will” just after promising “Relax it’s not OK/but it’s going to be.” The warning comes after reassurance. It’s like someone who says “I’ll always love you as long as you________.” “The Natural World” says “We focus on steps that we take /Turn our attention from modern humanity…/Swallowed up by diluvium /And these are the steps we will take/And it will be just as we like it /Our time is a relative state.” Modern life is rubbish, indeed. Except, that’s not exactly what they’re saying. It’s modern humanity that’s been flooded and left under diluvium. Its deformity is such that to abandon it is no longer an aberration— a breaking of the social contract– but part of the natural world.

There are hints of jokes. “I will write our names in The Book of The Dead” ((Song For) My Solar Sister”) is most notable because to do such would mean, basically, vandalism. Mostly, though, Minima Moralia hangs in the air and swats at itself. It twitches and writhes.

While Tunabunny may be entertain-ing this is, significantly, not entertainment. The former is listener dependent; the latter requires the initiative of the artist. That they’ve been able to distill all the internal horror mentioned above into something so typical as a rock band says more about the strength of the form than anything else. And Tunabunny have certainly made the concessions one expects (videos, touring, multiple releases) but, even with these tools in hand Tunabunny appears to be less a case of going-through-the-motions and more one of these-motions-have-meaning. Activity is action and action cannot brood. Born To Run Away. (see: the video for “Only At Night.”)

Minima Moralia is free of sentiment, community, glad-handing, acceptance and relief. It postures only to form a stance with which to keep itself upright. It’s only intended audience is the band itself. It is carefully considered and completely self-conscious. It is bravely aware of its own skin and falls just short of being repulsed. Most of all it is deliberate and has an overwhelming sense of necessity about it.

It is the most complete artistic accomplishment of any Athens band this year and a stunning achievement by any honest measure.

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Nothing For Nothing

So here’s the situation: for the past month I’ve been struck with the worst writer’s block I’ve had in a long time. There’s plenty to write about, and even a good amount of stuff I’m interested in writing about—a necessary, yet often ignored part of the process—but every time I’ve sat down to produce something I’ve managed to spit out 10 or 20 lines of garble and not much else. When working without a deadline I tend to over think what I’m doing. I mean, we’re talking about writing about music, right? What’s the big deal? Hell if I know. I’m starting to suspect it’s boredom. But from what? Boredom always seems to be reactionary albeit involuntary. That is, one is bored by something as opposed to lack of something. Then again, it could very well be the lack of something else in the something that is causing the original boredom.

See? Garble.

(yes, “garble” is a verb. Leave me alone.)

All I’ve listened to for the past 3 weeks is dance music. Pretty much. There’s been a few dub records and a few 1970s ambient records–doesn’t all music create an ambiance, though? We need a new language– but mostly dance and basically anything but tyrannical, guitar dominated rock music.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

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Four Part Partch

The best thing I did this week so far was throw on the headphones and watch this four-part Harry Partch PBS special. If I could go back in time I would personally thank KPBS-TV (San Diego) for producing this. It’s beautiful, inspiring and, for me, borders on the religious. Just wonderful.

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Who It B?

Generally speaking, I’m not terribly fond of homage in album art. But this is OK, I think.  Marvin Gaye was originally born Gay but switched up the spelling for reasons that no one has ever been able to speak about with any final authority. So there’s that kind of pun at work but, further, Gaye’s artwork was centered around the classic painting “Sugar Shack”  by Ernie Barnes which continues to be best known for appearing in the opening credits of Good Times. Lil B‘s art takes the theme but infuses it with his own take on matters of slavery/escape.

Decent job, I think.

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We’re All Going Mad

…at least that’s how Mozz put it to one little punter on the way to the gardens in 1984. Please enjoy The Smiths’ appearance on the Charlie’s Bus segment of TV-AM‘s early Saturday morning program S.P.L.A.T.! (Soap, Puzzles, Laughter And Talent). Oh, yeah, that’s Sandie Shaw at the end singing “Jeane” (?!) to a bunch of kids.

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Jesse Michaels’ Audio-Only Thrash Metal Blog?

…It’s not very good no matter what you’ve heard. It’s pretty self-parodying but even that doesn’t save it. It’s mostly just exhausting and boring. If you insist on hearing it GO HERE. (Note: totally not safe for work, church, school, around other people, etc.)

And all of you have seen every one of those scratchy, out of focus VHS transfers of old Op Ivy gigs on YouTube so I won’t bore you there. Instead, watch the story of the real  Operation Ivy. We kick it very, very old school around here.

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Did Anyone Notice?

No one needs my opinion on the new Washed Out LP so I won’t bother but do ya think they could have hired someone who wouldn’t totally rip off Roxy Music to handle the cover art?

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The Indie Cred Test & Why We Care

Several issues, and years, ago Chunklet Magazine ran a feature whereby readers could apply for their very own “Cred Card” issued by, who else, The Bank Of Indie Cred. Earlier this year, the idea was expanded into a 200 page book that quizzes readers in every conceivable area of “indie cred” (samples? “Do you argue with people who follow recipes?”, “Have you ever been personally responsible for a band getting fired from a label?”, “Has one of your heckles ever silenced the room?”).  It’s a massively funny and surprisingly broad laugh-fest. As expected, all sacred cows are slaughtered and the pigs never had a chance.

When the idea to interview my old friend Henry Owings about The Indie Cred Test popped into my head I had a grand delusion that I’d be able to get down to the meat-n-bones of exactly why such a thing resonates with certain people. That is, what is it about “credibility” (as a reality) that we crave and seek out yet also mock and scoff at (as a concept)? Well, we explored that a little bit but not much. Actually, we didn’t really discuss the book itself at any great length but I think our conversation does reveal some insight into the attitude behind the book.

What you’re about to read is really a conversation between a couple of dudes who have known each other for almost two decades, been band mates together, gone through periods of acrimonious acquaintance with each other and, ultimately, landed in full adulthood as long time friends. As it stands, I’m much happier with the way this turned out that the way I planned it.

(This conversation took place over Facebook Chat while Henry was anticipating his infant daughter waking up at any time. So we made the most of our chances.)

Henry Owings (H2O): Boom

Gordon Lamb (24HPP): There ya are. Just sent a message telling you how to sign in.

H2O: Sorry, I don’t “do” this

24HPP: That’s cool.  I don’t really either but it works well.

H2O: [My wife] does, judging from the twenty IMs I’ve gotten in the last few minutes

24HPP: Ha!

H2O:  Jesus, talk about time killer

24HPP: I know it’s not your thing. I read that Pitchfork interview you did once.

H2O: Dude, yeah, that was insane. Nobody ever believes me that it was done via iChat. I still have the transcript because I was misquoted. Hard to believe, huh? Via iChat?

24HPP: That’s the whole idea of doing it via chat, i.e. to not misquote!

H2O: I think because I can type like a motherfucker. I was over-typing and was referring to things earlier [in the interview] or whatever. Anyway…

24HPP: Ah, so it fell out-of-order/context, etc?

H2O: Yeah. You know I’m like a furious typer.

24HPP: I know.

H2O: I was timed at UGA when I got a job there. 95wpm, 100% accuracy. Nobody believes me

24HPP: I’m an awful typist. I even took typing in high school.

H2O: Best skill I ever got from junior high school. Thank God something stuck.

24HPP: Well, let me ask you then: why didn’t you ever go to secretarial school? I mean, you’ve got the legs for it!

H2O: Yeah, I’ve got killer thighs. Anyway, what did you think of the Flagpole piece? It seemed kinda condescending. Or patronizing.

Continue reading

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To Hum Their Song Again

I haven’t paid attention to any records in the past two weeks other than David Comes To Life by the ten-years-old-this-month Fucked Up and JEFF The Brotherhood‘s We Are The Champions. OK, so only two records in two weeks is very much on the slow side of things and it’s not because there weren’t other good records that came out. It’s just that I care about these more than those and I really couldn’t be happier that these two bands, touring together now coincidentally, are really exploding in the States. For the first time in a long time I’m not reacting to mainstream press coverage of bands I’ve liked for a long time with “Oh, now you’re paying attention” but, rather, “Glad to see this getting further out there.”

Honestly, David Comes To Life is the type of thing the music press loves to cover. It gives them a chance to say things like “epic” and “rock opera” and “concept album”, along with having a justifiable reason to place the word “fuck” into a headline, and not be writing about an Emerson, Lake & Palmer reissue or interviewing Pete Townsend. So, even though the album is dutifully incredible there was no chance it was going to be ignored.

The attention JEFF The Brotherhood has gotten lately is something to be celebrated.  These two guys, Jake and Jamin Orall, have put out records by themselves via their label Infinity Cat, and others (including Athens’ Ham-1 [<–warning: that’s a MySpace link]) for years, toured relentlessly and never strayed from the guitar-n-drums setup that works so well for them. I first wrote about them a little over 2 years ago. Due to limited space I couldn’t really expand on how great they were as a live band and, obviously, I’m not really doing that here. So, look at this, why don’t ya?:

We Are The Champions comes out next week and NPR is streaming the whole thing until then so go listen to it.

Also, even though this has been posted everywhere I figured it wouldn’t hurt to give this to you to stream also. Enjoy!

MP3: Fucked Up-Queen Of Hearts (download it via that tiny little arrow on the right side of the streaming box)

(If you’ve got $12 or so to spare you could do a lot worse things with it than grabbing a copy of the Fucked Up bootleg Coke Sucks, Drink Pepsi , recorded at Atlanta’s EARL in January 2009, that ‘ol Unca Hank at Chunklet put out this spring.)

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Get In The Wagon!

Dangerous Minds wins the blue ribbon for best typographical error. Yep, them dusty ‘ol Black Flag boys sure were breaking ground back in the late 19th century. Hardly anyone could stand ’em but no town pokey could hold ’em. They’ll always be remembered by their rallying cry: Get In The Wagon! There’s gold in them thar hardcore hills!

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