Suspect Press

Category: Music

  • A Brief History of Grace Jones

    A Brief History of Grace Jones

    By Lonnie MF Allen


    Lonnie MF Allen has long been a stalwart among Denver’s close-knit cartooning community. An oft-published illustrator, writer and designer, in addition being an award-winning cartoonist, and named one of Westword’s 100 Colorado Creatives, Allen is an organizer for the Denver Drink & Draw meet-up. His work has been published by Dark Horse, Image Comics, Colorado Sun, and he’s been nominated for an Eisner Award. He is the art director for Suspect Press. Find him at lonniemfallen.com.

  • Book Review: Strange Stars by Jason Heller

    Book Review: Strange Stars by Jason Heller

    By Cory Casciato

     

    Cover by Butcher Billy

     

    A good music book will take you on a guided tour of a new genre, all while being entertaining in its own right. A great music book will do the same thing, only about an area of music you thought you already knew a lot about. Jason Heller’s Strange Stars is a great music book.

    While I’d never call myself an expert, I certainly know a fair bit about science fiction in pop music, as music and science fiction are two of my absolute favorite things. David Bowie, too, for that matter. But Strange Stars made it apparent how little I really knew, particularly about the 70s, where the two collided urgently and frequently.

    Each chapter covers a single year of the 70s (plus one chapter on the end of the 60s and another on the beginning of the 80s), diving deep into the rock, pop, funk, soul and disco that incorporated science fiction tropes. Heller also delivers a solid amount of context for the music, touching on everything from the novels to the technology that was coming out alongside the tunes.

    Despite Heller’s lively and imaginative musical descriptions, the book is best enjoyed with easy access to Spotify and YouTube (for the really obscure cuts). The problem, if you can call it that, is that the writing is engaging enough you won’t necessarily want to tear yourself away from it to hear the music under discussion.

    Erudite without ever being dry or excessive, Heller has wisely chosen to deliver his payload of musical knowledge through a series of overlapping narratives, telling the stories behind the major players of the day. Bowie himself, as the subtitle promises, serves as something of a throughline, offering a point of comparison and contrast as his love affair with science fiction waxes and wanes throughout the decade. It’s not a book about Bowie, precisely, though he gets more space than any other single artist. He’s simply an anchor to the larger story of spaceships, time machines and aliens of the pop world. That’s the real story here, and Heller tells it with depth and nuance, offering a sparkling portrait of the point where pop music left the planet and was changed forever.

     

    Cory Casciato is a Denver-based writer with a passion for the geeky—from old science fiction movies to brand-new video games. His work has appeared in The AV Club, Colorado Public Radio, Westword and many other places. He really likes zombies.
  • Charles Manson Listens to the White Album

    Charles Manson Listens to the White Album

    By Jake Fairly

     

     

    Jake Fairly oozed forth upon the Denver comics scene from the catacombs of the Rocky Mountain College of Art and Design. Be it comics about Neil Armstrong’s corpse, or generally being metal AF, Jake is a guy with considerably hefty night moves. He’s had work published in periodicals such as Westword and the Denver Public Library comics newspaper, and has been labeled a “street artist” by Westword magazine.
  • Album Review: Pueblo Escobar – Self Titled

    Album Review: Pueblo Escobar – Self Titled

    By Scott LaBarbera

    Pueblo Escobar

    Self Titled

     

    A few weeks back, I had a friend visiting from out of town (who used to live in Denver) and when I asked him what was on his itinerary for his trip, the first thing he replied was “I need to pick up the new Pueblo Escobar album.” The group features former members of Kingdom of Magic, Il Cattivo, Clusterfux and Git Some including frontman Luke Fairchild (who, after a brief hiatus from the Denver music world, is back with a vengeance). Their debut album, released by Sailor Records, does not disappoint, and if you are a fan of any of their previous projects you will hear the familiar influences of all four. A highlight of the album is the third track “The Forgotten Pugilist” which features a powerful bass line, heavy drums, great lead guitar riffs and the droney-yet-melodic power chords that defines the sound of these Denver-metal powerhouse musicians. I don’t consider myself the biggest fan of this genre, but some of my favorite local shows over the years have been by these guys’ previous bands, and judging from the recording of this album, I can’t wait for the privilege of catching Pueblo Escobar live this summer.

  • Album Review: Natalie Tate – Broken Open

    Album Review: Natalie Tate – Broken Open

    By Scott LaBarbera

    Natalie Tate

    Broken Open

     

    I fell in love with Natalie Tate’s angelic voice when I had the accidental privilege of hearing a friend /co-worker put the final touches on the mix of her debut album a few years back. Her latest album, Broken Open, is somewhat of a change from her previous (almost exclusively guitar-based) effort. While I enjoyed and appreciated the raw simplicity of her debut album, you can hear Tate mature as a songwriter on this new release. It’s hard to define what genre her music falls into on this album. Complex dream pop? She tastefully blends electronic beats, keyboards and lush vocals but stops short of the repeated chorus that you’d hear in the typical pop song. To be honest, I couldn’t help but be reminded a little bit of Maggie Rogers. Maybe if Pharrell had come to Denver and listened to one of Natalie Tate’s tracks she would be the one blowing up nationally, because she is certainly just as deserving.

     

     

  • Album Review: Ned Garthe Explosion – Flashlight Tan

    Album Review: Ned Garthe Explosion – Flashlight Tan

    By Scott LaBarbera

     

    Ned Garthe Explosion

    Flashlight Tan

     

    I was first introduced to Ned Garthe Explosion by Aaron Collins when I booked his band (A. Tom Collins) to play New Year’s Eve a few years back. Aaron   insisted that NGE open the show and I hesitantly agreed. They absolutely crushed it and ever since then they have been one of my favorite Denver bands to see live. Though a great live band can often be a disappointment in the studio—thankfully is not the case with NGE’s third album, “Flashlight Tan.” The opening track, “Smooth Escalator,” pulls you in with Ty Breuer’s funky bass lines, and the complex psychedelia of the title track immediately became one of my favorite songs of the year. In between, the record is filled with metal, punk, and power pop tracks, many of which reminded me of a more listener-friendly “Eagles of Death Metal.” Frontman Ned Garthe may not have the best voice in rock n’ roll, but he uses it with absolute perfection; and being surrounded by an all-star cast of musicians helped make this easily one of my favorite records of 2016.

     

     

  • Album Review: Joe Sampson – Chansons de Parade

    Album Review: Joe Sampson – Chansons de Parade

    By Scott LaBarbera

    Joe Sampson

    Chansons de Parade

     

    On the fourth track of Joe Sampson’s latest album, the celebrated Denver songwriter moans “I’m off to a land to sing all day, sing my baby, she’s gone away.” As dour as this lyric may come across, it created a landscape in my mind of a perfect Colorado summer music festival afternoon in a meadow, while me and my lady listen to Sampson croon his perfectly crafted songs in the background. And so it goes with this entire album; Sampson manages to subtly hypnotize you on each track using just his guitar and lush vocal arrangements (occasionally adding some well-timed drums into the mix). Any Denver music fan knows that when Joe Sampson is part of a project (whether as a member of Bad Weather California or collaborator with Esme Patterson and Nathaniel Rateliff) or releases his own music, it is going to be something worth paying attention to.

     

     

  • Cold Crushed: Why We Can’t Lose Denver’s Premier Hip Hop Club

    Cold Crushed: Why We Can’t Lose Denver’s Premier Hip Hop Club

    By Ru Johnson

     

    Just before Tyrone “TJ” Adair was gunned down just outside the patio at Cold Crush, the atmosphere was like any other warm Sunday evening on “The Block,” the nickname given to the 2700 block of Larimer. The dance-club and art-bar was packed with Denver hip-hop fans, who had been loyally filling Cold Crush for years, as it was one of the few venues in the city where this culture was given a little room to breathe.

    A sort of hip-hop Mecca for the city, Cold Crush synergized an otherwise splintered community; here slam poets, gangsta emcees and radical activists could all come together under the holy gospel of breakbeats.

    An altercation between Adair and an unnamed guest began on the patio, then quickly spilled out onto the sidewalk, ending with Adair dead of a gunshot wound. This tragic death would go on to divide this once solid community, leaving the future of Denver’s favorite hip-hop club hanging in the balance.

    Cold Crush became mired in troubles with the City Attorney in the wake of the murder investigation, leading to the controversial closing of the venue by officials and neighbors who considered it a “public nuisance.” Subsequent news stories highlighted the growing divide between hip-hop and the owners of Denver’s music venues (who often associated the genre with guns and drugs, and were reluctant to host concerts).

    Reporters from various news outlets called me directly, totally unclear about how to cover Cold Crush being shut down. I was a resource because I’m a member of the hip-hop community, and because I’ve become a quasi-liaison between the press and this scene since I published my first rap review in Denver Westword in 2009.

    They had no idea who to talk to get the full story of Adair’s presence and impact on the hip-hop community, and so most of the coverage was taken from a bird’s eye view. Writers who had never stepped foot in the location were covering the community rally in support of Cold Crush, lifting quotes that were published without attribution and circling the candlelight vigils like vultures hovering over their prey.

    I answered hurried emails from multiple writers who were doing the thing reporters do: crunching numbers, attempting to get the City Attorney on the phone, and doing their best to understand a culture alien to them, but which many of us live on the daily.

    It wasn’t until the writing of this story that I’ve given my formal opinion about Cold Crush and its importance to the hip-hop community.

    People like to mention Meadowlark and Larimer Lounge as the locations that first  created a music scene in the neighborhood, and that’s true with some segments of the populous, but for hip hop fans the opening of Cold Crush was a Denver game-changer: We now had a place to go that was a respite from the racist undertones that existed in other venues, where rap is tolerated but never welcomed.

    While many of us reeled from Adair’s murder and the trauma of being in a place where gunshots sent unexpected partygoers scattering, talent buyers and promoters for other venues patted themselves on the back in disgusting displays of “not in our bar, and not on my watch” smugness.

    One talent buyer told me directly they couldn’t book anything that was considered “rap or thug.” Already exhausted from these descriptions, it wasn’t worth it to debate anyone over it or try and explain the nuanced racism of this thinking to other reporters. And besides, Cold Crush was being shut down and labeled as a public nuisance, so we had bigger fish to fry.

    Additionally, hip-hop as the red-headed stepchild of the music scene was nothing new. Performers have been fighting and vying for a place of legitimacy in music scenes since the original Cold Crush Brothers (for whom the Denver club is named) came on the scene in 1970s Bronx. For decades rap has been seen as a commodified source of revenue, but rarely afforded a viable location, a consistent cathedral where the scene can develop its own expression and artful revolution.

    While Cold Crush owner Brian Mathenge (a hard numbers genius with a gruff, but generous personality) scrambled with his attorneys and staff to figure out a plan, the community got organized with a viral video dedicated to the unity found at Cold Crush. These efforts, combined with an acquiescence to program changes (no more dancing on the bar; ID scanners and pat-downs without exception) proved enough for the city to let Cold Crush open their doors once again.

    News trucks lined the streets for the first few days of the re-open, but none of the writers who crunched numbers, or asked for connections to Adair’s friends and families, returned to the bar. That was to be expected, but what surprised me was the absence of so many Cold Crush regulars, who couldn’t reconcile partying steps away from where Adair took his last breath, and began to associate the once-treasured club with gunshots and flashing police lights.

    In the months since Cold Crush’s return, the club has struggled to return to its former status as the hip hop Mecca of Denver.

    It’s hard to determine whether the central idea about the recent troubles from Cold Crush are about the fickle customers, or the nature with which hip-hop is treated in growing cities.

    Part of me wants to say it’s the spineless guests who don’t know how to stick it out when the chips are down, who made it hard for the club to reopen with its same vigor after Adair’s murder. Part of me wants to rail at the critics who are so hard on hip-hop but know nothing about the culture, and whose critical, racially inflammatory statements about Cold Crush did more harm than help.

    Still yet, part of me wants to blame the press and the obsession with tragic stories about black bodies, while ignoring the the years artistic beauty and community strengthening that happened at Cold Crush. I want people to understand the importance of having a place where hip-hop music is not only played but celebrated. Where the history of our culture graces the walls and the murals outside, and how important it is to have a black-owned business in an increasingly gentrifying neighborhood.

    Perhaps the troubles Cold Crush experienced are a study in human nature. A penchant for joyous devotion during the good times and reactionary conservatism during the bad. Or maybe it’s as simple as folks needing to work through the changes at their own pace.

    At any rate, the growing population in Denver continues to usher in more energies over time. New bodies have taken over the seats at the bar and some of the regulars have been lured back by the sounds of their favorite deejays paired with strongly poured spirits.

    Shortly after completing the first draft of this essay, the police announced they’d made an arrest in Adair’s murder (though naming him in these pages is not a priority of mine), and Cold Crush was again in the headlines. Unlike the weeks after that fateful night in October, though, the collective conversation feels more like a sigh of relief than a rallying cry for all hip-hop refugees to finally return home.

     

     

    Ru Johnson is a writer and founder of Roux Black Consulting who lives in Denver. Her writing has appeared in Denver Westword and The Denver Post with entertainment and hip-hop as the focus. A music lover and avid nail polish enthusiast, Ru believes art is the revolution and that if you stay ready, you won’t have to get ready.

     

     

  • At Home With A Ghost: Watching Harry Nilsson’s Voice Die

    At Home With A Ghost: Watching Harry Nilsson’s Voice Die

    By Sarah Kernochan

     

     

    1974 was the year RCA released House of Pain, my first album as a singer-songwriter. It was the year I loved and lost a man, so my songs poured out the sweet and the bitter in equal measure. Once I was done recording, I rolled up my sleeves to begin my new project: self-pitying, wine-soaked self-destruction. I had gotten off to an impressive start when I met Harry Nilsson.

    My album’s title song came from the Charles Laughton horror classic Island of Lost Souls. Laughton played a mad scientist grafting men to animals in his lab, which his unfortunate victims – now “manimals” – called “the House of Pain.” I spent my record advance making a weird short film to accompany the title track, including animation and clips from the horror film. This was before music videos. I urged RCA to use their newly developed video players to show the film in record stores, to see if it had any effect on my sales. They failed to see the point. However, the video did result in my meeting a long-adored idol.

    I was new to songwriting, and my early efforts didn’t fit any genre or show any other artist’s influence. However, if there was any singer-songwriter I worshipped, it was Harry Nilsson. His early album Harry (the one which brought him to the attention of the Beatles) captivated me, and then Nilsson Sings Newman (his perfectly distilled renderings of Randy Newman songs) tied the knot; every subsequent album found him defying prediction and exploring something completely new. Harry just suited me right down to the ground: his bizarre humor, his insouciance, his entwining of musical styles both quaint and contemporary, his impeccable taste in arrangements, his brilliantly layered background vocals and, above all, his gliding, golden voice.

    RCA was Nilsson’s longtime label. One late winter afternoon, on a visit from LA, Harry popped into the office of his product manager, who showed him my strange video. I happened to be next door with my own product manager when I was told Harry wanted to meet me.

    The following dawn, I remembered nothing. I had probably been out of body, and my body had apparently gone ahead and celebrated without me. My idol was standing by the hotel room window, smoking, and gazing at me sort of wistfully. He said he’d recently become enchanted with a young waitress from Ireland, who had gone back home but would rejoin him in LA in the spring. Now that he’d met me, he was feeling confused. I told him he didn’t actually have a problem, because I was going home, too. (My clothes smelled like the floor of a bar.)

    I didn’t expect to see Harry again, assuming that I had behaved as badly as I often did during blackouts, which were common enough for me in those 1970s days of wine and bloody noses. But it was a shame to have no memories to savor of my one night with Nilsson. I hadn’t even grabbed a hotel matchbook to prove to myself I’d been there. The RCA product managers knew more about what happened than I did. They were the ones to tell Harry, a few months later, that I was back in LA. They gave him my number.

    At 5 a.m., I was sleeping soundly on a bare mattress, the one piece of furniture in my West Hollywood sublet, except for a phone, which suddenly rang. In the blue light of this second dawn, I arrived at Harry’s La Cienega apartment, where I found him on the phone in hoarse conversation with his attorney. Flopped in an armchair was John Lennon. Harry was discussing the text of an apology to be delivered to someone, while John peered at him myopically (his glasses had been lost in a fistfight). Harry instructed his lawyer to send flowers with the apology, and hung up. It seems I had come on the scene right after Harry and John were thrown out of the Troubadour for brawling with the Smothers Brothers.

    John repaired to the guest bedroom. Harry downed a quart of milk and a couple of repulsive hoagies from the 7/11, and then fell asleep with his foot hanging off the bed, jiggling, still animated by all the cocaine and brandy he had ingested earlier. (“Ole Coke-foot,” I used to call him.) He favored Brandy Alexanders because the cream lined his stomach; thus the alcohol wasn’t absorbed, allowing him to drink more double Brandy Alexanders until the dawn like this one.

    Harry had introduced John to this noxious drink, which was also Ringo’s favorite. Now, Harry could hold his mud. No matter how much he drank, he seemed fine, mind sharp and words unslurred. Ever primed with witty banter and guile, he was a world class motormouth. He was also, as I was soon to learn, a raging alcoholic. And he was spurring John to commit brandy-kiri alongside him. John, for his part, was terrible at booze. Two drinks and the darkness fell; you never knew what demon was going to ride out of the murk.

    By now their escapades had hit the press. RCA was understandably anxious. John was supposed to produce Harry’s new album, Pussy Cats, with recording sessions to begin in two weeks. The word came down from the higher-ups: Harry and John needed to get out of LA, spend a weekend at a spa in Palm Springs, and dry out.

    Women were allowed on board. RCA must have thought we would act as nannies. This was not my strong suit. May Pang, on the other hand, didn’t mind being a minder. She was John’s new love, in the wake of his split with Yoko. She and I packed our weekend bags, jumped into our hot pants, and rode down to Palm Springs with our sick patients.

    I will not go into detail about that long and disorderly weekend. Suffice it to say, the boys took “dry out” to mean “no alcohol.” Nothing wet. That left drugs. And Palm Springs was dead boring. The sun was too bright. The shades got pulled down; calls to locate a dealer went out. Some white powder was scored. Perhaps it was coke. If so, it had been stepped on so many times that it was mostly suitable for babies with diaper rash. Whatever it was, Harry became more than usually loquacious. Hoarse to begin with, he talked and talked and talked until he was down to a rasp.

    A trip to the hospital ensued. He was handed some antibiotics, and told very sternly not to smoke, and to go on a complete voice rest for the rest of the weekend.

     

    Harry tried the pantomime thing for about four hours before he caved. Alcohol was restored to the menu. Swallowing the pills with cognac, he lit up a cigarette, and proceeded to talk. With a vengeance. He wouldn’t shut up. The rasp now sounded like he was gargling blood. Yet he talked on.

    And so I was present to witness the tragedy of Harry Nilsson willfully murdering his voice, that beautiful instrument I loved so much. It never really came back.

    I was back in New York when he and John arrived to finish Pussy Cats. I was horrified to hear Harry’s vocals. There was no trace of the swooping, heaven-kissed tenor he was born with. He sounded like he was being flayed alive. The album was one big drugged-out gangfuck of the ears.

    Meanwhile I was pulling away, for my own preservation. I lost my nerve, recognizing I had neither the stamina nor the capacity to keep up with this tireless, unending binge. Harry scared me. His attempts at self-destruction made my own look feeble.

    Besides, I had my second album to record, and Harry’s waitress was flying in from Ireland shortly. What should he do? Harry asked me. He was in love with two women. I told him he didn’t actually have a problem, because I was going home.

    I knew if I stayed with him, I was going to die. Instead, he died – twenty years later, in 1994. By then I was happily married (as was he, to his waitress) with one child (to his six). He hadn’t been sober for most of those years, so the news of his death from heart failure, while sad, came as no surprise to me.

    I hadn’t loved him, though I’d tried because he was a genius and I am partial to them. Nonetheless I was still and forever in love with his music. I mourned Nilsson’s death by playing his poignant “Turn On Your Radio”

    I don’t know where I’m goin’
    Now that I am gone
    I hope the wind that’s blowin’
    Helps me carry on
    Turn on your radio, baby
    Baby listen to my song
    Turn on your night light baby
    Baby I’m gone                

    I’d said goodbye to him many years before, and fate had not arranged for us to run into each other since. This time I knew for certain I’d never see him again.

    But I did.

     

    *For the rest of this story, as well as other entries in Sarah Kernochan’s At Home With A Ghost memoir series, visit sarahkernochan.blogspot.com

     

    First catching the world’s attention for co-directing the Academy Award winning documentary Marjoe, renaissance woman Sarah Kernochan has lived a storied career as a musician, screenwriter, filmmaker and author. “It’s my way of being promiscuous,” she says. She won a second Oscar in 2002 for her documentary short Thoth (available on YouTube). Her writing credits include the films 9 1/2 Weeks, Impromptu, Sommersby and What Lies Beneath, and she is the author of the novels Dry Hustle and Jane Was Here. Her blog At Home With A Ghost, chronicling Kernochan’s history with spirits, has a large online following. Kernochan lives in New York with husband James Lapine. Check out her website at sarahkernochan.com