Sarah Lipstate, aka Noveller; image courtesy of loumuenz.com
So, perhaps you’ve seen the trailer for It Might Get Loud. I’ve seen in at two different movie screenings. For the uninformed, it’s a documentary about how “three icons get together” in the name of rock. These three icons are guitarists Led Zeppelin’s Jimmy Page, U2′s The Edge, and The White Stripes’ Jack White.
I bet you know how I feel. The words you want are “wank” and “decadeism,” accompanied by an eye roll.
Now, apart from confirming my suspicions that The Edge relies too much on effects pedals, I don’t have any real beef with these dudes. Oh, I also think the whole stage name business with the aforementioned David Evans is dumb, but duh. It’s just — why these three? And then comes my obligatory question that is often met with a compromised answer, if it’s even addressed: where are the guitar-playing women, girls, and/or people of color?
I’ve provided at least two counterexamples for the women – Marnie Stern and St. Vincent. Today, I’ll add one more. Sarah Lipstate, aka Noveller. Her gloriously named Red Rainbows comes out this fall. Can’t wait.
Full disclosure: Sarah and I were acquaintances at KVRX. We never hung out, but I always knew she was really talented (and not just with guitar — for example, I once saw her play a theremin at a house party). When we were at KVRX, she was recording as one half of One Umbrella, for whom she also made experimental films, which she continues to do (she’s a UT RTF alumna as well). She’s also performed with Glenn Branca and finished a stint with Parts & Labor. And I’m really excited to see her breaking out on her own. You should be too.
This post is really two posts. The first section preoccupies itself with why album covers matter culturally, so as to set up a discussion of a particularly interesting album cover, in this case Kate Bush’s 1982 release, The Dreaming, which I focus on in the second section. I intend to discuss more album covers throughout the duration of this blog’s livelihood. If you would like to throw out suggestions or contribute a piece, feel free. Contact me at feministmusicgeek@gmail.com.
One thing that I fear is leaving our popular consciousness in the digital age is the album cover. I don’t consider myself a technophobe and hardly think music videos (once on TV, now on the Web) contributed to the downfall of album packaging (I actually think that’s the fault of record labels who keep raising their retail prices). Yet I do worry what we’ll lose if we stop caring about album covers. Growing up, Madonna had some of the most interesting album covers ever. So imagine how bummed I was when I saw her slapped-together, clumsily Photoshopped cover for Hard Candy. Sigh.
Cover for Hard Candy; released in 2008 on Warners Bros.
Now I know that avering my love for album covers may cast me as a bit of a commodity fetishist (which I kinda am, despite how problematic it is). And I get why album covers don’t take priority. For one, market imperative — covers cost money and the more elaborate they are, the more expensive they can become (just ask the folks at Factory Records; for every sold copy of New Order’s “Blue Monday” — lavishly designed by Peter Saville to look like a floppy disc — the label lost money, though was more concerned in releasing a well-made, lovingly-crafted piece of popular art than in turning a profit). Also, the reliance of plastic for packaging can be less than environmentally friendly (though kudos to many musical acts, artists, and record labels for realizing this and phasing it out with more paper printing).
Cover for An Invitation by Inara George; released in 2008 on Everloving with paper cover
But album covers reveal so much — who the artist is, what the music is going to sound like, what the theme or concept behind the album might be, who made the cover art, the evolution of print technology, the history of album packaging, indeed how valuable packaging may have been to the people and companies responsible for release. And obviously, in terms of representational politics, album covers can tell stories, share folklore, provide commentary, project alternate realities, or rebel. Bottom line: they’re texts and we shouldn’t overlook them or what they may reveal about the artists, the markets, and the fan bases. If interested, I highly recommend Steve Jones and Martin Sorger’s essay “Covering Music: A Brief History and Analysis of Album Cover Design.”
Treatise endeth. New treatise begineth.
One such album cover I’d like to look at is Kate Bush’s The Dreaming. Now, I’m a bit new to her, but not exactly. I have kind of a greatest hits awareness of her. As a girl, I made up dance routines in my room to “Rubberband Girl” and “Running Up That Hill” when they (rarely) got played on the radio. I know she was discovered by Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour at an early age and recorded her first album, The Kick Inside, as a teenager. I know that she produces her own material. I know that she’s a trained interpretive dancer and worked with Lindsay Kemp, David Bowie’s choreographer. I know that she directed and starred in a short film called The Line, the Cross, & the Curve co-starring Miranda Richardson based on songs from her 1993 album The Red Shoes. I know she’s done some bugged-out music videos. For example:
And then I know what other people think of her. I know a lot of negative things. Characters in books like Bret Easton Ellis’s The Rules of Attraction and Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity hate on her music. Likewise, people like to throw around rumors that, due to her perfectionism in the studio and her penchance for writing songs about female suffering and neuroses, mythological women, and the paranormal, she is crazy. It’s all crazy sexist. On that tip, I was friends with a girl who said of Bush, “Ugh, Lilith Fair.”
And then the positives. I know that a lot of people mention her when they talk about Tori Amos (and now, St. Vincent and Bat for Lashes). I’ve read some academic work (specifically Debi Withers’s piece on queer subjectivity in her second album, 1978′s Lionheart, and Holly Kruse’s “In Praise of Kate Bush,” which considers Bush’s authorial status, from the anthology On Record: Rock, Pop, and the Written Word). I know that Ann Powers, a rock journalist I idolized growing up, is writing a 33 1/3 book on The Dreaming (expect a future post upon its release next year — I’m way stoked).
And then I know male artists who have sited her as an influence. There’s L.A. outsider art rocker Ariel Pink, who borrows her treble-heavy, lo-fi, avant pop production sensibilities and clearly positions himself as a fan.
Hmmm. Guess I knew more than I thought. Yet, I’d never actually listened to an entire Kate Bush album. So, I thought I’d start with The Dreaming, which is really great. It’s kinda crazy how influential and varied and timeless this music is — I haven’t had a listening experience with so many “aha” and “so this is where ______ came from” moments since I first heard The Velvet Underground’s debut album the summer before college. But that was all happy accident. I picked it because a) it’s widely regarded by music critics as a masterpiece, b) indeed, Powers is writing about it, c) it marks a transition for Bush as producer as well as singer and instrumentalist, and d) the cover.
Cover for The Dreaming; released on EMI in 1982
This cover (made by Kindlight) knocks me out. I’ve stared at so much in the past few weeks — after several years of looking at it in various record stores — and only recently figured out that it’s supposed to be Houdini and his wife (indeed, there is a song called “Houdini” on the album, told from his wife’s perspective). The shackles around him are to be broken using the key, which Bush (as Bess Houdini) has in her mouth. But I always thought she had a wedding ring in her mouth and was internally debating whether or not to put it on (and perhaps be shackled) or swallow it and flee.
I suppose it could work either way. It’s also possible that Bush and Bess Houdini have suddenly become self-conscious about the inherent performativeness of their careers (musicians, like magicians, trade in trickery). There’s also the possibility that the key takes on some sort of sexual, Freudian design as a symbol and that the juxtaposition of the key, the shackles, her tongue, and her lusty proximity to Houdini may be at odds with her Victorian dress, coinciding at once with Houdini’s era, Bush’s origins as a Brit, and Bush’s lyrical preoccupations. All readings are valid, as they peak curiosity and dialogue with the music. Indeed, they are part of the music. Part of this woman’s work.
If I may indulge in some cred wankery for a moment, I’d like to point out that I’ve been a follower of Annie Clark’s from way back. No, no. I mean, way back. Before she recorded under the name St. Vincent even. Early 2004.
It turns out that Annie Clark went to high school with a college friend of mine, who talked up Ms. Clark’s talents and recommended that I review her EP for KVRX. However, Hollie also had another dark-haired, musically-inclined friend named Annie who I got drunk with at a party. This led to a rather embarrassing exchange between myself and Ms. Clark where I wrote a babbly testimonial on her Friendster page (remember Friendster, kids?) and . . . well . . . she was quick to point out that I got the wrong Annie.
That said, she was also quick to send me her three-song EP, Ratsliveonnoevilstar, which I promptly reviewed and put into rotation. I don’t think it got a lot of spin, but I wrote a glowing review of it. In it, I really got a sense for her love of shimmery strings, idiosyncratic and minute production, coy but confrontational lyrics, and putting her rich voice front and center.
Of course, her interim between this period and her debut as St. Vincent is well-documented. She played with folks like The Polyphonic Spree and Sufjan Stevens, and I also caught her behind the cello at a Castanets show during SXSW 2k6. But when she finally released Marry Me in 2007, I was enlivened to hear all the promise I heard on that EP, distilled and glorious.
Cover of Marry Me, released on Beggars Banquest in 2007; photo taken from freewilliamsburg.com
Point is, while she may not remember me, I always believed in her.
And I still believe in her, because her sophomore release, Actor is wonderful. My dear friend Kristen hipped me to a certain national public radio station that was premiering it, and I haven’t been able to stop listening to it. And I was already in love with many of these songs, which I heard during SXSW 2k9, as I was fortunate enough to see her put on a delightful show at Central Presbyterian.
Still of St. Vincent performance at Central Presbyterian, found on Flickr
There’s a lot to love on Actor. For one, there’s her voice. As a choirgirl mezzo-soprano, I appreciate the hell out of her swoony, supple alto. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that high school me would have been all about St. Vincent. I also love her inherent properness — the girl’s diction is as immaculate as her posture and guitar playing — and how it creates an interesting tension with her frank, wryly sexy lyrics (a favorite of mine is the first line off opening track “The Strangers” — “Lover I don’t play to win/For the thrill until I’m spent,” but there are plenty more).
In addition, she’s a fan of vocal loops, doubling and tripling and quadrupling her voice until there is an entire chorus of Annie Clarks echoing, harmonizing, dialoging, and sometimes completing trains of thought for itself. I believe this to be a feminist act — using one’s voice as an instrument, noise, an assertion of the self, and an acknowledgement that it can be many different things at once, while still residing in the same throat.
On that tack, I love Ms. Clark’s production sensibilities. I put her in ownership specifically, as she meticulously helms her own recordings, serving here as co-producer and playing many of the instruments herself (homegirl did go to Berklee, after all). Her songs are luminous and exquisitly crafted, characterized by either jarring, exciting spurts of guitar feedback and distortion (“An Actor Out Of Work” and “Marrow” especially) or building, layer by layer and wave upon wave into bottomless sonic structures (the one-two punch of “Party” and “Just the Same But Brand New” do this nicely for me). But she owns them. Just watch her:
Thus, one of the main things I love about Ms. Clark is her assuredness. I wouldn’t fuck with the woman behind “An Actor Out of Work,” no matter her deceptive politesse, would you?
If this album isn’t much of a departure from her debut, I think it might be because she already has a very clear take on who she is as both an artist and as a young woman. It’s evident in her sturdy voice, her steady hand guiding the production, and her direct yet candid, florid lyrics. Even when her lyrics point to a very mid-20s, female sense of doubt and uncertainty (a sense many of us can identify with, I’m sure — listen to “Party,” “Save Me From What I Want”), there’s little doubt that Ms. Clark knows exactly what she wants and will learn more and share with us as she grows older. At 26, she’s already gotten a pretty good start to figuring it out. At 25, I can’t wait to hear more from her.
Annie Clark looks ahead, though slightly off-center
Siegel at CMJ 2008; photo originally taken by Michael Falco for the New York Times
So, Molly Siegel has been on my mind for a while now. When I was conceptualizing this blog, I knew I wanted to talk about her. For those who don’t know, she’s the lead singer of Ponytail, a Baltimore-based experimental pop band. In terms of sound and composition, they aren’t that far off from Deerhoof, a musically adventurous band I got into during my salad days ias a deejay at UT Austin’s KVRX (aka, fall 2002). I’d listened to Ice Cream Spiritual, Ponytail’s first full-length a bit last summer when it first came out. It was okay, but kinda all-over-the-place and I just don’t think I was ready to listen to it. Then I looked on Pitchfork’s year-end lists and the album was selected by Sarah Lipstate of Parts & Labor (who also worked at KVRX) as one of her favorite albums of the year. And, you know, Sarah was always a cool kid, so I thought, hmmm, okay, let’s try this again.
And then shit blew my mind. I went from thinking the single “Celebrate the Body Electric” was kinda okay to a magical place in which I wanted to inhabit. So I played the album and Kamehameha, their first EP, on a loop in anticipation of their attendance at SXSW 2k9. Long story short, their performance at Club de Ville the Saturday that I saw them was one of the best shows I saw during the festival. So great. Damn can they play. And they’re really fun live — they smashed a giraffe piñata and threw candy at the audience. I ripped off a leg for my desk.
But I didn’t just see Siegel on stage. I saw her at the Mirah show (wearing a Ray Lewis Ravens jersey, no less) and also PJ Harvey‘s set as Stubb’s. (Aside: Michael Azerrad, who I saw at both the St. Vincent show at Central Presbyterian and the PJ’s show at Stubbs’ was also at Ponytail’s show. He stood right next to me and took pictures of the piñata. I’m pretty sure my shoes are in some of those shots. If you see a pair of blue Reeboks on the Interwebz, they’re mine). So, I guess I have Siegel’s (and Azerrad’s) taste in music. I’m okay with that. I at least think we could be music geek friends.
But the more I kept thinking about the show, the more entranced I became with Siegel’s performance and style. Anyone who’s listened to Ponytail knows that Siegel’s not one for words, instead usually preferring to coo, grunt, or scream in a sort of automatic language, foregrounded all the more by her spastic, confrontational stage presence. Pitchfork’s Mark Richardson asserted in his review of their first full-length that the stream-of-conscious, pre-verbal stages of childhood was a potential influence on both Siegel’s vocal approach and the band’s musical sensibilities (an approach he aligns with the work of fellow Baltimorean Dan Deacon). While there’s definitely merit to that argument, I think there’s something else going on, perhaps a site through which queer, non-normative girlishness can be accessed.
No, I don’t think we can wrench Siegel’s lesbian identity from her persona or performance style. Nor should we. Nor do I think she’d want to, if her casual references to the Indigo Girls (who were playing the same time as Ponytail when I saw them) are any indication.
I can’t speak for Siegel, but I can’t help but wonder if her sexuality is central to how she views her place in music culture. For one, she’s the only woman in the band, no less a band with a noisy, chaotic approach to music. For another, she is not an instrumentalist in that band and is thus in what many folks conceptualize as an objectified, often feminized position for a band member to occupy. To add to that, she doesn’t fit the standard female body type long adhered to within hipster culture. While short, she is far from gamine — a bit stocky, by no means dainty. Also, she doesn’t outfit herself in youthful, fashionable, traditionally female attire (think Jenny Lewis). Instead, she clomps around in Timberland boots and football jerseys, garments traditionally aligned with masculine dress made frumpy and destabilized by her petite figure.
In short, Siegel’s presence is unquestionably queer, a fact which informs her vocal style. Rather than infantile, as others may suggest, I’d argue that Siegel’s voice is actually quite complex — at times angry, giddy, abuzz with sexual delight, flip, petulant, seething with contempt, or uncertain of either herself or the world around her. In short, she seems to occupy a more complex matrices in which women (masculine women, no less) can claim space for themselves.
