by Chris Kareska | December 6th, 2011
Photo courtesy of Ben Blackwell
Third Man Records is the brainchild of the revered rock’n’roll phenom Jack White (the White Stripes, the Raconteurs, the Dead Weather). Since transforming the label from an intangible paperwork caveat in Detroit to a studio/performance space/store in Nashville in 2009, Third Man has offered unconventional and inventive vinyl releases from a wide range of artists (Loretta Lynn and Insane Clown Posse have released music with Third Man). The label is especially known for its “Your Turntable’s Not Dead” vinyl preservation ethos and mostly stays true to the garage, blues, and rock’n’roll music that made Jack White the force he is in popular music today.
In this interview, Ben Blackwell, Director of Operations at Third Man Records and blood relative of founder/mastermind Jack White, discusses his history with the White Stripes, the founding of his own label in 2003, and the inner-workings of the elusive and compelling world of Third Man Records, Nashville.
Chris Kareska: Before you worked at Third Man you worked for Italy Records and then started your own label Cass Records. When did you start Cass Records and what was the operation like?
Ben Blackwell: I started Cass Records in January of 2003. I was still living at home with my mother and I was constantly touring with the Dirtbombs. I never really saw the benefit of paying rent where I never got the chance to sleep. So when I was gone my mom would basically cover mail order and things like that. When I was home I was doing mail order and all the other business. It wasn’t a huge undertaking, it was a pretty small operation.
CK: What was it like starting your own label? How did you fund it and decide which artists to sign?
BB: As a music fan it’s the most fun you can have. It’s both liberating and empowering. I was given money by my mother to start the label. She had this reasoning that she had paid for both my brother and my sister to attend university, but I got a full scholarship so she never had to pay any tuition. So she said, ‘I gave them the equivalent of however many dollars for school and you never needed it so I feel it’s only fair if I give you that to start this label.” It was one of the most genuinely sincere things anyone’s ever done for me. From there, I’d been touring enough and been in touch with bands and going out to see shows so finding bands that I wanted to put out was not a problem. Finding bands that would actually follow through and actually put something out — that was the next step. I think I moved at a pretty good pace and the only criteria of releases was music that I wanted to hear — stuff that I liked. Between the releases there’s no real connection to them other than that I think it’s good music.
CK: And Third Man began in 2001, correct?
BB: Well, Third Man kind of existed on paper. When the White Stripes started signing deals with bigger labels, Third Man was created as an entity to just kind of make sure that the band was protected from things like losing ownership of their masters and stuff like that. All those White Stripes releases on V2 and XL, they’re all basically licensed from Third Man Records, but Third Man records only really existed on paper. There wasn’t a physical location, there weren’t offices or anything like that.
CK: When you started Cass Records was there any overlap between what you were doing with Cass and what Jack White was doing with Third Man?
BB: No, because Third Man wasn’t really putting out other artists. Third Man did the first album by the Whirlwind Heat … that might have been 2003 as well. We kind of collaborated on…there was a release by a band in Detroit called the Muldoons and their first LP was kind of a co-release between Third Man and Cass, but it was the Third Man logo on it. “Third Man” covered some of the costs with manufacturing, production — that kind of stuff. But Cass was running the distribution, the mail ordering and everything. If you look at Third Man from 2001-2009 and you remove the White Stripes and the Raconteurs there’s not really much there.
CK: You’re Jack White’s nephew and the official archivist of the White Stripes — could you talk a little bit about your involvement with the band early on? What was touring like?
BB: I was just really young and really excitable — I just wanted to be involved, and like most teenagers, anything you love or believe in you get kind of fanatical about. Everything just kind of lined up. The age when I was in a position to be involved was right when the White Stripes were starting out. It was a lot of putting amps into the back of the van or the car. By the time they got 7-inch records to sell, I was at the merch table selling them. Every step forward they took afforded me a little more responsibility. When they started touring, I took my fair share of driving the van. The drive from Fargo to Missoula is a long one and there’s only two folks in the band — they’ve gotta play the shows so anything I could do was always a help. It was fun, man! I can’t imagine my life without it. I feel like my life would be boring without them. It’s a great way to see the country and it’s a great way to learn about things.
I had done a decent amount of time on the road with the White Stripes before ever really doing a substantial tour with the Dirtbombs. By the time I was doing that I was already fairly accustomed to what to expect. It was just a great learning experience on multiple fronts — how to survive on tour, what you need to know, what you need to look out for, what to avoid — all that kind of stuff. Everything I’ve learned with them has composited itself into stuff that I still use on tour and still use when I’m working here in the office at Third Man.
Our last Vault package was the last live show that the White Stripes ever played. I was there at that show working for them, and playing in the opening band as well. That stuff that I kind of have a connection to. There’s something intangible there that I don’t think you could find if you just hired someone off the street to do my job.
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by Kris Lenz | November 23rd, 2011
Photo by Kris Lenz
Fitz and the Tantrums sold out three shows in four days at the Metro. You’re thinking to yourself, “Who or what is Fitz and the Tantrums” and possibly “Why would the Metro book three nights of a band in four days?” Whoever is in charge of such decisions at Metro can enjoy their job security because there is no doubt the shows are a stunning success. The Metro is sold out; crowds are arriving early and staying late, all kneeling at the altar of Fitz and the Tantrums (“who is Fitz and the Tantrums again?”). I covered this show thinking I’d get a peak at the recent neo-soul revival; instead I stumbled into a massive, underground cult following. People LOVE Fitz and the Tantrums and it’s not difficult to understand why.
You can trace the ascendency of the soul revival to Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black” from 2006, and by relation to DapTone records and the wizardry of Sharon Jones and Dap-Kings. In the past few years a new generation of neo-soul musicians have popped up, including: Jamie Lidell, Eli “Paperboy” Reed and recently Fitz and the Tantrums.
Fitz and the Tantrums are the brainchild of lead singer and songwriter Michael Fitzpatrick. To create the Tantrums, Fitzpatrick added keyboard, drums, bass and horns last and, not least, chanteuse Noelle Scaggs, a lithe beauty who harmonizes perfectly with Fitz’s crooning tenor. The interaction between the two singers is the clincher, with synchronized dance moves, soul-clapping and winning stage banter. Their energy is infectious and the packed house at Metro ate it up.
Photo by Kris Lenz
Fitz and Scaggs lead the band through a tight set of pop-y numbers with that slick, neo-soul vibe. Fitz is the clearly frontman, singing lead and pushing the rhythm section with his quasi-David Byrne hair and dance moves. Yet it is Ms. Scaggs who threatens to steal the show. Where Fitz is dressed nattily but understated in a simple suit and shirt, Scaggs is an ethereal blur as she sings and dances in a golden dress. The band is tight if understated, horns are held down by James King who plays a plethora of saxes, mostly relying on the a thick baritone drone. It’s impressive that with their soul sound they only have one horn player, but you’d never know it from the full sound King coaxes from his sax. The rhythm section is tight, if forgettable, buried at the back of the stage. All eyes, and lights are on the singers.
My only critique is that the Fitz and Tantrums are neo-soul, with an emphasis on the “neo”. Their sound is slick and refined to an extent it loses a bit of the grit that makes classic soul enduring. Even the Daptones rely on vintage instruments and recording equipment to nail their sound. Instead the Tantrums get most of the melody from synthesized keyboards that ape the Hammond or Wurlitzer sound. It’s not exactly artifice; since they aren’t pretending to be anything they’re not. But they certainly aren’t bringing anything new to the table other than polish.
Photo by Kris Lenz
Photo by Kris Lenz
The crowd’s reaction tells the whole story. The venue was packed for this Saturday night show, and it’s safe to assume the same for the Sunday and Tuesday shows as well. The Tantrums have just over an album’s worth of original tunes in their repertoire, all in the classic soul vibe and focused on confusion, sadness and heartbreak, songwriting staples in any genre. With limited original number they filled out their set with two excellent covers: “Steady As She Goes,” originally by Jack White’s The Raconteur’s and the Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This).” Their version of “Steady as She Goes” got a big reaction from the crowd and sounded great in its new life as an upbeat soul anthem
Fitz and the Tantrums closed their set with their biggest hit, “Moneygrabber.” Finally the fans that had been yelling that song’s title throughout the show got the hit they wanted. The crowd’s reaction was ecstatic and Fitz gave the love back exclaiming that they get their best crowds in Chicago. Selling out three nights at a venue the size of the Metro…. I would say yes, they are much loved here in Chicago.
tagged in: Arts & Culture
Save by Elizabeth Cronin | November 21st, 2011
Most of us recognize experimentation as part of the music-making process. We dabble, we jam, we fool around and then we scrape the gunk from off the top and keep the bits we can use. It may not all be golden, but hell, that’s the process. We keep our minds and our ears open. But some of us — scratch that: those special some of us — chuck any aural ability we may have honed over the past four decades and opt to swap the gold for the gunk without sense or shame or a fear of death threats and call it “Lulu.”
Thanks for this clusterfuck of seizure-inducing musical goulash goes to the legendary Lou Reed of The Velvet Underground (still love you) and his heavy metal chums Metallica (still thinking). It’s been said that vanity got in the way of this vanity project, or perhaps it was just straight-up sycophancy on part of the ‘Tallica boys — they just wanted to pay homage to the master. But whatever the delusion reason, these songs remain cruelly and efficiently accessible for partial download at the Lou Reed/Metallica website.
Query: Why name your album after a French bulldog and/or underaged female prostie? Was “Bullshit Fondue” taken?
Still unconvinced? Does the memory of that emo-teenaged rite-of-listening-passage known as “Venus in Furs” prevent you from dismissing what everyone is saying? Or maybe you’re a Metallica fan because (fill in “but I was high on ‘shrooms!” justification here). All right then, let’s examine the first track, “Brandenburg Gate,” and go from there.
Nutshell Analysis: Lou Reed does his best post-menopausal Bob Dylan impression and slithers in solo with a gravely poetic waxing about his dream of “Nosferatu” and entrapment on the “Isle of Dr. Moreau.” Remember, Reed has declared himself the “king of New York avant-rock” so singing about vampires and sociopaths who mutate men into animals and animals into men called Hyena-Swine on a scary island of unknown origins is permissible and/or artistic. Next, Metallica thunders in with the all-too-familiar bad-ass crunch of grinding guitar jams and death-throttle drum beats to create an atmosphere of absolute mayhem, which is really not mayhem at all, because mayhem died with heavy metal in 1987.
Nutshell Conclusion: Not even legends are fail-proof.
There might be a reason to continue to opine on the lows and lows of this musical hybrid of ego and wishful thinking, but let’s leave the intellectual breakdown of “Lulu” to “Loutallica” via their website:
“‘Lulu’ was inspired by German expressionist writer Frank Wedekind’s plays ‘Earth Spirit’ and ‘Pandora’s Box,’ which tell a story of a young abused dancer’s life and relationships and are now collectively known as the ‘Lulu Plays.’ Since their publication in the early 1900s, the plays have been the inspiration for a silent film (‘Pandora’s Box,’ 1929), an opera, and countless other creative endeavors. Originally the lyrics and musical landscape were sketched out by Lou for a theatrical production in Berlin, but after coming together with the ‘Tallica boys for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame concerts in New York in 2009, all guilty parties knew they wanted to make more music together. Lou was inspired enough by that performance to recently ask the band to join him in taking his theatrical ‘Lulu’ piece to the next level, and so starting in early May of this year we were all camped out recording at HQ studios in Northern California, bringing us to today and ten complete songs.”
So there you have it. The guilty parties have spoken. It’s art, baby, A-R-T. A bonafide tribute to German Expressionism and the Rock and Roll Hall of Famously Bad Musical Duos Still Chasing Fame and/or Relevancy. Is there anything left to say? Maybe headlines from some of the metal blogs like “LuLu – Metallica/Lou Reed Project & 30-Second Preview Of Shit” or “Metallica And Lou Reed: Audio Sample Proves This Album Will Be Shit” can provide the 1.5 people who remain uncertain with additional evidence food for thought. Next stop on the musical mish-mash craptacular? Radiohead merges with Lady Gaga forming ‘GagaHead,’ resulting in legions of fans falling pants-less onto the kitchen floor in tears from the fallout of indie-rock ruin, crying “OK!” for their computers.
by Brandon Goei | November 14th, 2011
by Brandon Goei | November 14th, 2011
Photo by Brandon Goei
There’s a prevailing archetype when it comes to rockstars. Chalk it up to nostalgia, but it’s hard to get past the leather-clad machismo of Joey Ramone types or the sexual gravitas of the world’s Debbie Harrys. Something about rock’n'roll refuses to be defined by anything other than that crass and brash humanity, especially with the suicide overdrive of early punk rock. The first few bands at the Empty Bottle on Saturday had it — that attitude is like an invisible but integral member of the band, without which few in this genre would find success.
Photo by Brandon Goei
And then there’s Shonen Knife. Just to be clear, Shonen Knife are a trio of three Japanese women, usually dressed in matching outfits (that night’s selection was a Mondrian-inspired mod dress) and led by guitarist and vocalist Naoko Yamano who has been making punks go “Hey! Ho!” since 1981. Being an Asian man myself, seeing the band’s set was, for all intensive purposes, like watching my sweet, little, accented mother shredding through an hour-long set of power trio punk, complete with an encore comprised solely of Ramones covers. In a word, bizarre — but just as equally magnificent. When you can imagine your mom onstage leading the crowd in a fist-pumping “Gabba Gabba Hey” chant, you know you’re spending your Saturday night doing something right.
About that aforementioned rockstar stereotype: it’s nowhere to be found with this band. But instead of falling too far from the whole punk fantasy, Shonen Knife held their own against the raw ferocity of the songs they were performing. Walking onto the stage, their demeanor was bright and unpretentious, mirroring the self-titled cut-n-paste theme song playing them in. Even as they offered a few heavily-accented greetings and launched into the first song, the smiles never left their faces. The cutesy vibe was palpable, but it didn’t once detract from the thwomping energy put forth by the band’s sparkly instruments.
Photo by Brandon Goei
There’s something to be said about a band like Shonen Knife, who still relies wholly on the honesty and simple power of their music as the message. The crowd at the Bottle that night was certainly receptive of the “pure as the driven snow” musical approach the band took. The idea of cultural exoticism is likely one that haunts Shonen Knife, since many people will likely know the band solely as the all-female Japanese analog to the Ramones rather than by their own merits. But instead of immediately refuting their status as an oddity, they used it as a platform to rock the fuck out. If there were any distasteful sentiments of “otherness” in the crowd, they were obliterated by the third song, when every person from the front line to the bar was throwing the horns at the stage, at the three headbanging little ladies on stage.
As the set closed, we all had no doubt that an encore was to follow — you come to expect things like this after going to a few rock shows. What emerged from that gap between set and encore, however, was of a magnitude that no one could have anticipated. The encore was a solid set of about a half dozen Ramones covers, shredded through with fantastic precision and mosh-pit-inducing intensity. I wasn’t there for the first waves of punk, but I like to think that by experiencing those songs on that night, I found a link to something genuinely similar, but more like punk’s bizarro twin — where shining smiles replace caustic nihilism and the matching outfits are made of floral prints instead of leather. Whatever it was, it shook the house with a force I haven’t seen in years and left an impression on me that won’t be leaving my memory soon, if at all.
Photo by Brandon Goei
Photo by Brandon Goei
Photo by Brandon Goei
by Kris Lenz | November 10th, 2011
Photo by Kris Lenz
The star of the show was a pair of canary yellow socks, traipsing deftly over a span of levers and pedals. To be more accurate, the star was Emil Svanängen, a soft-spoken Swede who performs as Loney Dear. When the bearded Svanängen took the stage, he removed his black leather shoes, placed them to the side and offered the crowd a polite whisper: “Hello, I’m Emil. I make music and I’d like to share this with you.” Then, with a strum of his guitar and a glissando of glowing yellow toe and heel, he set off an evening of mannered, careful and lovely music.
Loney Dear is essentially a one-man band. While that’s not such a rarity in music these days, he may be the smoothest. Anyone who’s seen Andrew Bird knows that he requires a few moments before each song to get his loops going. When Loney Dear does it, the loops seem to arise organically from the progression of the song. If you weren’t watching Svanängen carefully (the way his feet slide across the pedals is impressive, if distracting) you might think he was playing over recorded samples.
Midway through the set, Svanängen whispered into the mic “Now is my favorite part, where we do the singing.” He then picked an F on his guitar and asked the crowd to sing the note. A burly fan next to me rang out in a clear tone, setting an example for the rest of the audience. Surprised, Svanängen exclaimed that our pitch was perfect and began a song where, with a “come hither” wave of his hand, he enjoined the crowd to accompany him with our own lovely F. The swell of music from the audience mingled lightly with Svanängen’s own dulcet tones. The result was a perfectly executed bit participation that brought the crowd deeper into the frosty music.
The song “Calm Down” served both as a quintessential example of the Loney Dear sound and as an artistic statement of purpose. The lyrics simply repeat variations of, “Slow down, there’s nothing after you / Back down, there’s nothing after you.” The tone and grandeur swell slowly as they move toward a crescendo that never arrives. Loney Dear is nothing if not patient, and his porcelain voice seems as though it would soothe even the most desperate of men.
The precious quality of Loney Dear’s sound impelled the audience into impressive levels of silence. Even the near silent whirring and click of my camera sounded deafening in a room slowly filling with Svanängen’s lovely tone. The crowd was patient, contemplative and appreciative, an ideal audience and venue for music of Loney Dear’s quiet and patient nature.
by Brandon Goei | November 4th, 2011
by Brandon Goei | November 4th, 2011
Photo by Brandon Goei
Wednesday night was for dancing at the Empty Bottle. As Omar Souleyman took the stage, it was amazing (but not necessarily surprising) how minimal the set up was: two keyboards, two people, one microphone. Behind both keyboards was Souleyman’s collaborator Mahmoud Harbi, who absent-mindedly twiddled a mystic intro as Souleyman made his way through an eager crowd to the stage. There before me was a short man with a confident stride, clad in a floor-length black didashah, a red and white keffiyeh, dark sunglasses and a glorious mustache. This was the man who brought the party.
I was in the front row, with my back against an undulating crowd of sweaty, dancing teenagers, all letting loose with bright smiles from ear to ear. I could sense the odd dynamic between the crowd and Souleyman. The strangeness was palpable, but it was only the kind of strangeness that comes with dunking your chicken nuggets in honey, or mixing all the sodas at the fountain — weird, but satisfying.
The beat was loud, fast and undeniably infectious. Much credit goes to Souleyman, whose warbling vocals led the house down a path of untethered joy. More credit, however, should go to his bandmate Mahmoud Harbi, who I couldn’t keep my eyes off of for 90 percent of every song. Harbi, armed with two keyboards and a drum pad, managed to whip his hands back and forth between the full range of his setup, creating all entirety of Souleyman’s sonic environment in real time. All of the fugue-like playing you hear on Souleyman’s records — that’s all coming from a single man using a simple sampler and his own two hands. In the low light of the Empty Bottle stage, with one hand on the keys and the other on the pitch knob, Harbi’s hands blurred into a ridiculously virtuosic hot mess, adjusting tone and voice on the fly.
Photo by Brandon Goei
I did, however, get bored.
It makes sense, I suppose. Souleyman’s long-shining star is just now rising. 2007 saw Souleyman’s Western world debut, 2009 and 2010 reviews from Pitchfork saw Souleyman’s albums receiving 7.4 and 7.8 ratings, respectively, and 2011 saw Souleyman performing at Glastonbury and Fun Fun Fun Fest, as well as remixing tracks from Bjork’s newest album.
But that’s only in the last four years. Souleyman and Harbi have been performing since 1994 — at weddings.
I don’t have anything against wedding bands, but I’m not sure how well it translates to live shows (that aren’t dance club-based). With such a minimal setup and a fairly homogenous-sounding set, Souleyman’s night on stage started looking towards a retro, non-ironic, mystical karaoke night. The night was filled with the joys of an active dancefloor, but not necessarily with the treat of an actively engaged act on stage. Sadly, Souleyman’s brand of high-energy dabke, was strong at first as a splash of an contagious new beat for the Empty Bottle, but eventually that novelty faded away.
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