VANILLA MEANS NEVER HAVING TO SAY YOU’RE
CHANDLER TRAVIS
by Joe Coughlin

There’s so much constantly going on with this guy, there’s barely enough room for his own words here. Conveniently, he was pretty economical with ’em anyway, which is bound to happen when you’re distracted from writing your next boatload of killer songs (and the writer’s dictaphone largely shits the bed). It ended up being fairly accurate to downplay that whole angle anyway, as the volume and quality of it all truly does speak for itself, but all quotes are Chandler’s.

Most, uh, topically, there’s the recent solo disc, After She Left, an unplugged-type thing of quieter stuff, a gently stunning meld of melancholy and chin-up/ feel-good sentiments (review in November ’09 issue). It closes with the gorgeous and heartbreaking “Goodbye,” a tribute to his old pal George Carlin written just after his passing. I pompously asked Chandler to expound on the artistic/ academic differences regarding presentation vs. desired audience perceptions of the solo stuff in contrast to his more barrelhouse methods in the louder settings: “I’d like to do more of ’em.” Well, awrighty, then! There are many such prior solo outings in various formats, including a supremely twisted retardo-romp as the insane character Lippy Blappinklappy (search YouTube for “Bongo’s Summer Cottage”).

But he’s probably best-known (right this sec, anyway) for the relentlessly prolific Chandler Travis Philharmonic (one year saw nearly two dozen live releases with only a few takes of anything repeated among ’em). Often and unfairly labeled as strictly-about-the-zany, the rotating cast of monster players can, and do, perform every kind of music known to humanity, and quite a few that aren’t. Laughter, tears, rump-shakin’ and head-scratchin’ are just a few guarantees at their multicolored blowouts, not to mention train-wreck mashups such as “In-a-Gadda-da-Brown-Eyed-Girl” or, say, some impromptu klezmer/ dirge mutilation of “I’ve Been Workin’ On the Railroad.” They’re finishing up a live-in-the-studio disc, “which has only happened, so far, for the first four cuts of Let’s Have a Pancake!, literally having everyone there and playing together. We’ve got like, seventeen songs.” (Tentative album titles are Blows and James Brown.) Add that to their several overstuffed studio releases alone, and it’s more than most bands produce in two or three times that kinda lifespan.

One of the great things about these records is that the studio takes are often miles from what you’re used to seeing live. For instance, the song “Fluffy” features, in place of the usual instrument solo, a voicemail message left for Chandler by Mr. Carlin, ranting in complete alien gibberish. And it actually works rather nicely. (It should be noted that it was years before I even realized that the song—a fawning paean to its subject’s pearly teeth, gleaming hair, and regular bowel movements—isn’t about a girl, but a dog.) A more recent golden moment was seeing them in New York, where they had the chrome-plated balls to do their song, “Fuck the Yankees Anyway.” Stripped-down versions play smaller venues, and there are duo and trio spinoffs as well. Asked about these more intimate settings, connecting with an audience in that non-party atmosphere, Chandler elaborated, “It’s a fun way to go.” He also wishes to give more serious props to all his cohorts, especially the long-time vets. “I wouldn’t be here without ’em.” I can vouch for that. The fact that so many have made the treks from all over, learning that many songs, for so many years, for standard club pay, speaks volumes for their dedication to the common vision. Being a fan has its perks, too. Stalwart show-goer Fred Boak became their merch guy, and is now an official member as Chandler’s singing “valet.”

“And the next [project] is some kind of a pop album. The working band name is either the Buzzards, or Princess Sally Muffin and, you know, we’re accepting advice.” Members are perennial cohorts Rikki Bates (drums) and Dinty Child (you name it) along with Steve Wood (guitar maniac of the Greenheads). Wood was a partner with Chandler in the short-lived (1992 and ’93) band Lester, a kind of less-bitter Replacements, who made one self-titled disc and played just a handful of shows, the one I saw being as fine a display of lunkhead bar-rock as I’ve ever witnessed. Songs, chops, brains, humor, and attitude galore.

Then there’s the Incredible Casuals, who, between full-lengths, EPs, singles, limited cassette-onlys, and tracks on compilations, have averaged four or five releases per year since 1981. For over 25 of those years, they’ve played the Wellfleet Beachcomber every Sunday for the entire summer season, and this past year sold out virtually every one. Prior to even that was Travis Shook & Club Wow (they’ve used various names), who even appeared on the Johnny Carson show a few times. “One time, Pat Boone was also a guest, and we spotted him at rehearsal and played our rendition of an old weird B-side of his called ‘The Wang Dang Taffy Apple Tango Mambo Cha Cha Cha,’ which caused him to fall on the floor.” The song remains a staple of the Philharmonic’s live set, sung by the increasingly fetching Rikki.

Virtually everything mentioned so far here comes out on the Sonic Trout label. It’s run by Chris Blood, who’s released two sets as the White Prince, wherein he gleefully destroys such dreck as “Let’s Get Physical” and “We Built This City,” backed by the Casuals, who appear as the Brain Bats of Venus (members: Follicle Blocky, Candy Chartreuse, Bib Whiz, and Remedios the Beauty).

There is, of course, a very small amount of cross-pollination, but even if, say, the Philharmonic do a Casuals or Chandler solo number (or any way you mix it around), the versions are entirely retooled into whole other animals, sometimes barely recognizable, but always just as effective in their new approaches. Consider also that each of the acts listed here boasts not just many hundreds of originals between them, but probably just as many obscure covers that are whipped out at whim. (A fave of mine is “Softly in the Night,” by the Cookies, who were Ray Charles’ backup singers.)

You’d think that’d be enough for the average genius to relax and rest on his laurels a bit, but fuck that. He just scored a musical stage play, Boyce & Melinda Peterson’s Investment Strategies for the Post-Money World!, which was held over in Truro (MA), will have opened in Boston by the time you read this, and is booked for a run in Seattle some time after this spring. The Boyce and Melinda characters have become money gurus after failing as musicians. It’s a fake investment seminar set in the year 2020. “The future economy has collapsed entirely, and President Palin has gone into hiding.” It was written by Chandler’s pal Gip Hoppe, who requested numbers parodying country music, Celine Dion, Metallica, Bruce Springsteen, and more. The cast members sing to backing tapes. I was able to hear a demo of sorts, an arresting Prince-like ’80s synth-and-funk-fest called “Stimulus Package.” I had no idea it was Chandler singing on it (let alone a male) until we spoke. If the rest of these decidedly-not-piss-takes are remotely as engaging, the soundtrack is positively screaming for a release of its own. I implored him to pursue this at all costs: “Hm, yeah, well there’s an idea.” Honest to Christ, I don’t think it actually occurred to the guy. His mind was on the next day’s rehearsal and a few thousand other ideas.

Asked about dealing with so many personalities among his various lineups and the according quirks, tastes, and preferences brought to the table: “One of my bands, unfortunately, is a democracy.” Given said avalanche of styles, I resorted to the dreaded “what are your influences?” routine, expecting a glib, toss-off answer, but Chandler didn’t hesitate: “Terry [Adams, of NRBQ]. He’s the best. The best keyboard player in the world, as far as I’m concerned, and an amazing showman.” The two are now in talks about doing an actual 7-inch vinyl single, material as yet undecided, maybe joint compositions, maybe one song each, maybe something else.

Oh, yeah, and that decade-or-so-long-running Cape Cod newspaper column as Thurston Kelp (tons still available online). And there’s probably a lot more I’m forgetting offhand, but there’s scads more info on all this and more here:

www.chandlertravis.com

www.sonictrout.com

PHIL HAYNEN (passed on 11/20/09)

November 21, 2009

It wasn't as if it were a total shock. It was more of a tragic inevitability held at bay by denial and lack of real contact. So, it was merely a vaguely anticipated surprise of bitter sadness. One that had become almost routine in the chain of deaths and grieving that accompanies the loss that we feel for those we have lost daily movement with but have reserved as a matter of course, a place in our hearts. A hero from a time when we were going for it and not just waiting for it.

I last saw Phil at Alpo's wake—a fitting prologue to the tragedy, literally and symbolically to his illness and loss of his voice. I don't usually shed tears for a fallen loved one till months or even years after the fact. But in fitful dreams last night he kept appearing to me. The shock of red hair pressed beneath the cocky scally cap, the tinted aviator glasses in front of eyes so full of life and optimism that I can only think of one word—bravery.

Against the armor plated world of pretension he struck repeated hits with only his bare hands, his inimitable voice and open tuned Gibson SG knockoff. He was the Hank Williams of my personal mythology. It's the wrong time to brag—but I will because it evidences my respect, my love for the guy. I found him in his mother's basement in Lynn hunched over a reel to reel four-track with a butt and a bud and a rag tag repertoire of songs. Later I introduced him to his future bandmates at the Summit Club—Ricky Bobby and Punk—yes dear reader I had a minor role in the inception of the Dawgs. When most of the rest of the scene were miming tepid new wave posings, Phil was playing hardcore rock ’n’ roll written from the heart. Like a musical Hemingway—bulls, blood, booze and broads.

A lot of people recognized his talent but he never got the recognition he deserved.

Recently I was dragged to the movies to see Pirate Radio—a cute little confection that purports to be a tale about the beginnings of modern rock. I was disconcertingly annoyed by its happy go lucky irreverence and cookie cutter rebellion. It was an affront to my personal vanity. As an antidote I conjured up the image of Phil and consoled myself to knowing somebody so real. The moviegoers around me chuckled unknowingly at the saccharine platitudes, and I thought to myself, too late, that I really must give Phil a call.

As the movie ended there was a "sum-uppance" that said something to the effect of, "Pirate radio died in 1966 but the dream lives on"—yeah bought by the Disney channel!

Phil, a real pirate, has died but lives in dreams.

Love you buddy,

Asa Brebner

RAY NEADES by Pete Cassani

There are hundreds of stories about Ray, but he was a way better storyteller than me, and he remembered everything! The way Ray told a story it was always very funny and put you in a good light.

It's summer 1990. My band, the Velcro Peasants, is playing a gig at some club in Northampton that has since closed. I'm drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, but not drinking. There's maybe 30 people in the place and this big, fat, drunk guy (Ray) comes up and starts talking about the Replacements, who I love. He says he can hear an influence, blah, blah, blah, but I'm so stark raving sober that he's pissing me off and I don't want anything to do with him. I give him my card.

This was during the only time we had a manager, who was trying to book us shows. Ray called him a few times, trying to get us on a bill in western MA with some indie bands touring the USA at the time. He told Ray we would need thousands of dollars, a high-quality PA, and God knows what else. Ray gave up. The manager eventually went on a drinking binge and stole money from us. It ended badly. I didn't see Ray again until ten years later at an AA meeting in Cambridge. Though it was tattered and dirty, Ray still had the card I gave him. We were destined to become friends. I just didn't know it in 1990.

Probably the best story I have is when Ray was working at Guitar Center, selling guitars to Berklee kids. A soul-killing job for anyone, but Ray loved guitars, and could talk about them all day long. After a long day trying to sell guitars between constant phones ringing and 10 kids wanking on guitars at the same time, Ray hopped in my Subaru and we drove for three hours, to a gig in Vermont. We're at the gig and playing away. Ray is trying to play Peasants songs, which he doesn't know terribly well, so we start doing covers: Ozzy, Beatles, Stones, Dylan, whatever. It's a long night, but we have a blast.

Now it's 2:30 am and time to go home, and there's a foot of snow on the ground. No big deal, but we're hungry. We stop at a convenience store and get a bunch of snacks for the ride. The dashboard is covered with food as I swerve out of the lot and onto the road. A cruiser laying in wait for closing-time drunks pulls us over.

"Pulled you over for swerving," cop says.

"Sorry Officer. Must've been grabbing a cupcake. Got a long ride ahead, we just stopped for some snacks."

"When was your last drink?"

"July 5, 1989."

"Okay, be careful," cop says.

We drive on laughing. It was the truth. I'd been sober since July of '89. We get stopped by another cop car. I don't remember why, but we didn't get a ticket then either. Ray is amazed that though I drive like a maniac I never get ticketed. We’re almost home, and run out of gas on 93 South, on the Malden/ Medford exit. It's 5:45 am. We push the car to a gas station that doesn't open until 6:00.

We get the gas and head to Brighton, where we both live. Ray has to work at 10:00. Less than a block from home, the car slides on the fresh snow. Life goes into slow motion as my Subaru Legacy sedan plows into a brand new Dodge Neon. The Neon rises into the air upon impact, comes down and crumbles outward before our eyes. The Subaru, still full of momentum, bounces off the Neon and plows into the car parked behind it, a Ford sedan, jamming the wheel well into the wheel. That Ford is not going anywhere. Ray, a svelte 375 lbs., hits his knee on the dashboard. It promptly swells up and he can barely walk. I am unscathed. Getting out, I see my only damage is a bent bumper. I bend it back as best I can. We’re both shocked, exhausted, and lucky to be alive. Ray's weight, together with the snow and my crazy driving, made this accident inevitable. That we were less than a block from home just made it ridiculous but isn't that always the way?

I put my phone number on both cars I destroyed, and drive home around the block. It’s about 7:00 am. I had Ray sit down while I brought him ice for his knee, which was now very swollen. He then tried to call in sick at Guitar Center. Now think about it, Ray hasn't slept in 24 hours, has driven six hours, played a few sets, pushed my car through the snow and had his knee smashed up. So when they insisted he come in, he relented. After dozing a few hours, he went to work. What a fuckin’ trooper!

That day, Steve Hart, a drummer friend of ours, went there to buy sticks. He saw Ray and said hello. Ray, exhausted and hungry, was limping to the back with a pizza. He tripped over an amplifier, and dropped the pizza upside down on the floor. He then got up and said, "That's It! I quit! I'm outta here! I've HAD it!" When Ray got home, he was very worried about bills, rent, everything. I said, "Ray, that job sucked! You'll get a better job. Don't worry about the bills. I'll cover you." And that was just one day in our lives. He lived with me altogether about a year. I miss Ray so much.

MASCARA

by Rick Dumont

Chris Mascara is a real man of genius when it comes to the arts. He’s a student of the psychology of music, a writer of deeply introspective themed rhythmic tapestries, an amazingly talented actor and, oh yeah, he’s also a very accomplished musician and singer.

It is that music, complied into a new album, Fountain of Tears, that will be released in January with a celebratory show at the Middle East upstairs on the 29^th.

“It’s a nice combination of my back catalog and new,” Mascara said during a recent interview.

“But there’s no way to spot what’s old or new,” chimed in bassist Bo Barringer, who is also known throughout the scene for his creative mastery with the Me & Joan Collins band.

For the last three years the two, along with drummer Matt Graber, who also smashes the hi-hat as a Self-Employed Assassin in Sarah Rabdau’s talented backing gang, make up Mascara, are a power trio that immerses themselves into the very core of the human psyche while softening and tearing open the mind to enlighten and usher a whole new realm of thoughts into their listeners.

Fountain, it should be noted, got its title thanks to Federico Garcia Lorca, a Spanish poet and playwright of provocative and risky poems and plays, and also closeted homosexual who was executed in 1936 in a place called Ainadamar, an Arabic word meaning fountain of tears. Ainadamar is also a song on the album.

“I’m deeply moved by iconoclastic, trailblazing tragic artists from the past,” Mascara said. The entire album is a series of vignettes and homages to many artists whose lives were tragically cut short and other stories that simply tell tales of disturbed humans. Like the tragic life of singer Jackie Wilson, known by many as “Mr. Excitement.” The song “B261” is so named for the number on the grave marker that was once Wilson’s only symbol noting where he was laid to rest after his death in 1984. Wilson had lingered in a coma for nine years after suffering a heart attack on stage performing in 1975. He died a relative pauper, thus the grave marker, but Mascara said in the years following his death a proper headstone was erected by fans and music people. Wilson was a pioneer and would call himself the “black Elvis Presley,” while Presley would refer to himself as the “white Jackie Wilson,” Mascara said.

In order to bring the messages and stories to life, Mascara needed some musicians to help. Three years ago he found them. They had been friends for nearly a decade having played together and shared stages along the way, including a stint where both Graber and Mascara sat in with Barringer’s Joan Collins band for a bit a few years back. But it was ostensibly Graber’s return from a two-year life excursion in Tel Aviv that brought him into the fold and completed the triangle.

“I am blessed to have both these guys playing with me,” Mascara said. “They’re my editorial board.”

Mascara writes his songs like others might keep a journal. They are expressions of his feelings, experiences and analysis of what it is to be human, a “daydream journal” if you will.

He brings the material to the guys and they “gang banged it,” arranged it into what ultimately wound up on the album. “There’s a great synergy between the three of us that is just beautiful,” Mascara said.

“We’ve definitely got a good thing going,” Graber said when it comes to playing off each other in the creation of the music.

Part sensitive deeply philosophical romantic, part bluesman, part punk rocker and part madman, Mascara’s writings depict an insight that comes out unlike many of his contemporaries like is heard on the album’s opener “Dragonflies.” In it Mascara pays homage to one of his dear friends, Mary Anne.

“I have tender feelings for this person,” Mascara said. “And I wanted to delve into a deeper plan” to fully explore and express those feelings for her.

Combined with that sensitivity is the backdrop of sound that is far larger, thicker, and more articulate than what might seem possible from a three-piece band.

Also on the album is a song that evolved from Mascara’s very deep and personal struggle with bipolarism several years ago. “Listerine” is a metaphor for what substances many who share in that battle use to try and take the edge off the madness that roils within the mind.

In the song he faces his scars, his demons peering deep into the abyss and exposing himself and the experience for all to sense. Anyone who has ever dealt with the illness will certainly hear the pain and anguish within the heartfelt confession.

Musically, the band added touches of dissonance to “create additional tension,” Mascara said. “It’s the appropriate backdrop.”

Mascara nearly lost it all when preparing for a role onstage as Christ in the Tuft’s University production of Jesus Christ Superstar in the mid ’90s. He described basically torturing himself by not eating or sleeping, among other things until he wound up at McLean Hospital for a month, which also happened to be the place where another of his heroes, Sylvia Plath received treatment.

“I really wanted to become Jesus Christ,” Mascara said. Instead of being able to perform the role, Mascara’s breakdown forced him to miss out, but he did face the demon and began treatment. But he the opportunity to “be” Christ resurrected itself in 2000 when Boston Rock Opera’s traditional Christ, Gary Cherone, decided he wanted to play Judas instead.

“An amazing dream realized,” Mascara said of the fortuitous occurrence.

Though he doesn’t want to be thought of as someone who suffers, that was so 15 years ago, Mascara doesn’t shy away from pouring out his feelings in song or on stage forcing the listener to feel and understand the mind.

“If you confuse people’s expectation it will trigger more synapses to pop in a listener’s head,” Mascara said.

Another of the songs, “High School” is based upon Mascara’s perceptions of his real father’s life growing up in Brooklyn. Mascara was adopted and wrote a song that is as powerful and dark as life on the streets of the Big Apple can be in reality, yet used a minimalist mindset and still paint a vivid word picture.

The song is short, or at least was until Barringer got hold of it. “He wanted to add a “Day in the Life” style of ending,” Mascara said. So what was once a two minute blast of the mind expanded and morphed into a seven minute gurgling primal scream for understanding, thanks to Barringer’s idea for a near never ending cacophony of reverb and Tesla-like static extending out into the blackness of space.

But unlike the Beatles’ coda to “Day in the Life,” the guys urged Mascara to free form over the manic sound. For effect, Mascara said he chugged a quart of milk to get that “guttural thing going on” and went off, improving a series of poetic and maddening bursts of mental anguish that the Effervescing Elephant Syd Barrett would have enjoyed. “Once we got started tracking it, it turned into molten lava,” Mascara said.

Creatively the guys are just getting started to truly tap the resources of Mascara’s mind and their own inner musical madness together. They will continue to play in their other incarnations, including Mascara’s appearances with Ad Frank & the Fast Easy Women, where he plays keys alongside Rabdau.

Will one day the three play a show bringing together the extended family of artists intertwined into one pulsating, sensuous, and ripping glory? Only time will tell.