Wolfie
Tall Dark Hill
[March]
Rating: 2.1
After Flickerstick pulled a thrilling, narrow victory for the title of VH1's
"Bands on the Run" series, the dudes, as they would tend to call themselves,
ignited their van and set off to conquer the world through a set of gigs at
overpriced theme bars and restaurants. The highlight of the Planet Hollywood
show in Cleveland was certainly the all-you-can-eat bin of Bruce Willis's
Cap'n Crunch-breaded chicken fingers. Though, another outstanding moment
came when one of the ladies from "V.I.P." kissed the guitarist on the lips
at the Harley Davidson Café in Phoenix. The bassist even scored some oral
sex in Portland, but later realized that sucking off the chef for free
Rainforest Reubens isn't exactly Vince Neil behavior. So this was the rock
and roll life, they thought.
Flickerstick played with some really great upcoming bands on this tour. Dis
Aster Master, Konstrunktion, Hot Molly, No Soup for U, and Gearbox all
influenced the guys to no end, and you can bet bits of their sound will rub
off. But audience members at the House of Blues show in Chicago, mostly
there for the free admission and Blind Lemon Jefferson Key Lime Pie, couldn't
help but wonder: who was this spunky mop-top band opening for Flickerstick?
And why were they so brutally awful?
Wolfie. With the title of their 1999 sophomore album (notable only for sort
of having the same cover as Travis' The Invisible Band), Wolfie asked,
"Where's Wolfie?" Tall Dark Hill, the follow up, answers with a
resounding "over there." On the opening track, Joe Ziemba, singer and writer
of such tunes as "Little Bee Is Dancin'," announces in a nasally whimper,
"After years of struggling, I finally believe in myself." Hey, if opening
for Flickerstick fulfills you, godspeed. It's your career zenith.
This third album sees Wolfie flirting with heavier 70's textures. But as the
band blindly stumbles into more conventional realms (in that the songs no
longer sound recorded by infants in a sock), the more pathetic they seem.
"Everybody Knows How to Cry" blatantly, criminally, shamelessly borrows Marc
Bolan's Slider boogie, but ends up more closely approximating the
cartoon-rock of Bolan's Saturday morning "Marc!" show. Even worse, Wolfie
evokes Led Zeppelin on "You Are a Woman." You're better off watching Jason
Lee lip-synch "Fever Dog." Of course, any attempt by Wolfie to improve
should be commended, but even after three albums, they've still only got the
reach of a Thalidomide baby.
Godforsaken musicianship imbued Awful Mess Mystery, Wolfie's debut,
with near-haphazard art-rock style, to which its title intentionally nods.
Their complete lack of talent brought the sound closer to U.S. Maple than
the Zombies comparison so often flung around in their press releases. The
songwriting eventually turned melodic by simple means of not being atonal.
On Tall Dark Hill, Ziemba runs his pipes up and down standard scales,
jumps the standard octaves, and ooh's the standard aah's when he feels like
it, but this should never be mistaken for actual pop skill. Melody oozes
from every jingle, elevator, bird, radio, and whistling business man. We're
cocooned by melody. Why should lowest-rung mimicry be commended? Harmony
is the easiest of sounds for the human animal to successfully exude. Anyone
can hum. It's the unexpected notes that measure talent. At the very least,
surround yourself with people who can play their instruments; drummer RJ
Porter propels "Living Island Is Real" with cowbell and kiddie-pool cymbal
splashes, but handles the traps like he's playing with his feet.
Modern twee bands oddly pay homage to the 60's by approximating the bubblegum
bands. It's not the Kinks, Beatles, and Zombies these kids are after; it's
the Ohio Express, 1920 Fruit Gum Company, the Archies, and whatever other
names Kasenetz and Katz wrote under. That's all well and fine. I won't
start a debate on the merits of crafted, commercial pop. But where these
twee bands lose the path is in forgetting that those songs were recorded by
accomplished session players, in posh studios, with teams of professional
writers. What's the point in hearing three college kids from rural Illinois
hack away their very own "Sugar Sugar?" If you want bubblegum, you toss a
stick of Wrigley's in your mouth, not some sap-ball your retarded cousin
pulled off an acacia tree.
Whenever Amanda Lyons opens her mouth, the songs drastically veer towards
early That Dog material. These days, That Dog might be working at Hot Dog
on a Stick, as one of their videos depicted. And those girls were the
daughters of producer Lenny Waronker, and jazz legend Charlie Haden, one of
the most skilled musicians of the 20th century. Genetics have a funny way
of working. But the gods have an even greater sense of humor. If Awful
Mess Mystery was the joke, the aspirations of Tall Dark Hill can
only be the punchline.
-Brent DiCrescenzo