I was a bit uncertain this summer when I went to see the Microphones. As I
climbed the steps to the Wicker Park art studio where the band was to perform,
I couldn't help but wonder how the multi-layered grandiose of songs like "Between
Your Ear and the Other Ear" could possibly translate live. Confounding things
even more was the knowledge that the Microphones isn't really a band at all, but
the result of experiments conducted by Phil Elvrum, one man with a uniquely
twisted take on songwriting and recording.
But no amount of uncertainty could have prepared for what occurred that night.
Dubbed a "paper opera," the evening's performance was, for better or worse,
unlike any other I'd ever attended. Among the highlights:
Elvrum, usually hiding behind a fort made of newspapers and cheap fabrics,
sometimes emerging to make up songs on the spot, often while donning an oversized
cartoon wolf's head, chasing Maricich around the room, stealing audience members'
sodas, and referring to himself only as "Big Bad Death."
Not a single instrument was amplified. Not one song off a single Microphones
album was sung. There was no proper order of acts; the musicians jumped in and
out of one another's sets at will. The performance left two strong impressions
in my mind. One was a strong understanding of the ideals behind Johnson's Dub
Narcotic Studios, which favors community and fooling around over so-called
proper musicianship. The other? The elimination of any doubt in my mind that
Phil Elvrum is one fucking strange individual.
Of course, I intend this as the highest of compliments. Without his mind for the
absurd or his goofball sensibilities, the Microphones would be just another in a
long line of indistinguishable lo-fi bedroom-pop acts. It's Elvrum's ingenuity
that found last year's It Was Hot, We Stayed in the Water a place at the
top of so many critics' lists and so close to the hearts of countless listeners.
An oddity in itself, Blood is a super-limited collection released by a
new vinyl-only imprint called St. Ives, which was opened by Secretly Canadian
to give established artists an outlet for some of their more experimental
projects. Only 300 copies of this record were released, each featuring different
hand-painted covers.
Musically, Blood is like a collection of b-sides to singles that never
existed. Side One is stranger than most Microphones albums (if such a thing is
imaginable) with constantly contrasting recording styles-- it's equal parts sound
collage, demo-collection and noise. There's no tracklist to accompany the album,
so I attempted my own.
1. An arrangement of horns plays a simple melody. Recording is crisp as can be.
The ear can discern every individual horn.
2. Cheap recording of man talking about painful urination. Lots of static and
background noise.
3. Droning organ harmonizes with voices. All sound drops out. Solo voice sings a
cappella, though one gets the feeling that the sound of a silent summer night
behind him or the all-encompassing hiss of the tape recording might be more
important than the song in question.
4. Sound collage. Bits of guitar, droning vocals, shrieking, gongs, heavily
amplified bass guitar, lots of feedback.
5. High-pitched voices hum a simple tune in harmony.
6. Heavy, but melodic feedback looped through delay pedals.
7. Very lo-fi demo recording; vocal, piano and acoustic guitar. One can barely
make out the vocals.
8. See no. 6.
9. Like the vocal exercises that proceed a choir practices. Four notes, in
progression, an ascending melody sung over and over again by an army of voices,
each of which drop in and out at random. At one point, a piano plays a descending
melody in the background.
10. Field recording: birds.
11. Multiple tapes of people talking, all running at once.
12. A quick, ska-flavored song, with adorable female vocals and multiple horns
against a backdrop of organ and drums. "If you were a mountaintop/ I'd keep
ascending/ Never stop/ If you were some kind of store/ I'd buy you out/ And wait
for more." Probably the album's finest moment. My personal favorite at least.
13. More sound collage, acoustic guitars, organs, and feedback cut-up and pasted
together. Neat.
14. Begins as a horn interlude. At some point, acoustic guitars join in and
calming tones give way to distinct melody that builds and builds.
15. A cappella demo of The Glow, Pt. 2's "Map." Nasty recording,
apparently done outdoors. At times, the sound of rustling wind overtakes the
vocals.
16. Voices and wind cut out completely, but the dark, heavy-handed piano and
tightly kept drum-march that end "Map" continue. The recording quality is now
superb. As per the original, sonic noise bleeds in from the side. Eventually,
it becomes the only thing you can hear.
Taken as a whole, Blood's first side is every bit as engaging as the
Microphone's more proper recordings. Its eclecticism works to its advantage,
creating a thoroughly fascinating sonic journey through Elvrum's gleefully
twisted mind.
Unfortunately, Side Two is far less interesting, comprised mostly of lo-fi demos
of "The Mansion," "I Felt My Size," "The Gleam, Pt. 2," and "Samurai Sword."
Though the songs stand up in acoustic form, they fail to hold a candle to the
complete versions on The Glow, Pt. 2. Placed one after another, they come
across as frivolous and somewhat unnecessary.
Still, Blood closes on a strong point, with a lo-fi impromptu cover of
Björk's "All Is Full of Love," spliced with a hi-fi recording of Elvrum at the
drums, followed by strings and percussion that escalates into the now-trademark
Microphones wash of noise.
The unnecessary string of demos and the small pressing will likely garner
Blood non-essential status in the minds of many. Too bad, because most of
the album sees Elvrum indulging his inner weirdo even more than usual. The result
is his most eclectic recording yet, one which, at its best moments, absolutely
stands up to the "real" Microphones albums.
More importantly, it stands as a testament to the relaxed nature of the musical
process curated by Calvin Johnson and utilized by Elvrum-- one which prioritizes
having fun and nourishing the creative instinct, with the music itself almost an
afterthought. It's a reminder of an idyllic, nondescript time in music history
when rules didn't exist, recording was a forbidden word, music was made for
music's sake, and no one had to be reminded of the energy that could come from
such freedom.
-David M. Pecoraro, November 12th, 2001