By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
New York-based trio Blonde Redhead possess a similar golden-sheen standing. Although their emotional, ethereal songs sound nothing like the repetitive garage rock of Make-Up, they too have put out records consistently since the mid '90s, and provoke a certain knee-jerk admiration from the college crowd. But while you'll see all the same pasty, trying-to-look-bored, trashing-these-bands-at-home-but-always-coming-to-their-shows kids at both Make-Up and Blonde Redhead venues, the latter coalition sorely lacks the former's levitya quality that renders Make-Up annoying and disarming at once. Addressing their audience as "baby" is silly, yet it has an aim: It's antielitist, a proactive response to mortified-to-move-a-limb indie pratitude. "We pay them," snaggletoothed Svenonius chaffed when Olympia singer and rock critic Lois Maffeo asked how Make-Up get an audience to dance. "You have to convince the punks they have nothing to lose." The effect is less Barry White horndogismor teenage cutieism, à la Britney Spearsand more a real c'mon!-style gesture to get affected dorks to shed their stilted cool.
Make-Up's sixth album, Save Yourself, is cheerfully psychedelic, even swankily sonot in a black-light kind of way, but like garage mood-music laced with well-timed Baptist wailing. For the as yet unconvinced, it illustrates through its obsession with sermon-style call-outs that it's incorrect to lump Make-Up, as often happens, in with bands like Jon Spencer's and the Delta 72, who rely more on blues badassness than a gospel methodology. Standout tracks include the catchy "The Bells" (with Fugazi's Brendan Canty, who produced the album, playing a pulsating vibrachime that makes you want to masturbate in church) and an almost eight-minute "Hey Joe," highlighted by Joe's midsong cell-phone dialogue with his ladyfriend ("Baby I wanna come back home from Mexico. Wanna turn the lights down low. Turn up your stereo. Baby walk those stairs, yeah, going up into your room"). Not since their 1997 live album, Afterdark, have Make-Up been so consistently compelling.
Live, Svenonius's ad-libbing summons the passionate spontaneity of the ready-to-rip '60s New Left. Not to mention Foucault: "Do not think that one has to be sad in order to be militant, even though the thing one is fighting is abominable." Lyrics and liner notes casually make observations about conspiracy theory and shit like that (this has always been part of the shtick, dating back to former Make-Up incarnations Nation of Ulysses and Cupid Car Club); Afterdark had de rigueur FBI and secret files and fatelines. But it also had several manifesto-esque deliveries seemingly detailing, with self-amused acuity, what can be powerful about noncorporate rock. Sounds mawkish? Actually, it's not. In "We Can't Be Contained," amid cat-in-labor ululations, Ian's hot to "build sonic architecture" because "it's the only poor people's defense, it's the only way poor people can live in a world which even approximates the thing that they want." In another track, he disclaims, after fighting the capitalist foe, "Can you dig that? I know that sentiment's just a little bit passé." Maybe so, but in this context it's also fun.
On the other hand, Blonde Redheadwho have toured with Make-Up, and whose new record is coproduced by another member of Fugazi, Guy Picciotohave always struck a decidedly ungoofy note. Their aesthetic feels rarefied, composed, careful, insularhigh modernist, almost. Naming their band after a song by NYC's no-wave DNA, Japanese-born Kazu Makino and Italian twin brothers Amedeo and Simone Pace (who both studied jazz at the Berklee College of Music) write compositions with an uncorny power of effect, stemming from a gorgeous interplay between assonance and dissonance.
Steve Shelley put out some of their earliest work on his Smells Like Records label, and Blonde Redhead have often been compared to Sonic Youth. But their latest release, the unfortunately titled Melody of Certain Damaged Lemons, really does emphatically embrace melody. There's even an unprecedented (and apparently autobiographical) pure pop effort called "This Is Not": "Once she loved a boy. But he did not love her . . . Disillusioned, she tried to forget . . . And then, by chance, she met you and your brother." Blonde Redhead's earlier records each had two or three songs that blew me away with crashing guitars and perfectly timed high-pitched screams, perfect for walking down the street feeling intense unto yourself, but those albums also contained a lot of tuneless arrangements, best suited as background for drunken housecleaning. Damaged Lemons, though, moves in a way the others don'tto the point that Kazu and her bandmates actually dance around in their own apartment to it, she told me.