As clarions go, the opening riff of “Sleepy Silver Door” is as much a call to the converted as it is a call to convert. The lead track of Dead Meadow‘s 2000 self-titled debut, released by Joe Lally of Fugazi‘s Tolotta Records, has become a staple of the then-Washington D.C./now-L.A. outfit’s live work, and it was apparently enough in their heads that it received a reprise on their fourth album, Feathers, in 2005. It is a landmark riff, languid in rhythm, fuzzed to the nines and in a matter of seconds, it tells you much of what you need to know about the band.

As the microgenre of stoner rock was beginning to shape itself in the wake of Sleep and Kyuss‘ demise, the advent of Queens of the Stone Age and rise of Nebula and Fu Manchu out west (let alone what was happening in Europe or South America at the time), Dead Meadow managed to outdo the vast majority of their West Coast counterparts in terms of crafting a sound that was both mellow and heavy, and with Jason Simon‘s floating voice over the proceedings, they were as much shoegaze as psychedelic rock, as much indie as stoner. They made Dead Meadow in their practice space, and for the sounds they were making, anywhere else wouldn’t have worked the same.

There are few who can roll a groove as they do, and “Sleepy Silver Door” demonstrates that in its first minute as it moves into that willfully repetitive note of the verse. There are twists and turns to be had, but that root is always there, and with Steve Kille‘s bass and Mark Laughlin‘s popping snare and dirty hi-hat, the jammy feel is resonant but still so righteously heavy as the track takes off into its solo — long, jammed, eventually falling apart because who cares anyway man. “Indian Bones” picks up at a more immediate run and answers some of the opener’s repetition, but is more active and freak-crashes in its second half for a minute before getting its head back together, a formative janga-janga riff that’s still mellow with the push behind it.

The beginning pair make up about 14 minutes of the album’s total 44-minute runtime, so a not insignificant portion — “Sleepy Silver Door” is 7:31, and the only longer track is side B’s “Beyond the Fields We Know,” at 9:31 — but the dreamy, drifting vibe of “Dragonfly” that follows is a pointed chill kept together by the drums, like the sunshiniest of grunge but distinct in its purpose from what the ’90s had on offer a few years before, even at its most psychedelic. The bass, the drums. It’s a heavy tune, and fades out on a march to “Lady,” which rounds out the record’s first half like the reason wah pedals were invented. 

Seriously, it’s dizzying. Eventually the track evens out, such as it is, and shuffles a bit in its second half, but the earlier stretch still comes across like the bastard son “Electric Funeral” never knew it had. In comparison, “GreenSky GreenLake” is positively clear-eyed, opening with a stretch of quiet guitar before unveiling its Hendrix-at-wrong-(or-right?)-RPM central figure, pausing before the bass and drums enter, keeping an exploratory feel as it plays out in linear, instrumentalist fashion. I don’t know if we’re ending up underwater or out in space there — what planet that lake is on, etc. — but I remain ready to submit a resume to work for their tourism board.

On the sundry vinyl editions that have shown up over the years — Planaria Records in 2001, the band’s own Xemu Records in 2013 and 2015, and so on — “GreenSky GreenLake” opens the second side, and on whatever format, it’s all the more notable for leading into the utter hypnosis that is “Beyond the Fields We Know,” which even 21 years later feels like someone did to time what Mad Alchemy does to lightshows. Loose enough to make “Sleepy Silver Door” sound like punk rock. And they, they get it going with the tambourine and the push and all that, but by the time they’re five minutes in and you’re hanging out there with Kille‘s bassline for company before Simon‘s guitar comes back and you’re wondering like what the hell happened I thought we were cool, it’s Dead Meadow‘s go-wherever jam getting one over again, because where they’re headed is back to the verse — a masterful turn that contradicts earlier departures from structure and reinforces the craft underlying all of the album’s songwriting elements. Maybe there has been a plan all along.

Like the shorter pairing of “Dragonfly” and “Lady,” on side A, Dead Meadow rounds out with “At the Edge of the Wood” and “Rocky Mountain High,” the former three and a half minutes of unashamed acid folk, acoustic strum and voice put to tape with a spirit that, if it wasn’t done live, is as much of an approximation of same as one could ask it to be, and the latter just over four minutes of tambourine-laced wah victory lapping, pushing vocals below weightier fuzz and pitting roll against boogie until the wash of melodic tonality takes us all into the wormhole off to who knows where. Find me a more fitting end to this record, I dare you.

In the context of when it came out — now some 21 years ago — Dead Meadow‘s Dead Meadow offered something different from much of the heavy rock of its time, and it, as well as 2001’s Howls From the Hills and 2003’s Shivering King and Others are essential documents of stand-apart turn of the century heavy. The band of course continue to deliver. They’ve got a new release coming out through PostWax, and their latest album was 2018’s The Nothing They Need (review here), a win to be sure, even as Simon has split time with solo work and other projects like Old Mexico. With steady reissues along the way — CD and tape in addition the vinyl already noted — Dead Meadow remains that relevant clarion it started as being, and maybe it ultimately feels so timeless because it is.

As always, I hope you enjoy. Thanks for reading.

—

Rough week with the kid home from school and still healing in the leg culminated yesterday with me getting pissed off and throwing a Lightning McQueen toy. The Pecan was adamant that I didn’t put his shorts on — yet he won’t go nap without them — and mommy do it mommy do it and I’d said I was doing it and so I was on the hook and when I put them on him he scratched and hit and kicked and even bit me which he hadn’t done in a while and then when he ran over to The Patient Mrs. after and pulled his shorts back off, I just lost it. Threw the toy, scared the kid, got his shorts back on and sent him upstairs to nap where he was consoled by his mother for 40 minutes before being left to go to sleep under his blanket. The dynamic in this house sucks right now and I think we all know it.

He and The Patient Mrs. are going to Connecticut for tonight and maybe part of tomorrow. I think I’m staying home to try and catch my head. Honestly, I’m hoping for a carbon monoxide leak or something like that so I can maybe just kind of pass out on the couch and not wake up and everyone can move forward for the better. Probably with a new couch.

I’m doing my best and it’s just not good enough. Ever. For anyone. Oh, and then DYFS or whatever they’re called now came back to the house to close out the case they opened because it was his second fracture in so short a time and I had to cancel the Monster Magnet interview I’d slated because I didn’t know when the case worker was coming. She showed up later anyhow. What a fucking trench of an existence this is.

He’s home next week too then starts camp. I took a xanax this morning and hope to spend as much of today as possible in bed. Make myself a protein shake and try to chill the fuck out. He has a follow-up x-ray at 9:15 on the leg. Still limps a bit, but is out of the boot. We see the orthopedist on Monday. I don’t know anything.

Fuck it. He’s up so I’m out. New Gimme show today at 5. You’re not gonna listen. It’s okay, I get it. Don’t feel bad. The world is not short on internet radio. But I feel obliged to give a plug because the Gimme crew is very tolerant of me.

And thanks if you’ve bought merch. More coming.

Great and safe weekend. Drink water. Wear a helmet. All that shit. Next week, more.

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Perennial in a way few albums are, Spirit Caravan‘s Jug Fulla Sun was first issued by Tolotta Records in 1999. The same label, owned by Fugazi‘s Joe Lally, had released the debut 7″ from Shine in 1997, which was the band that would become Spirit Caravan — guitarist/vocalist Scott “Wino” Weinrich, bassist Dave Sherman and drummer Gary Isom. Shine came together after Weinrich‘s time in The Obsessed ended following 1994’s The Church Within, and while of course there were carryover elements in tone and songwriting approach, Jug Fulla Sun retains an identity of its own because of the players involved and because of the spirit of the material itself.

Did ever a Maryland doom rhythm section sound so sleek as Isom and Sherman on do here on “Cosmic Artifact?” And “Powertime,” just a couple tracks later, is the quintessential MD doom riff, with the kind of crunch one could hear not only from The Obsessed, but also in acts like Iron Man, Unorthodox, Internal Void, and so on. 22 years after the fact, there are still bands doing that thing. What continues to separate Spirit Caravan from the bunch is the worship-worthy tone captured in the recording by Chris Kozlowski and the warmth of the album overall.

Someone asks you the difference between doom and heavy rock. You could put on The Obsessed and Spirit Caravan to illustrate it. There are times where the line is fine, but even in “Courage” or the biker-rock-chugging “Chaw,” there’s a bounce to Spirit Caravan‘s groove that is, for me at least, pivotal in making Jug Fulla Sun the classic it is. And even the title is a positive image. A jug full of sun. Well, there are storms on the sun sometimes and yes, it’s a giant ball of turbulent atomic reaction that one day will swell to such a size as to obliterate the earth, but it’s also the reason there’s any life in this planetary system at all. And the jug is full. It’s not half-full, or half-empty. It’s a spirit of positivity, and even “Melancholy Grey” picks up its tempo in its second half to get on board.

There are examples more through the earlier tracks than later, perhaps, but in looking to the lyrics for an example of Jug Fulla Sun‘s overarching point of view and what makes it so special, the title-cut might say it best:

Say, hey! How you feelin’ now?
Have you come alive?
The golden rays of day will be clearin’ out
All your poison jive
It won’t be long before we’re all put to the test
To praise with song
Creation’s life we’re blessed

It’s not about blinding yourself to reality, but being willing to change the shape of the reality you see. “Dead Love/Jug Fulla Sun,” at eight minutes, is the longest inclusion on Spirit Caravan‘s first LP, with a mellower unfolding in its initial stretch that leads to dead-on roll in the verses and the opening to that chorus above, singularly memorable as it is, and it’s followed by “Fang,” the chug and howl of which is immediately more severe, and which brings Sherman to the fore on vocals. “Prince of evil — that’s right” atop pure Sabbath lumbering, loyal to that first chug and plodding despite an ultimately middling pace.

“Fang” is the centerpiece of the CD, with six songs on either side, and a standout in marking a turning point to the second half of the record, with “Chaw” picking up instrumentally as a kind of intro to the rest of what follows, quick at just two minutes long, but “Melancholy Grey” answers with a moodier first half and it’s not until the solo section near the end that it seems to come out of it. That’s still in time for “Sea Legs” to answer the bikerism of “Chaw” in its lyrics — that is to say, in actually be about riding; “I’ve got a two-wheeled sled of molten chrome/A well done iguana and a real heavy gnome,” etc., the iguana and gnome being references by Wino to Isom and Sherman, respectively — and for the punker blast of “Kill Ugly Naked,” originally by The Obsessed.

That song dates back at least to The Obsessed‘s 1985 demo, but is a fit nonetheless with what surrounds owing to the richness of its tonality. By the time it gives way to the penultimate “Lost Sun Dance,” that richness becomes lush and methodically grooved, a highlight buried down near the end of the 13-track progression, but welcome just the same ahead of the acoustic intro to “No Hope Goat Farm,” which continues to flesh out layered in among the familiar fuzz in the otherwise unassuming, leave-’em-wanting-more finish, backed by a few seconds of silence not unlike those that preceded the entry of “Healing Tongue” back at the outset.

At 54 minutes, it’s fair to call Jug Fulla Sun a relic of the CD era. When Exile on Mainstream did a 15th anniversary vinyl issue in 2014, it was three-sided, so yeah. But, in light of the fact that this, the subsequent 1999 Dreamwheel EP (discussed here), 2001’s Elusive Truth and the 2002 So Mortal Be single were all the band put out in their time — MeteorCity‘s 2003 compilation, The Last Embrace, put it all together nicely — I’m more inclined to be grateful that the disc is packed than I am to think of it as a slog. The quality of the material helps there too.

Spirit Caravan were briefly revived in the middle of the last decade and I was fortunate enough to see them in 2015. That lineup, with Weinrich, Sherman and drummer Brian Costantino, would rebrand as The Obsessed for a time before bringing in bassist Reid Raley in place of Sherman, who by then was fronting Weed is Weed in addition to Earthride and who last year made a right on debut with Galactic Cross‘ self-titled LP (review here). The Obsessed, meanwhile, released Sacred (review here) on Relapse in 2017, and have continued to tour regularly, up to and including the co-headlining dates with The Skull that were announced yesterday. How’s that for timing?

Maybe their unsustainability is part of what makes Spirit Caravan so special, among the Wino oeuvre and otherwise. It’s a hard universe to live in and hard not to feel beaten down by it, but every now and again, the jug feels full.

This is must-have summer listening for me. As always, I hope you enjoy.

Thanks for reading.

—

I was done with this week by Tuesday. Not in terms of productivity — it’s Friday morning and I’m still writing — but emotionally, existentially done. The rest of it has been little more than slog through mediocre Crock Pot chicken leftovers and do-what-you-can parenting. We got two afternoon naps this week, which was something, though it only emphasized how much The Pecan is still healing. Still mostly in the boot. The orthopedist said on Monday to ween him off over the course of this week, so that’s what we’ve been doing. Still on for school, speech, etc.

Stress. The Patient Mrs. bought some THC gummies. They have sugar in them so I won’t have any, but I do feel like I’m missing out in that. Xanax instead isn’t exactly slumming it, when I feel the need. Yesterday, for example.

Laundry to do.

I don’t know what’s up for this weekend. I’m keeping it in the back of my head to maybe go to Connecticut tomorrow to see The Patient Mrs.’ family and come back in the afternoon to be here for Sunday morning, but honestly I’m so beat that all I really want to do is go to bed. Doing that won’t eat up the day in the same way, and it’ll never happen, but ideally I’d be in bed for like a week or 10 and then at some point emerge a new person. Probably with atrophied legs, but all the spirit in the world.

The Patient Mrs. and I were on the couch the other day and I had a good eating disorder joke. The Pecan was holding in his poop, had been for days, because he doesn’t want to go in his diaper but is still to scared to drop it in the toilet (we’ll get there, but we’re not there yet). Of course he was wailing about it, because that kind of thing gets uncomfortable after a while — like five minutes — and I said to her, “I never would’ve thought that bulimia wouldn’t be the most dramatic thing about shit in my life.” She laughed. It was probably my best line of the week.

He had a decent morning this morning before we sent him off to school. Hopefully he gives them an easy time there as well. Everyone’s tired.

Raising a kid is easily the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I worked hard at jobs, from retail through magazines through corporate. But this is a different level of investment in purpose. It’s everything. It’s up, it’s down, it’s all around in between, and you feel all of it. There’s no way to disconnect, to shut down the computer and go home. Work/life balance? Fuck you. Most days I get about 45 minutes a day watching Star Trek and even after that I usually run the dishwasher before going to bed so I can empty it in the morning. And the kid is not easy. He’s just not. This morning was like a gift. He’s been fighting me on everything. As soon as The Patient Mrs. comes in the room, he’s up her ass and any attempt to get him to do anything is countered by “mommy do it” or “daddy leave.” He won’t even sit on the toilet for me. I’m in the next room telling him good job while the two of them are in there sharing M&Ms. My experience as a father in a nutshell, or at very least a candy one that, contrary to marketing, indeed melts in your hands.

It’s been a rough few weeks. Months. I don’t see it getting easier anytime soon. I look at my nephews, who are 13, 10 and nine, and I know it’s only going to be harder. To think there will come a time when I’ll look back on his fractured skull and his broken leg and be like, “Ah, simpler days.” And at the end of it, what? Me dead? I don’t get it.

Absolute best case scenario for me as a parent is that I’m still the source of his emotional baggage for his entire life. That’s just a result of my own infertility, let alone anything I might actually have control over, like teaching him how to cope with or express emotions, which, frankly, he might as well go live in the woods and try to learn from the squirrels. More likely, I’m someone’s asshole dad. He’ll go and tell stories about his crazy shithead father and blow me off and that’ll be my life and that’s what I get because somewhere in me is some trauma and self-loathing that I’ve never gotten past and I’m accordingly a broken wreck of a person. Failure is the best I can do.

Then I do this shit on top of that, and for what exactly?

So yes, if you’d like to invest in my sugar-free cannabis edibles company, hit me up.

Maybe I could make weed-infused nut-butter while I’m at it.

On the other side of things, I heard four records this week — Delving, Lammping, Judas Knife and one I can’t talk about yet — that will be on my year-end list, and since “does music still sound good?” is my metric for life being worthwhile, I guess it must still be.

And I’m going to review the Colour Haze Los Sounds de Krauts reissue on Monday as an act of self-care. Sometimes you need that.

New Gimme show today at 5PM. Takk for listening if you do. https://gimmemetal.com

You go ahead and have yourself a great and safe weekend. Thanks for letting me rant. Have fun, watch your head, hydrate, enjoy the weather if it’s nice.

And thanks too if you’ve bought or are planning to buy Obelisk merch. That shit helps me keep my head up, for real. Validation beyond the couple bucks per item. So thanks.

FRM.

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Dead Meadow, Howls from the Hills (2001)

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but it’s really, really, unbelievably hot out. I know out in the CA desert it’s like 115 degrees or some shit and here in New Jersey it’s only 95, but still, that’s about 30 degrees too much. My brains have melted and dripped down the back of my throat, post-nasal style. So long brains.

In an effort to recover what’s left of my liquified conscious, I’ve hunkered down with the A/C on and some Dead Meadow, whose 2001 outing, Howls from the Hills, stands among the most humid albums I own. It’s a classic of the form, and while the skies around here aren’t lacking for haze, sometimes you have to fight fire with fire. Also with freon.

If you’re in the States, I hope you enjoyed the holiday yesterday. The Patient Mrs. and I did the family-BBQ thing and got some quality time in before the impending move to Massachusetts at the end of this month. Gearing up for that. Will probably need a day or two when it hits, but we’ll see how it goes. Can’t really be like, “Hey baby, I know we need to buy a bed and a refrigerator, but these obscure European heavy psych reissues aren’t gonna review themselves,” and expect anything other than a punch and that you’re-an-ass-and-you-know-it face I get sometimes. Any service interruption will come with due notification.

Not to plug it too hard, but Slevin added a mod yesterday to the forum that you can tag users now. If you want to address someone directly, just put their name in and it will send a message that they can link through to the post itself. It’s basic Thee Facebooks-type stuff, but I’m hoping people at least make good use of it to get some conversations going. Or at least just letting Arzgarth know when he’s being made fun of.

Speaking of Thee Facebooks, I put out the question earlier today of maybe starting up doing podcasts again. It’s going to be a while feeling out the adjustment of living and working in a new place — it’ll be the same place, so that might help a bit — but if I think I’ll be able to pull it off and not have it totally suck, I’ll do my best to put it together with the idea of keeping it simple and fun.

But that’s a little while off. Next week, reviews of Across Tundras and the new Egypt/Wo Fat split vinyl. If I can bring myself to leave the house tomorrow evening, I want to check out Naam at the Webster Hall Studio as they kick off a six-week US tour. Should I wind up there, I’ll review Monday. Either way, good times to come, so stay tuned.

Until then, a great and safe weekend to you.

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About a year ago, I asked former Earthride/Weed is Weed frontman and former Spirit Caravan bassist Dave Sherman to list out his five favorite Spirit Caravan tracks for a special Wino Wednesday post. He did not disappoint, and included in his list was “Sea Legs” from 1999’s classic Jug Fulla Sun debut full-length. Sherman noted in his pick that in the lyrics, Wino was talking about him and drummer Gary Isom with the line, “A well done iguana and a real heavy gnome.”

The line has stuck with me ever since, one of those things that floats in the head and comes and goes, so I decided for this week’s Wino Wednesday to grab a clip of Spirit Caravan doing “Sea Legs” and focus on the lyrics to the song. I didn’t type these out myself, but as you can see, that above quote is far from the only golden line in here. Between the talk of magic crafts and sacred trees, the “two-wheeled sled of molten chrome” and escaping the deluge, it comes through loud and clear that Wino took his motorcycle pretty seriously at the time. Right on.

Here are the words:

Sea Legs
From the warm unknown into the cold beyond
Message of spirit is what’s drivin’ me on
Climbing through the sea
On a magic craft from a sacred tree
Sea legs, earthfin
Bolt and hammer gonna do them in
I’ve got a two-wheeled sled of molten chrome
A well done iguana and a real heavy gnome
Gliding over fear, the opposite of beyond is here
From the paradise driven
To escape the deluge
Revealed the mysteries given
In exchange for refuge
Climbing through the sea
In my side car rides my Atlantean queen
Trick it out!

And here’s Wino, Sherman and Isom performing “Sea Legs” live in Cleveland, Ohio, an astounding 13 years ago. Have a great Wino Wednesday:

Spirit Caravan, “Sea Legs” Live in Cleveland, OH, 2000

Among the quintessential songs from the Spirit Caravan era, “Lost Sun Dance” appeared first on the band’s original self-titled 7″ when they were still known as Shine. That version also appears on the excellent two-disc MeteorCity compilation, The Last Embrace, but this one was re-recorded by Spirit Caravan for their 1999 full-length debut, Jug Fulla Sun, released by Joe Lally of Fugazi on his Tolotta Records imprint.

I could probably post each track from Jug Fulla Sun individually and call it “quintessential” — and, let’s be honest, I probably will as the Wednesdays go on — but what stands out most about “Lost Sun Dance” to me is the balance it hits between tonal warmth and a kind of colder exterior. That contrast has become a key element in the ongoing development of Wino‘s blues, and the stomp here of Dave Sherman‘s bass and Gary Isom‘s drumming underscores how special this band really was in their day.

Man, I swear to Robot Jeebus that solo is talking.

Happy Wino Wednesday: