Stahv Announce Electric Youth Covers LP Out March 11; Premiere “Electric Ocean” & “Memphis Hip Shake”
On March 11, Seattle-based experimentalist Stahv will release Electric Youth, a rare whole-album covers album, taking on The Cult‘s Electric, originally issued in 1987. In the hands of Stahv‘s Solomon Arye Rosenschein, the work of Ian Astbury and Billy Duffy becomes the stuff of adventurous and occasionally weighted solo explorations. Songs range from acid desert folk “Aphrodesiac Jacket” to bedroom indie pop on “Love Removal Machine” to the fuzz ‘n’ crash treatment given to “Electric Ocean” and “Memphis Hip Shake” (both premiering below), to Mars Bonfire‘s “Born to Be Wild,” which gets the New Wave synth treatment it’s always secretly wanted.
You gotta really like a record to cover it in full, and more to release those covers to the public, so kudos to Rosenschein on literally and figuratively sharing the love. You can hear the premieres of “Electric Ocean” and “Memphis Hip Shake” below, and while they obviously don’t speak for everything on a record that seems to jump aesthetics as easily as it jumps from one track to the next — re-proving the universal application of quality songcraft — they do certainly represent Electric Youth in being both a good time and a sincere expression of what Rosenschein refers to as his “lifelong infatuation” with the subject matter.
Enjoy:
STAHV on Electric Youth:
Tags: Electric Youth, Seattle, Stahv, Stahv Electric Youth, WashingtonIt was 1987 when I discovered Electric by The Cult album in the vinyl section of the local library. The cover had gothic gargoyles, Ian Astbury’s raven locks, and Billy Duffy’s bone-white pompadour. My 11-year-old self was instantly bewitched. I brought it home, put it on the turntable, and began a lifelong infatuation with the record.
Sure, I recognized the touchstones like AC/DC and Zeppelin and the Stones from Bay Area rock radio. (Rest in peace, 98.5 KOME.) The Cult was a different animal—earthier and more ethereal at the same time. The unhinged vibrato-laced vocals and gratuitous pentatonic soloing transfixed that young man. “Wild Flower” into “Peace Dog,” “Electric Ocean” into “Bad Fun.” It was all too much fun. So, I flipped the album over it on and jumped off the couch to the sped-up finale of “Love Removal Machine.” Electric culminated with the stop-start showstopper “Memphis Hip Shake.” A fresh Cult member caught his breath.
After Electric, I went back and discovered Dreamtime, Love, and even Death Cult. I moved forward with the band and entered their Sonic Temple, joined their Ceremony. Still, Electric never left my bones. It was my first exposure to the group. I didn’t know some fans considered the album’s classic rock about-face a betrayal. They debated the fact that they hired hipster sonic savant Rick Rubin after attempting a version closer to their prior incarnation. Whatever. To me, it was absolute perfection.
My ensuing years as a musician, led me through many stylistic investigations: doom metal, southern rock, power pop, Americana. Electric stayed by my side. It remained a faithful friend, demandin
g nothing but providing the lifegiving power of riffs and throaty belting.
In 2021, I decided to cover the whole damn thing from start to finish. Electric Youth poured out of me in about ten days. Between dog walks and work commitments, I snuck in recording sessions. Like Ian and Billy under Rubin’s tutelage, I had a former bandmate who encouraged me every step of the way. He helped me let it all hang out in the ways that I knew. Yet, unlike The Cult’s single-minded approach, all sounds were open territory for me: folk, fuzz, synth, TR-808 bass drums. I can hear bits of Ty Segall, Soft Cell, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, St. Vitus. But to me, it’s faithful. Or, as an early listener friend put it, “the aesthetics of each song are polar opposite to the original but the ‘bouillon’ of the OG song is still intact.”
Maybe the primary element that connects Electric Youth to The Cult’s album is the power of song sequencing. As different as these takes are, when “Born to Be Wild” goes into “Outlaw,” the contrast is just as vital. (This, even though my version of the former evokes a space disco and the latter a spaghetti western.) Ultimately, Electric Youth is my 40-minute love letter to an album. Electric taught me, through its very shameless existence, that to rock is, indeed, a divine right.
