“I HELPED INVENT A GENRE AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS GODDAMN REPLACEMENTS SONG NAMED AFTER ME”
The rumors about Cubist Blues appear to be true: Most of the record was born from a two-night jam session between Alan Vega, member of pioneering electronic duo Suicide, and the guy who wrote the theme song for That 70’s Show.
Kidding aside, the Suicide/Big Star/Vaughnian outfit in question released their lone studio recording in 1996 to exactly, uh, zero audience recognition. On top of that, the trio only ever managed two live appearances during their brief time together. The fact that Cubist Blues was release only by the grace and passion of our Lord on high Henry Rollins prompts some questions. For example: was Hank just doing his showbiz pals a solid, or did he genuinely like the music contained herein? Because it’s a far cry from what we’ve come to know in particular as Rollins’ cup of post-bench press herbal tea.
The rambling “Fat City” opens with a surf rock boogie beat and an atmosphere of traffic sounds. Once a quintessential glam pop showman, Chilton relegated his once earnest wail to a swaggering mix between Mark Knopfler’s grumble and Howlin’ Wolf’s melodic shout. Presumably this was done to better match Vega’s slurred Lou Reed impression that sounds like half-sung, half-uttered beat poetry (which remains unchanged from its debut in the late ‘70‘s). “Fat City” is the track most representational of the artistic union: the bass line sounds like Suicide’s jagged electronic throb painted with Big Star’s jangling power pop textures, and results in a bizarre, subdued analog of ZZ Top’s “La Grange.” “The Werewolf” rocks a similar electric southern vibe with its ragtime piano plinks.
“Candyman” is a true child of the 1990’s: Sonic Youth-style, feedback-clouded alt-rock with no real beginning, end, or chord changes to speak of. Come to think of it, most of the tracks in Cubist Blues contain only one real idea or phrase accompanied by various tones of rock noise. A single slinky, chromatic riff runs through “Sister,” which is crowned with incomprehensible drunken howling (kind of like The Doors in a one of their numerous lethargic moments). “Too Late” is a particularly directionless, lone phrase garnished with an uninspired keyboard lead and way too much vocal echo.
There’s flavorful instances in the desert – “Lover of Love” is built on clattering, off-kilter honky tonk, and features authentically missed notes and stuttered rhythms, along with the assertion that the lover of love is indeed “Living in a world full of whores.” But of course. “Do Not Do Not” has some delta slide guitar thrown into the mix for good measure, though the jumpy snare drum pattern and mid-90’s engineering leave it feeling akin to cuts from Phish’s A Picture of Nectar. “Dream Baby Revisited” is the odd song out. The production sounds completely alien to the previous 40 odd minutes, and the guitar-less waltz comes to a sudden and clearly defined halt with nary a lingering echo.
Alright I’ll level with you: Since this is a forgotten, formerly rare reissue, over the next few weeks, writers and fans will talk about this album like its some work of criminally ignored, unsung genius (you know, like Suicide actually is). But with respective lengths of over eight minutes, cuts like “Fat City” and “Freedom” feel like what they are: loosely and hurriedly thrown together by two (Er, three. Sorry Ben, didn’t see you back there) artists who never spent enough time collaborating to meet each other halfway, or even meaningfully blend styles. Ten minutes was fine for “Frankie Teardrop” because the desolate electronic landscape thing was new at the time. But even for 1994 these are just, like, really long hook-less rock songs. Cubist Blues is, in truth, more notable for the album’s circumstance that the actual product – two 70’s cult figures joining together. A better use of your time would be to go and listen to Suicide’s self-titled and Big Star’s #1 Record back-to-back, and then hopping on the Google machine and giving Ben Vaughn some much needed web traffic, poor guy.
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