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Top 11 Rock Albums of the ’90s You
Probably Never Heard
… plus one honorable mention from
the ’80s
By Michael Tomczyszyn
Yeah, another damn music list. Intrinsically
stupid, as all music lists are, but then again no more so than
any other such-like-certainly no worse than Rolling Stoneís 100
Greatest Guitar Players of All Time (Jack White, anyone? Anyone?).
Of course these preposterous things are designed
to ruffle feathers, in fact serve no other purpose at all, so if
youíve got other idea, then (in the words of our resident jackal) ìbring
’em on.î
 1.
Bo Bud Greene — Whatever (Backyard/Scotti Brothers,
1995). These four (nowadays three, from what I hear) Austinites
make a gloriously brash noise, a sort of sweet psychedelic metallic
pop. Alternating effectively between ethereal arpeggios, chugging
power chords, cleverly syncopated stop-time riffs and intriguingly
unresolved chords that drift through the sonic landscape, they put
together appealing, quirky songs that never fail to rawk. This album
was scuttled by bad timing and bad luck, as it was released right
before Scotti Brothers underwent a massive reorganization and ended
up dropping many of its artists. Moreís the pity, as this album
really deserves to be heard by more than the handful of idle curious
who scooped promo copies out of bargain and cut-out bins. It is
a deeply infectious and propulsive record that finds innovative
ways to combine introspective, mystically themed lyrics with a solid
if unconventional rhythm section. Layer soaring vocals and searing
lead guitars over the top and youíve got a formula that veers winningly
between the conventional and the unique. P.S.: Donít be fooled by
the cover art — this is not a surf-rock album.
 2.
Circle C — Circle C (DGC, 1991). A classic case
of a really, really good record being buried by major-label ineptitude/apathy/conservatism.
Circle C can sound like many different bands — on some tunes
one might understandably imagine them to be aping the Pixies at
a backyard hootenanny on all-acoustic instruments, while at other
times they sound like a more restrained take on late-Zeppelin-era
blues-rock and then again at other times theyíre tough to pigeonhole
at all, despite seeming very familiar. Maybe this eclecticism made
DGC afraid to market them — our loss, because this is a first-rate
collection of songs with brainy and often mordantly funny lyrics,
perfectly arranged and played with impeccable taste. Not a dud song
in the bunch. If youíre not put off by such baroque flourishes,
then dig ìDustî as it kicks off with a solo mandolin part that is
furious and lovely and evokes images of eastern European folk dances.
And really — how often do you hear a couplet like this one
(from ìVacation Song,î which is something like a Marxist cautionary
tale populated by the Gashlycrumb Tinies): ìAt the hot springs they
ignored the sign/Now little Timmyís got meningitis of the spine?î
Not often enough.
 3.
Dianogah — As Seen From Above (Ohio Gold, 1997).
At an utter loss once for the words to describe this magnificent
trio, I blurted out to a friend, ìImagine Television if Lloyd and
Verlaine played bass instead of guitar.î Lyrical, fluid, intricate-but-not-showy,
this almost entirely instrumental band quite simply does everything
right. The dialogue between the higher parts that Jay Ryan coaxes
from his Rickenbacker and the more traditional low-end counterpoint
that Jason Harvey holds down on his Fender is just stunning —
there is a playful complexity here that is rarely heard in rock
music. Add to this Kip McCabeís skilled, syncopated accompaniment
on the drums and the interplay of these three at times approaches
the level of sophistication of jazz. Dianogah make some of the most
inspiring, fun music I have heard in a very long time, and this
is accomplished without electronic effects or any sort of schtick
or bombast — a tribute to the virtues of pure musicality and
resourcefulness within fairly narrow formal parameters. If all of
this sounds daunting — the kind of stuff only sophisto music
professors might enjoy — allow me to assure you that it is
not. There is an energy and a swing to this music that makes it
a pure joy to listen to — if it is cerebral as well, it is
in a way that keeps the proceedings fresh and only adds to the pleasure.
Possibly my favorite band of recent years.
 4.
Dwindle — Recently OK (Twin/Tone, 1997). One
of Minneapolis/St. Paulís best bands in recent memory, this gang
sounds a little different on every release, and this one is my favorite
by a nose. One could argue that it suffers from the same sluggish
mid-tempo rut that led many critics to blast Bob Mouldís Black
Sheets of Rain, but both albums are also occasion for some truly
remarkable guitar playing. There is nothing flashy on this album,
but a remarkably consistent and effective mood is maintained throughout.
These songs are bleak and yet somehow irresistibly beautiful, the
vocals so anemic and low in the mix that it seems they will collapse
under their own lack of will to survive. Despite this, they are
very catchy and even stirring in a minimal and very economical way,
the somber tone of Brooceís voice perfectly conveying the listless
sorrow of the lyrics. The overall sound is emo played with resignation
rather than fervor — a dense wall of bristling sound too overcome
by depression to make any pretense of histrionics. Amid the accentuating
crashes of the drums, though, pay close attention to the guitar
melodies and you will be rewarded — they are some of the most
thoughtful, uncluttered, well-constructed and affecting tunes you
will hear in rock today.
 5.
Gam — Phase 8 (Blast-O-Disc, 1995). What can
you say about this gang of deliriously art-damaged loonies from
Savannah, Ga.? As excellent as this album is, you still need to
see them live to get the full effect: the mania in his eyes as singer
Keith dances about in furry pajamas and hands out full-head latex
masks to audience members or else smashes the stage with a flaming
thigh bone borrowed from some very large mammal, and all while large
geometric sculptures lit from within cast an eerie glow upon the
proceedings. Their stage act is not by any stretch, however, a flimsy
attempt to veil musical amateurishness — rather, the disarming
visual flair of this band only adds to their demented barrage of
sounds and words, helping to create a powerful and unforgettable
experience. As you might have guessed, these guys operate on approximately
the same bizarre theatrical level of reality as the Butthole Surfers
and at times owe a similar debt to the dinosaur riffs of Black Sabbath.
They have any number of sounds up their twisted sleeves, however,
and can ply riotous ’60s blues-punk or eerie psychedelia (with
a distinctly nightmarish southern twist) with equal aplomb. Consequently,
the album is a rock-solid and very entertaining blast from somewhere
deep in the belly of this countryís seamy underside.
 6.
Lotion — Nobodyís Cool (spinART, 1995). In a
way, there is nothing particularly exceptional about Lotion, except
that they do what they do so well. ìJuggernautî alone is such a
swell song that — even if the rest of this album were tripe
— I would have to seriously consider Nobodyís Cool
for this list. As it happens, it is a wonderful and lively album
of poignant, song-writerly indie rock. The aforementioned ìJuggernaut,î
for example, segues from powerhouse verses befitting the title to
a darkly catchy chorus that Matthew Sweet would give his eyeteeth
for. Tony Zajkowskiís throaty voice is an instrument well-suited
to these vignettes, distinct and supple enough to pull the heartstrings
one moment and smirk slyly the next. The rest of the band are certainly
no slouches, but they know well enough to not draw attention to
themselves. With this band the first and last word is crafting great
tunes — and the songs are an impressively varied bunch, displaying
noteworthy intelligence and an esoteric palette of approaches, from
burly rock to lilting folk-kissed airs to angular lounge chords
and all points in between. Add liner notes by Thomas Pynchon (yeah,
that Thomas Pynchon), and you canít go wrong.
 7.
Orangutang — Dead Sailor Acid Blues (Imago, 1994).
Another band that likely suffered from poor label handling —
the trials and travails of Imago are legendary by now — Orangutang
are a true curiosity, a difficult bunch to classify. Their overall
sound is thick and yet energetic hard rock — too heavy and
slab-like to be punk, too arty and high-minded and flat-out weird
to be metal, and too fun to be art-rock, this is music made by snide,
cheeky, very bright guys who have a deeply ironic sense of humor
and a completely un-ironic love of rock. The result is not
as strange as, say, Trout Mask Replica, but it is distinctive
enough that comparisons to other bands become difficult —
which alone at this stage in rockís evolution makes it worth hearing.
One could say it sounds like the best of later Smashing Pumpkins,
less the drama and angst, and bolstered with the slashing harmonic
approach and obsessive strangeness of the Pixies, but already we
are into so many qualifiers that the attempt to place them on the
rock map is muddled at best. Besides which, a song like ìDaddy Rawî
swings in a way neither of those bands ever did or could. Best just
to say that Orangutang were a barreling freight train of exuberant,
surreal post-punk momentum — heavier and more ferocious than
plutonium — and leave it at that.
 8.
Replicants — Replicants (Zoo, 1996). This side
project cobbled together by members of the now-defunct Failure and
one ex-member of Tool is a really interesting piece of work. The
entire album consists of proggy/metallic reworkings of older songs,
chiefly from the psychedelic, glam and new wave camps but leaving
few stones unturned, really. Itís such a diverse collection of covers
that I canít resist listing at least a few: T. Rexís ìLifeís A Gas,î
Missing Personsí ìDestination Unknown,î David Bowieís ìThe Bewlay
Brothers,î Syd Barrettís ìNo Good Tryingî and Gary Numanís ìAre
‘Friends’ Electric?î are joined by Neil Youngís ìCinnamon
Girlî as well as the thematically pointed renditions of Paul McCartneyís
paean to ìSilly Love Songsî and John Lennonís McCartney hate letter
ìHow Do You Sleep?î Add Pink Floyd, the Cars and Steely Dan, and
Iím not entirely sure what youíve got. Such an album risks flirting
with silliness and/or starry-eyed hero-worship, but the Replicants
manage to avoid these pitfalls by making each of these songs distinctly
their own. It is often irreverent in just the right way and clearly
a labor of love, a tribute to the march of glory and folly that
is rock music.
 9.
Skeleton Key — Fantastic Spikes Through Balloon
(Capitol, 1997). Skeleton Key are what might have happened if
Primus and Tom Waits played together more regularly — they
match the prodigious technical proficiency and unstoppable groove
of the former with the bent songwriting sensibility and ear for
unusual textures of the latter. The result is quite unlike anything
youíve ever heard, in all the right ways. This album careens and
lurches gleefully through rubbery funk, dented carnival music, queasy
hardcore punk and haunting dirges without ever once stopping to
ask for directions. Formed by Manhattan avant-garde types (at least
one former Lounge Lizard has taken up residence here) who recruited
an extra percussionist with a kit comprised entirely of found junk,
they have forged a music that is simultaneously powerful and fragile.
It is unbelievably flexible and buoyant at the same time that it
clatters and clanks along like a í53 Studebaker about to collapse
and say die. It is a strange and magical sound, one of those truly
rare bands who inhabit a world all their own. Wondrous and perverse,
Skeleton Key are another casualty of major label neglect, their
only mainstream recognition being a Grammy nomination for innovative
CD packaging. Oh, the cruel barbs of fate …
 10.
Tanner — Ill-Gotten Gains (Caroline, 1995).
Never mind that they rock like a great punk band with its collective
ass on fire (though they do), and forget the fact that singer Gar
Wood yelps like Pee Wee Herman having a conniption (though he does).
What is amazing about Tanner is this: using the most common and
simple tools, they perform the alchemical feat of sounding fresh
and exciting, even alien. Somehow they invent with those ubiquitous
sounds a language all their own. There is some prodigal, subterranean
melodic sense at work in this band — that most elusive and
irreplaceable of gifts. Sometimes one hears echoes of the similarly
inverted imagination Greg Ginn brought to bear on the later Black
Flag. Other times the music is simpler and its power harder to explain.
The verse structure of ìWigî is built almost entirely on one chord
played over a fiercely galloping drumbeat, but it moves. Like their
more famous San Diego brethren Rocket From the Crypt and Drive Like
Jehu, Tanner are minimalist in the extreme and know how to get a
lot of mileage out of simple, clean structures. Iím reminded by
them of the “Peanuts” strip in which Lucy asks Schroeder
how he is able to make Beethoven sound so beautiful on a toy piano,
and Schroeder says, ìYou have to know where the stops are.î Folks,
Tanner knows all the stops.
 11.
Treepeople — Something Vicious For Tomorrow/Time Whore
(C/Z, 1992). This was the band in which Scott Schmaljohn first
crystallized his vision, a vein he has continued to mine in Stuntman
now that former guitar-slinging partner Doug Martsch has gone on
to form the more acclaimed (but arguably less fun) Built To Spill.
From the first song on this CD, the listener is assaulted by dueling
lead guitars that snake and weave around each other — in some
ways the logical conclusion of the skittering two-guitar wallop
that Captain Beefheart cultivated in his Magic Band, but here employed
in a very different setting. It is a fine line to walk — too
much information will overload a listener, so careful choreography
and restraint are required. When it works, as it does on balance
here, it is a dazzling effect, breathing new life into clichéd
structures and creating intriguingly novel textures. It doesnít
hurt that the band writes solid songs and plays them with gorgeous
inexactness and red-hot passion, somewhat resembling a more challenging
version of old Soul Asylum. They even have a little fun along the
way with the old Smiths chestnut ìBigmouth Strikes Againî and give
it a vigor it always deserved but never had before.
 12.
Volcano Suns — All Night Lotus Party (Homestead,
1986). The Volcano Suns used to jokingly call themselves ìthe
only band that doesnít matter,î and itís true that on their early
albums (like this one) they displayed a zealous simplicity that
bordered on enthusiastic amateurism. In those terms, they might
well be dismissed as utterly disposable in the same way that the
Stooges and the Ramones in their day were written off by many as
disposable — i.e., worthless. However, as Lester Bangs once
wrote in defense of one of those bands, ìIf itís so easy, then why
arenít there more like them?î I donít know why, but I think it has
something to do with why this album is so great — support
for the truism that what you donít say (or play) is just as important
as what you do. In short, it is unstoppably propulsive and lusty
and unrepentantly loud. Imagine a whole album of the kind
of exhilarating, skull-crushing rave-ups that drummer Peter Prescott
sometimes used to pound out with his old (and current) band Mission
of Burma and youíve got some sense of the volatile stuff weíre dealing
with here. This album is a non-stop pummeling, a bludgeoning storm
of a record that doesnít let up until the vinyl runs out, but most
importantly it nails the quality that so much rock ìnowadaysî misses
so sorely — joy. It gloats and revels in its sloppiness, and
it is endlessly fun, and you know that can only be good for you.
Rather than being enervating (or a self-conscious exercise in nostalgia,
like copping old dance moves), this music is a mainline to the pleasure
and energy centers of the brain, a relentless blast of everything
rock once promised. To paraphrase the Old Anarchist from Richard
Linklaterís Slacker: ìIf there were 10 bands like this around
today, they would change the world.î
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