In my teen years, Chicago store/distributor/label Ajax Records was like a treasure map: Amid their brief catalogue descriptions I first stumbled upon Pavement 7"'s and then, just as importantly, located the impossibly varied, amazing bands coming out of New Zealand.
Summer job dollars spent, records labeled Xpressway, Feel Good All Over, Flying Nun, and Siltbreeze arrived on the doorstep containing music by everyone from Alastair Galbraith to Wreck Small Speakers on Expensive Stereos. Each had its place in my nascent view of the country, but the holy NZ trilogy consisted of the Jefferies brothers (Peter and Graeme), Chris Knox, and the Dead C (and their various permutations).
The Dead C should go first: Michael Morley, Bruce Russell, and Robbie Yeats' ramshackle, half-speed, and scary racket externalized what was teeming inside my head. (Tellingly, favorites were DR 503, Eusa Kills, White House, Trapdoor Fucking Exit, Harsh 70s Reality, and The Operation of the Sonne.) Really, I've probably mentioned the band in more reviews than any other group, excepting the Sun City Girls. That critical shorthand could strip references to the trio of all nuance, but each time I've name-dropped, I hear "Max Harris" or "Power" and remember exactly the way they fucked with my conceptions.
As a testament to that fandom, I own all the individual albums, singles, magazine editions, and the like collected on the two discs that make up Vain, Erudite, and Stupid: Selected Works 1987-2005. Some of my favorites are here, some aren't; it seems like a waste of time to harp. In fact, the band selected the songs-- so, no matter the ostensible gaps, it's fascinating. Founding member Bruce Russell also penned notes and diaristic reminiscences for each track-- he speaks of process, instrumentation, the weather. (You can also read opaque and anecdotal reminiscences from Bananafish editor Seymour Glass, Siltbreeze founder Tom Lax, and The Wire scribe Nick Cain.)
I bought the vast output as it was released, but experiencing it again as a sort of time-lapse listening experience is incredible. You can trace a history and see overlaps, divergences from the slow-mo bedroom psychedelia of "Max Harris" to the warping, snare-scuffling Throbbing Gristle swarm of "Maggot", punctuated by Morley's shrieking, monstrous taunts. Tracks and fragments jump from chattering ambiance to real-time collage to spoken Mark E. Smith phaser shifts to scrawling handfuls of dust-- songs cut or continue unexpectedly; some soar from the trash heap, as is the case on the almost 11-minute "Helen Said This".
Haven't heard the band? The sound's difficult to describe. One thing: Nothing is ever aurally spiky or sharp-- every feedback twang's draped in this weird NZ dew. They eke the loveliest distortion tones from guitars and tape echo, and much occurs on the spot: They're amazing improvisers, upchucking Twin Infinitives-sized messes at will. It's garage rock, maybe, but the garage is burning down and you're in no rush to escape. For me, the mournful stuff's the best; and when they're tapping sounds from a ham radio, giving themselves the space to open entirely as on the slow burn of "The Marriage of Reason and Squalor" and its sci-fi Shadow Ring weirdness. The rarely just rock-- well, but what about "Bitcher"?-- and even then there's almost always some kind of swerve.
Praise singing complete, I hadn't really listened to much of the band's most recent output. The last couple of songs on disc two, from 2001 and 2003, respectively, find the band getting more spiraled and "tight." See, they started using laptops a bit and, bubble popped, my interest waned. That's a minor purist gripe, though-- the approach remains impressively aggressive even if the ambiance is partially lost. Plus, it's interesting to see just how cohesive the practice largely remains over twenty-something years (distilled into this two-plus hours).
Sure, collections are never complete and you can't replicate discovery, but damn if this fucker doesn't seem plenty full. Until someone does a Please Kill Me for the period I alluded to at the get go, documents like this (and back issues of Forced Exposure) are our aural/oral history books and lessons: Vain, Erudite, and Stupid feels extremely primary.
