As a college student in the mid-to-late-90s, I was concerned
with authenticity in music (or, more realistically, what I perceived to be authenticity) – folk idioms, rustic lyrics and
archaic instrumentation were what I traded in, and my CD collection became
overstuffed with albums by such similarly-minded artists as Palace, Richard
Buckner, and belatedly but most-importantly Grant Lee Buffalo. This LA threesome had been on my radar for
quite some time, and I had dutifully avoided them like the goddamn plague for
reasons that seem idiotic now, and should have then. I didn’t like singer Grant Lee Phillips
haircut and Nehru-looking jacket on the cover of their debut “Fuzzy”, and
subconsciously I think I equated what their music must sound like with another god-awful
band named Fuzzy that was in rotation on the college radio station where I
DJed. Even praise from R.E.M. singer
Michael Stipe (on whom I had what I am fairly certain was a non-sexual man-crush)
on the cover couldn’t sway me. The chip
on my shoulder was too big and I was churlish enough to declare that without
hearing a note of their music, I HATED GLB!
Like many poor college students at the time, I was also a
member of several mail-order “record clubs”. I would ritually order the several
free albums that were offered without ever fulfilling the obligation to buy
additional music at full price. I
distinctly remember belonging to BMG Music Club under three different
variations of my given name, and for a while it was glorious. Every once and awhile, however, the system
would catch up to me and I would be forced to purchase the CD that was sent,
and wouldn’t you know it, I ended up getting stuck with a copy of Grant Lee
Buffalo’s sophomore release, “Mighty Joe Moon”.
It sat unopened on the desk in my dorm room for weeks as I was
apparently too lazy to repackage it and return it. One night, after a couple more than a couple “beverages”,
I drunkenly ripped open the packaging around the jewel case and threw the CD
into my boombox. The guitars that ushered
in opener “Lone Star Song” roared from the speakers and my insides quaked. The production was molasses thick and
Phillips’ voice sounded like Johnny Cash being chased by angry demons, all tuff
gnarl and sinew. Almost immediately, I
felt like a chump. This is what I had
railed against??? I loved shit like
this! And the next 12 songs were full of
what my 19-year old mind had as the ideal of the authentic: old-timey
instrumentation (dobro, pump organ, marimba, mandolin), dusty and lived in
production (courtesy of bassist/multi-instrumentalist Paul Kimble, the unsung “hero”
of the group), and lyricsthat melded contemporary imagery with what Greil
Marcus dubbed “the old, weird America”.
This was music that sounded like what I imagined living like a hobo must
feel like – free and unfettered, wistful and melancholy. The fact that Phillips’ 12-string acoustic
was overdriven to the point of feeding back was just the icing on the
cake. And did I mention his voice? The way it would swoop from his smooth but
rumbling lower register into a heartbreaking falsetto was miraculous and
perfectly suited to the stormy, sturdy musical foundation that Kimble and
drummer Joey Peters created.
None of this would, matter, however if the songs weren’t any
good, and I stand by the assertion that at least half of the tracks on this
album are some of the finest songs written in the last 30 years. First single, “Mockingbirds”, is likely one
of the only songs of the alt-rock era that is successfully written in
waltz-time, and album centerpiece “Lady Godiva and Me” transforms from a
pedal-steel-assisted lament (courtesy of ace session guy Greg Leisz) to a maelstrom
of guitar and pounding tom-toms. The
deal-sealer, however, is the one-two gut punch of “Happiness” and “Honey Don’t
Think”. Fitted deep in the album’s
tracklist, I cannot think of two more beautiful and heartbreaking musical
moments. The hushed resignation of “Happiness”
was perfectly suited to a 19 year old prone to navel gazing and lamenting the
loss of girlfriends (real and imagined).
When Phillips croaks, “the difference in the two of us comes down to the
way you wrestle with things I just put down”, I can still feel my teenage self
break a little. The sunnier Yang to “Happiness’s”
Yin, “Honey Don’t Think” perfectly hedges its desperate longing to be understood with the far more pragmatic
refrain “honey don’t think you’re liable to figure me out”. We are all puzzles at the age of 19 - to ourselves
and our partners - and the 6-minute trip through depression, confusion and
yearning that “Happiness/Honey Don’t Think” fostered made perfect emotional
sense to me. It was there as a salve for
me many, many times when I was too far into my own head to think clearly and
too drunk (on booze, on women, on my own self regret) to focus on anything but
the pain. Powerful stuff.
Ultimately, “Mighty Joe Moon” would open the doors to other
bands and musical genres, and I treasure its unwitting (and for a long time,
begrudging) place as a Rosetta Stone of sorts for me. It makes me a little sad that I can never
recapture what it felt like that first time I heard Phillips, Kimble and Peters
firing on all cylinders, but I look back fondly on every time my teenage heart
broke and mended with it as its soundtrack. And that seems appropriate.
Stray Observations:
As amazing as Phillips songs are (and they are nothing short
of amazing), I thought and think that Paul Kimble’s production on the first
three Grant Lee Buffalo albums MADE them the truly special pieces of art that
they are. Kimble left after 1996’s “Copperopolis”
and his touch was missed on the Buffalo’s final album, “Jubilee”.
For whatever reason, “Mighty Joe Moon” is mixed ridiculously
low, meaning you really need to crank it to really bring out some of the layers. I keep hoping that someone will release it in
a new mix that properly allows its force and majesty to be heard properly.
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