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05-06-04, 08:48 PM
Let it be known: the creation of noise is indeed an art. Squall, blistering reverberation, piercing dissonance, and voluminous din are the weapons of the avant-garde guitarist, but much like a rifle is only as accurate as its bearer, the squeals of a strangulated guitar are only as potent as that of its master. In the early days of recorded music, noise was verboten and sonic clarity was the defining characteristic of a masterpiece. Of course, then came rock, and rock’s bastard children: punk and post-punk. Within the limitless bounds of the genre of rock, there developed subgenres that reveled in the ecstatic and gloom. Ultra-nihilists such as Einsturzende Neubaten created entire albums that consisted of the sounds of glass smashing into walls and power tools being run at epileptic paces. In effect, the apocalypse on a compact disc.
Of course, Einsturzende Neubaten is an extreme of the post-punk movement that embraced art over anger, and subtlety over garishness. Where in the 60’s and 70’s, rock music was sexual, bombastic and lacked any sense of delicate nuance, the post-punk movement of the early 80’s rejected those standards, and subverted all those accepted norms of what it meant to play guitar-based rock music. With the exception of Devo, The Cure and The Smiths, most post-punk bands were too noisy, too nihilistic or played too fast, qualities that doomed them to a career of obscurity.
Certainly, Robert Smith and Company are still putting out albums that attempt to channel some semblance of their halcyon days, and Morrissey is still fawning over his voluntary asexualness and pompadour, but for the likes of bands such as Pere Ubu, Magazine, and Gang of Four, there are only a handful of releases and overpriced bootleg recordings to keep the faithful sated and the newcomers enthralled. Half-hearted reunions occur, but they seem to be uninspired, obligatory and self-serving events of desperation for recognition or money.
Then there comes an event as singularly powerful as the reunion of Boston-based Mission of Burma. Much like England’s Wire, Mission of Burma were artists and intellectuals, both in terms of lyrical quality, and in their disjointed angular rhythms and noisy guitar tracks. Formed in 1980, the members of Mission of Burma were aggressive without the tough-guy overtones. Guitarist Roger Miller, bassist Clint Conley, and drummer Peter Prescott all played with an intensity that belied their book-smarts and humble appearances. Adding fuel to their anarchic fire was Martin Swope, a sonic-manipulator of the highest sense. Mission of Burma was an essay on the American Revolution in the form of two minute songs titled “Einstein’s Day”, “Academy Fight Song”, and “OK/No Way”. All superb blasts of youth, dictionaries, and cigarette smoke.
Mission of Burma in its original iteration only released one studio album and a handful of singles before breaking up amicably in 1983. That lone album, 1982’s VS., is a masterpiece of a record, full of sharp-edged riffs, drumming that borders on the aesthetics of jazz, and of course, plenty of feedback, noise and fire. Then there is the 1981 EP entitled Signals, Calls and Marches, which contains the oft covered “That’s When I Reach for My Revolver”. And before Mission of Burma could receive the accolades they deserved, or embark on a worldwide tour, they broke up. Ended. Finito.
Unlike many bands that implode due to jealousy, drugs or death, Mission of Burma’s short run was due to Roger Miller’s failing hearing. Years of being plugged into a wall of guitar amps cranked to 11 slowly eroded away the cells of his inner-ear, and introduced a constant sheen of white noise to his aural world. A shame, really. And with a band such as his that relied on noise and deafening volume to create its own unique aesthetic, there were only two choices made available: go soft-rock, or break up the band. Luckily, they chose the latter and slowly faded into obscurity.
Then in 2002, Mission of Burma played four sold-out shows in Boston, toured the Midwest and Europe, and besides sporting a few less hairs on their heads, played with the same fervor in the new millennium as they did back in 1982. The indie-kids celebrated in the streets, and those who were “there” shook their heads in amazement and slight skepticism.
Then the unexpected happened. Mission of Burma went back into the studio and recorded their long-overdue follow up to VS. Entitled OnoffOn, the new album was fired in the same mold as VS. and Signals, Calls and Marches. Emotive songs of loss and betrayal stand solidly next to tunes about Max Ernst (a common Mission of Burma theme) and metaphysical deceit. There is a distinct lack of pretense in OnoffOns tracks, and there is nary a hint of an attempt to surf on a wave of brittle nostalgia. Much like Wire’s blistering reunion album Send, OnoffOn is a return to form and in the words of Mission of Burma’s label, “this isn't just a hot new release, it's a goddamn cultural event."
OnoffOn in its sixteen songs is a masterpiece full of enigmatic lyrics and scorching dissonance. To an outsider accustomed to mainstream pap, it’s unlistenable and confusing. To the devoted, it’s another chapter in the bible of the post-punk underground.
The song “What We Really Were” is a continuation of the desperation of “Dead Pool” from VS., with melodic vocals laid upon pounding drums and crashing guitar chords. “Nicotine Bomb” is a thrasher, and is reminiscent of a Johnny Cash tune played through a dying stereo. “Playland” is pure brilliant noise, genius and ethereal. And if this album stands as anything more than a simple reunion album, it stands as a lesson to all the newcomers that a group of men in their early 50’s can still offer stiff aural opposition.
And if OnoffOn serves as anything more than a damn good record from a damn good band, let it act as a blueprint to all those musicians that are finally dusting off their guitars and mailing out reconciliation letters to their former bandmates. If Mission of Burma can beat the odds and debilitating tinnitis, than there are no excuses left for those bands that fail to live up to their expectations and desires once reunited. Being 50 doesn’t mean that one must succumb to the pressures of adulthood, maturity and responsibility. Sometimes it just means that the sacrifices of life take on special significance and in turn, inspire great things.
Of course, Einsturzende Neubaten is an extreme of the post-punk movement that embraced art over anger, and subtlety over garishness. Where in the 60’s and 70’s, rock music was sexual, bombastic and lacked any sense of delicate nuance, the post-punk movement of the early 80’s rejected those standards, and subverted all those accepted norms of what it meant to play guitar-based rock music. With the exception of Devo, The Cure and The Smiths, most post-punk bands were too noisy, too nihilistic or played too fast, qualities that doomed them to a career of obscurity.
Certainly, Robert Smith and Company are still putting out albums that attempt to channel some semblance of their halcyon days, and Morrissey is still fawning over his voluntary asexualness and pompadour, but for the likes of bands such as Pere Ubu, Magazine, and Gang of Four, there are only a handful of releases and overpriced bootleg recordings to keep the faithful sated and the newcomers enthralled. Half-hearted reunions occur, but they seem to be uninspired, obligatory and self-serving events of desperation for recognition or money.
Then there comes an event as singularly powerful as the reunion of Boston-based Mission of Burma. Much like England’s Wire, Mission of Burma were artists and intellectuals, both in terms of lyrical quality, and in their disjointed angular rhythms and noisy guitar tracks. Formed in 1980, the members of Mission of Burma were aggressive without the tough-guy overtones. Guitarist Roger Miller, bassist Clint Conley, and drummer Peter Prescott all played with an intensity that belied their book-smarts and humble appearances. Adding fuel to their anarchic fire was Martin Swope, a sonic-manipulator of the highest sense. Mission of Burma was an essay on the American Revolution in the form of two minute songs titled “Einstein’s Day”, “Academy Fight Song”, and “OK/No Way”. All superb blasts of youth, dictionaries, and cigarette smoke.
Mission of Burma in its original iteration only released one studio album and a handful of singles before breaking up amicably in 1983. That lone album, 1982’s VS., is a masterpiece of a record, full of sharp-edged riffs, drumming that borders on the aesthetics of jazz, and of course, plenty of feedback, noise and fire. Then there is the 1981 EP entitled Signals, Calls and Marches, which contains the oft covered “That’s When I Reach for My Revolver”. And before Mission of Burma could receive the accolades they deserved, or embark on a worldwide tour, they broke up. Ended. Finito.
Unlike many bands that implode due to jealousy, drugs or death, Mission of Burma’s short run was due to Roger Miller’s failing hearing. Years of being plugged into a wall of guitar amps cranked to 11 slowly eroded away the cells of his inner-ear, and introduced a constant sheen of white noise to his aural world. A shame, really. And with a band such as his that relied on noise and deafening volume to create its own unique aesthetic, there were only two choices made available: go soft-rock, or break up the band. Luckily, they chose the latter and slowly faded into obscurity.
Then in 2002, Mission of Burma played four sold-out shows in Boston, toured the Midwest and Europe, and besides sporting a few less hairs on their heads, played with the same fervor in the new millennium as they did back in 1982. The indie-kids celebrated in the streets, and those who were “there” shook their heads in amazement and slight skepticism.
Then the unexpected happened. Mission of Burma went back into the studio and recorded their long-overdue follow up to VS. Entitled OnoffOn, the new album was fired in the same mold as VS. and Signals, Calls and Marches. Emotive songs of loss and betrayal stand solidly next to tunes about Max Ernst (a common Mission of Burma theme) and metaphysical deceit. There is a distinct lack of pretense in OnoffOns tracks, and there is nary a hint of an attempt to surf on a wave of brittle nostalgia. Much like Wire’s blistering reunion album Send, OnoffOn is a return to form and in the words of Mission of Burma’s label, “this isn't just a hot new release, it's a goddamn cultural event."
OnoffOn in its sixteen songs is a masterpiece full of enigmatic lyrics and scorching dissonance. To an outsider accustomed to mainstream pap, it’s unlistenable and confusing. To the devoted, it’s another chapter in the bible of the post-punk underground.
The song “What We Really Were” is a continuation of the desperation of “Dead Pool” from VS., with melodic vocals laid upon pounding drums and crashing guitar chords. “Nicotine Bomb” is a thrasher, and is reminiscent of a Johnny Cash tune played through a dying stereo. “Playland” is pure brilliant noise, genius and ethereal. And if this album stands as anything more than a simple reunion album, it stands as a lesson to all the newcomers that a group of men in their early 50’s can still offer stiff aural opposition.
And if OnoffOn serves as anything more than a damn good record from a damn good band, let it act as a blueprint to all those musicians that are finally dusting off their guitars and mailing out reconciliation letters to their former bandmates. If Mission of Burma can beat the odds and debilitating tinnitis, than there are no excuses left for those bands that fail to live up to their expectations and desires once reunited. Being 50 doesn’t mean that one must succumb to the pressures of adulthood, maturity and responsibility. Sometimes it just means that the sacrifices of life take on special significance and in turn, inspire great things.