By New Times
By Derek Askey
By Mark Deming
By Serene Dominic
By Jason Keil
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
By Jeff Moses
By Serene Dominic
By design, bootlegs are supposed to be against the rules--people pay top dollar for the illicit thrill of hearing music not meant for world consumption. Tacking an "official" seal onto the forbidden fruit leaves a bad aftertaste, like parents telling their teenage son it's okay to smoke dope and have sex in the family room--gee, thanks, Mom.
So what excuse does Giant Sand front man Howe Gelb offer for the band-authorized "bootleg" Volume One: Official Bootleg Series, a new collection of previously unavailable Giant Sand alternate takes, remixes and live cuts on Epiphany Records?
"Well, they've just been slacking off big time."
"They" being the bootleg merchants who somehow missed all the material on Volume One, even though for years Giant Sand has been one of the most heavily booted indie bands in alternadom.
"A guy from Germany recently faxed me a list of all the bootleg tapes he had," says Gelb. "There were a lot of other bands, too, like the Grateful Dead, but the Giant Sand selection was an entire page and a half. All these little bits and pieces, like 42 minutes from this studio session, 22 minutes from that live show, real detailed shit. He even graded them A plus, B minus, depending on how he thought we did."
Part Crazy Horse, part Captain Beefheart, Tucson's Giant Sand has survived 16 years and as many albums. In the process, the band has accrued fanatical devotion and wide, if slightly bewildered, critical acclaim--it's rare to see rock critics assign terms like "lack of cohesion," "meandering," "inconsistent" and "willful disintegration" to a group's body of work and mean them as compliments.
Self-rated as "America's Best Obscure Band" and pegged as purveyors of "sunbaked surrealism" by the New York Times, Giant Sand is known for mixing, mastering and releasing the kind of spontaneous studio work that most bands furiously run past tape erase heads, as if second takes invite unhealthy calculation.
Nowadays, "real" or "unofficial" bootlegs usually come with annotation up the wazoo--identifying session dates, studios, take numbers and personnel in addition to packaging that's virtually indistinguishable from its legally manufactured brethren. But where-and-when details on Giant Sand's new "official bootleg" are in short supply. Even the lackeys at Epiphany are annoyingly vague about the origin of the tracks, providing the skimpiest bio this side of the Witness Protection Program. Fortune cookies have been more forthcoming with information.
In fact, with its hand-drawn cover and negligible liner notes, Official Bootleg Series seems like a throwback to classic early boots like Dylan's Great White Wonder or the Beatles' Yellow Matter Custard, both packaged with only a mimeographed sheet of titles slapped onto a white cardboard sleeve.
Epiphany owner Brad Singer gave Gelb carte blanche on the Series' austere packaging. "The simplicity of this cover reverts to when you were a kid and dreamed about making a record," says Gelb. "This is probably what you would dream, before you knew anything about graphics or technology or credits."
What--no thank yous to spiritual advisers and drum key grips? "It felt more natural and an extreme pleasure not to include all the fucking details that have nothing to do with ears listening to it," says Gelb. "It's for collectors to relax, just chill and listen. Don't worry about where it's from. It's for your pure pleasure, not your intellect."
Unconvinced? Lucky for you, Gelb gave up the goods. So grab a pen and jot down these data on the two blank inner panels of Official's "liner notes"--the oldest and shortest cut ("T.W.'s Forgotten Chorus") dates back to a 1991 in-store gig in Vancouver, British Columbia, while the most recent contribution ("No Name Guitars") was recorded live at New York's Mercury Lounge this spring, and features Meat Puppet Cris Kirkwood on drums. "Corridor of Love" is virtually the same song as "Corridor" (off the band's 1993 album Purge and Slouch) except Gelb sings "first-draft lyrics."
"Smokey Joe's Deep Blue Pancakes," Gelb says, is "a 13-minute blues jam I really like and never had room for on any album." The remaining tracks are outtakes from Giant Sand's last limited-edition, a radio session dubbed the Backyard Barbecue Broadcast. Bon appetit!
The seeds for the Official Bootleg project were sown even before Brad Singer started up Epiphany. Two years ago, Singer financially backed a documentary about the band by French filmmaker and Giant Sand fanatic Marianne Dissard. When it looked like the project had crumbled before the film was in the can, Gelb felt bad and offered to turn over some tapes from the band's vault so Singer could recoup some of his money (as it turns out, Dissard's documentary Drunken Bees came out this summer).
No royalties, no statements, no headaches. Epiphany pressed 2,000 copies of the disc, the band got 500 to sell on the road. The simplicity of this arrangement appeals to Gelb, whose band is currently "between labels." In Europe, where Gelb has licensing control, all of Giant Sand's albums have been readily available since their initial releases. At home it's another story--many of the group's recordings are special order only.
Giant Sand's penchant for putting out nearly everything it records has led to a sprawling discography--the band's oeuvre is scattered among eight different indie labels, most of which, according to Gelb, "couldn't get their shit together for whatever reason when we were signed to them."