By Nicki Escudero
By Amy Silverman
By Brian Palmer
By Chris Parker
By Troy Farah
By Lauren Wise
By Lauren Wise
Because a girl tossed a drink in his face, punched him and left him stranded in Hollywood into the wee hours, Jeff Whalen's first moments on the phone included three rasping, indecipherable attempts at a greeting. But it was noon, and he didn't mention anything about intending to lie in bed all day thinking about some girl. He was, in fact, grateful for the call; the ring woke him up, his day's schedule had a chance.
I could hear Whalen fumbling around his kitchen, going through the necessary steps for coffee. I told him in all honesty that I thought his group's self-titled debut (out in mid-June on Hollywood Records) would prove to be the best record released all year.
"Uh, thanks, man," he croaked. "That's a great way to, uh, umgmm, umgmm, wake up in the morning."
Whalen is the singer/guitarist and main writer for an as-yet-unknown L.A. quartet named Tsar (pronounced Zar). Besides Whalen, there's drummer Steve Coulter, guitarist Daniel Kern and bassist Jeff Soloman. The band formed in 1998, after its members met in college at UC-Santa Barbara, where a few of them were studying to be journalists.
"We figured we'd be writing about music, we had no idea," he says, laughing.
As he gradually comes around, Whalen's sardonic and witty banter casually takes the piss out of everything from Limp Bizkit to his own Christian upbringing in Long Beach (he's revolting against both). He looks for the punch line in everything, like he'd be bored stiff without a gag around every corner. He's like a high school wise-ass saddled with a heady case of attention deficit disorder.
His band is a white-toothed clutter of adolescent exuberance, sexual tension for little girls and well-timed bashfulness. And it's all cleverly applied, like the tear that gets the girl. Wedged cheekbones, unruly hair and swimmers' builds only reinforce Tsar's grip on future rock 'n' roll stardom. There's none of that chest-hair-sprouting braggadocio and tunelessness popular with contemporary hitmakers like Kid Rock who routinely make abominable Great White Hope of Rock 'n' Roll pronouncements.
In 1999, after a string of gigs at Hollywood's Spaceland, Tsar found itself a band with a following. It was also the subject of a bidding war among major labels.
"After four months, we basically started getting offers," Whalen says. "That part of it happened so fast that it almost looked easy."
The record -- produced by Hollywood's senior VP of A&R Rob Cavallo (Green Day, the Muffs, Goo Goo Dolls) -- smoothes the band's obligatory, post-'70s rock irony into a reasonable and discernible singsong context. They aren't too busy lampooning themselves and the linear world floating around them just to show how clever they are or that they are above the brassy histrionics associated with rock 'n' roll.
And as much as Whalen believes in the idea of rock 'n' roll as a life-changer, he's well aware of its absurdity factor.
"I hope we have the right amount of irony. That doesn't mean that we don't believe every word of it. I mean the whole thing [rock 'n' roll] is ridiculous, anyway. You know, "Everybody face us 'cause we're jumping around and playing guitars. This guy over here, he's hitting things with sticks . . .'
"I think the irony of Mick Jagger up there. . . . He might come along and say something really heavy, or might let out a [Whalen imitates a patented, Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out!-era Jagger howl] or he might just be dancing around. And that's all beautiful rock that comes straight from the heart, and its also com-plete-ly silly at the same time.
What makes Tsar great is the group's ability to lure attention without resorting to inflated Kid Rock/Eminem-style tricks, the phony video imaging, PR tidbits and marketing devices used to create an "aura." Tsar's aura is innate -- that sociopathy, that abstract thing that can't be simulated or attached by some retailing scheme. When you see Tsar live, you sense it. When you listen to the record, you hear it.
Tsar songs clamor, twist and shout, exhibiting all the qualities that gave Sweet, Redd Kross, the Records and the Dave Clark Five some of the best seven-inch moments in rock 'n' roll history. The best songs of this album -- "Calling All Destroyers," "Silver Shifter," "Teen Wizard," "Ordinary Girl" and "Monostereo" -- revolve around a sugary good nature that gives way to a sex-drugs-rock-'n'-roll anthem machine at the precise moment you thought the song would go the way of the Knack's midriffs.
Whalen prefers words like "timeless" to "back-dated" when describing Tsar's sound.
Tsar in many ways is aligned with glam -- albeit glam in the true Mott/Sweet/Ziggy sense, not the distressing Sunset Strip/"Guns" sense. Anyway, glam as an adjective leaves a vow of box office poison every time.
Since the record isn't out yet, the band has yet to see the inside of punk club staples like CBGB, much less that horrible continent called the Midwest, where mass-produced record-buying teens abide by the millions. In a sound world, a rock 'n' roll band as estimable as Tsar would break and give the kids an alternative to what Whalen describes as the "Woodstock frat-riot kind of vibe" of the moment.