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
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In a parallel universe that gets everything wrong, Buzz Osborne and Dale Crover would be capping the Melvins' first quarter-century mulling over whether to wear tuxes or L.A. Dodgers jerseys to their Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony. Melvins albums would've become progressively slicker and more pedestrian over time, but each would've sold appreciably better than the last. By virtue of just hanging in there, they'd have achieved that bland legendary status bequeathed on people like Billy Joel and Jon Bon Jovi. We'd learn in their tearful induction speech by Eric Clapton that late Atlantic Records co-founder Ahmet Ertegun wrote a letter on his deathbed to Jann Wenner, making sure the Rolling Stone publisher knew the Melvins were favored sons, right up there with Big Joe Turner and Foreigner.
Thank goodness we're in the universe where the Melvins used their 25 years to achieve and maintain a level of noxious irritants rarely found in a band that doesn't actually suck. In that time, the Melvins created a heavy sound that music reviewers called "sludge" — metal that didn't so much rock or roll as ooze. By bridging the gaps between Black Sabbath, punk, and post-punk, their influence laid the foundation for the Seattle grunge scene — Brownie points the Melvins themselves might insist you take away, because all that grunge led to was the death of a friend and enough bad music to fill two box sets.
On the eve of their latest album release, we spoke separately to both founding members: Osborne, who provides the infamous Melvins guitar pluck you'd expect from a guy who appears on Fox News' Red Eye for recreational snarking, and Crover, who gives you the more thoughtful and straightforward accounts. Osborne and Crover know they hold an important place in the world of rock, but they also know there's no dumber place to be important than the world of rock. It's that lack of sentiment that allows them to make the albums that groups afraid of losing their massive unit-shifting potential simply don't make. The band's new record, Nude with Boots, is the second Melvins album to include drummer Coady Willis and bassist Jared Warren of the Seattle bass and drum duo Big Business. If you ask Osborne about this successful merger of two bands, he'll tell you, "Actually, it was more like a violent rape."
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"We were ready for a change," he continues. "We'd just kicked out our bass player. And Dale's wife suggested Jared. And I said, 'Why not Jared and Coady? We've already got a drummer and that's why we should do it.'"
Usually, when a veteran band like The Moody Blues or Pink Floyd adds a second drummer, it's because the original drummer can't cut it but is still needed onstage to fulfill an original member quota. The Melvins have two drummers (Willis and Crover) at the peak of their powers in both the left and right channels of your headphones, and three vocalists weighing in on almost every cut, layered, according to Crover, "So it sounds like Queen."
As for laying down the drums, Crover explains that he and Willis "have to see each other. Because Coady's left-handed, it's like looking in a mirror. In the studio, we have a wall between us with a window, but we put everything down pretty much live." Engineer Toshi Kasai confirms that he used 27 microphones to mic the drums, and 30 tracks were used. "Serious? I don't think the studio had them all," Crover says. "With ProTools, the number of tracks is a moot point. We stopped recording to tape with the last album. Most studios you go to now have tape machines there, and it's like a big giant drink coaster."
As far as samplers go, Nude with Boots catches the best of the Melvins, from the riff rock of "The Kicking Machine" and the trademark sludge of "Dog Island" and "The Savage Hippy" to the ambient metal of "Dies Iraea" and the atmospheric "Flush." But the idea of making records to please Melvins fans of all stripes isn't much a motivating factor for Osborne.
"I can't think about that," he says. "Every time we put out an album, we lose fans anyway, because they're unhappy about us not making the same record. But then we get new fans and we lose them with the next record."
What other band would release an album like The Maggot, which had all its songs divided in half? Was this a nod to 8-tracks of a bygone era, or a way for people who like to listen to CDs on scramble mode to deconstruct and reassemble the Melvins?
"Sure, that sounds good," Osborne says with a laugh. "No, we did it that way because we wanted everyone to hear what the middle of the songs sounded like." The Maggot was part of a trilogy that culminated with The Crybaby, which featured the Melvins recording a note-perfect "Smells Like Teen Spirit" with Leif Garrett on lead vocals, as well as a pair of country songs with Hank Williams III. "[Hank III] was disappointed because he wanted to do Melvins-type stuff," Osborne says. "Why else would we play with Hank III if we weren't gonna do country music?"