Music News

Fairy Warning

In previous installments of this column, we've sufficiently covered the mail part of our equation -- how the music written and recorded by you good people out there arrives at our doorstep. We've discussed in excruciating detail the advantages of certain kinds of corrugated mailers and explained how your parcels are sorted by zip code at the post office and looted for anything that sounds like loose change. What we haven't touched upon are muses, those sensuous agents of divine inspiration responsible for every molecule of melody since time began, from the first tribal rain song to that snazzy rendition of "La Cucaracha" programmed into your cell phone. Forget Napster, muses have been downloading songs to blockhead musicians for ages and have gotten none of their just glory.

Until now.

We've done a fair amount of research on the subject of muses and found the following to be true:

1) Muses are by and large always female. Anytime someone claims to have a male muse, it usually ends in disaster -- like when Dennis Wilson referred to Charles Manson as "my wizard."

2) Unlike glorified depictions in sonnets and poems, real-life muses do not have gentle, soothing voices. Most sound like a cross between Tom Waits and Joan Crawford and can cuss a blue streak. Especially after bellowing "You call that a guitar solo?"

3) Their names are usually long and unpronounceably Greek with a lot of consonants clustered together like Mnysekmlostyfanes.

4) Like baseball, muses operate on a kind of farm system. There are national muses just as there are local ones, the latter usually coming up the ranks here in Phoenix or fresh from a demotion from Limp Bizkit. So now, we invite you to check out the following Valley bands and their suspected muse at a club near you, but be forewarned. Muses are pretty but tiny things; it might take four or five Bass ales before you can spot one hovering around the ceiling sprinklers. And if you don't like the sounds you're hearing, don't take it out on a band who's just following a higher power. Instead, roll up this 160-page fly swatter and fight the real enemy.

Extremes of Violet
(Amplify Stimuli Records)

Suspected Muse: Spliffincessicuss, goddess of bong water and navel research

This Phoenix trio has served as the mouthpiece for a psychedelic mosh muse for two years now. While the band's instrumental prowess handily invokes lost nights of scooping the last bits of pot resin out a Hawkwind album cover, and singer Sean Watson has a believable snarl, the muse has left the group a bit shorthanded in the "song" department. Extremes usually get to grooving for a few bars before the magic carpet gets pulled out from under them and they're left to jam until their muse returns with some more weed. Three of four songs are spent freaking out in the key of E, and like Dead Hot Workshop, the band had the temerity to name a song after it. If Extremes can summon up more moments like the powerful "In You" (which features a nice sinister violin) and less formless flapping in the breeze like the opener "Sanctity," the group might be able to snag a national muse like Deftonepavementus, goddess of head shop and foot pedal endorsements.

East of the Sun
Anyone There

Suspected Muse: Davematthewuss, goddess of adult chick rock

This Phoenix quartet occasionally rocks out with the vigor of a heavy metal band, in an effort to counteract the abundance of relationship ballads with "what is it you're looking for?" lyrics. All of this would be rather soothing to the ears if the group's singer wasn't such an uncomfortable cross between Blues Traveler's John Popper and a crusty pirate trying to push a parrot out of his ass. Case in point, "Up for Review," a song about the very thing we are doing now. "It's time my dream came up for review," bellows singer Jerry Scheier in between bouts of yelling "Com-plaaaaaaa-ce-hunnnntaaaahhhh!" (Translation: "Complacent"!) The end result of this growling is adult alternative chick rock that only a guy can like. The kind of guy who insists on having painful nasal surgery without anesthesia because he can "take it."

Known to Eat Their Own Kind

Suspected Muse: Wuhnn-tuh-three-fawwwahh, goddess of speed and elocution

What's the shortest song you can name? The Beatles' "Her Majesty"? Nice try, but that ditty clocks in at 23 seconds. Phoenix punk rockers Grissle impart twice as much worldly wisdom as old Macca in almost half that time with their 13-second blast "I Hate Music." Here in its entirety, re-printed without permission, are its sage lyrics: "It all sounds the same/It's so fucking lame/Bands come and go but the styles stay the same/I Hate Music (four times)/It's junk food for the brain/It's driving kids insane/It's responsible for the problems of today" (repeat chorus).

KEEP PHOENIX NEW TIMES FREE... Since we started Phoenix New Times, it has been defined as the free, independent voice of Phoenix, and we'd like to keep it that way. With local media under siege, it's more important than ever for us to rally support behind funding our local journalism. You can help by participating in our "I Support" program, allowing us to keep offering readers access to our incisive coverage of local news, food and culture with no paywalls.
Serene Dominic
Contact: Serene Dominic
Bob Mehr
Contact: Bob Mehr