#zygomorphic

[240bravotommy-blog]

Self Loathing

Venom pulses through my veins and I am toxic to the touch.

I cover my head to toe in clothes because my skeletons lie with me.

If I could pry my heart from its cage I’d through it to the dirt.

Zygomorphic between the legs and it tastes as it sounds.

My shadows are my stalkers.

My eyes are my killers.

May my concealment equate to you being oblivious.

[friendlyfiremusic]

Trash -- Zygomorphic (2002) (Final Neil CD)

Dear Neil, As I review the last of the albums you sent me over a year ago, it seems only fitting to look back on the gift of these albums as a whole. In a listening pattern typically driven by a lot of thought and research, all these albums could probably best be described as wild cards. But I like that about them. Sometimes it's exciting to start an album having no idea what I'm about to hear--or, alternately, having some concept and watching as reality takes that away. And it's exciting, no matter what the outcome, to ponder and learn and take the lessons and observations into whatever I should hear next. I'll be honest: I've not saved the best for last here. But I always knew I was going to end with Trash's 2002 album Zygomorphic. This is not an album anyone who reads this other than you will ever have heard of. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if you don't even remember sending it to me. It may be the only album I've ever heard with absolutely no online presence. Seriously. Google it. You won't find anything. Only by googling the band name and one of the three musicians who comprise that band could I determine what Trash is: a local band from the Isle of Wight. Probably it's a group of then-high school kids recording in someone's basement. Maybe you even know them, or know someone who knows them. It's music directly from your part of the world, though. So how could I end with anything else? Let's get this out of the way early: Zygomorphic is not a good album. At all. I think we've all heard recordings like this, though. Some distant relative or friend of a friend sends along the hastily recorded demo of someone who may or may not have any actual music ability, and you listen along and nod and act impressed at the first moment that seems to contain some level of musical competence--like the guitar solo in "Joyrider," for example, or the rhythm of the ska-inspired "Driftin' Away." But good is relative. Good has never been more relative. Trash, as a band, is as amateur as amateur gets. The band is comprised of David Careless, Chris Dobbas, and David Granshaw, all of whom are credited with songwriting and performance but none of whom is credited individually for anything, so I have no idea who plays or sings what. But this is the sort of band that features a drummer who can play complex patterns, but even in the studio can't really maintain a tempo. It's the kind of band that features a guitar player who may have genuine chops, but also little chemistry with his bandmates. Actually, honestly, it reminds me a lot of the Hassles. Not in terms of quality--the Hassles, one of Billy Joel's first bands, had dramatically better material, drawing from a number of well-considered covers and a couple of the earliest Joel originals. But the guitar playing for Trash is very much of the same sixties psychedelic mode, with electric washes all over the place and limited coordination with the rest of the instrumentation. The Hassles, I've long maintained, were simply not a very good band beyond Joel himself, and their technical prowess limited the potential of their output. But they were also five Long Island teenagers enjoying themselves and doing what they loved. Trash, though lacking really any competent songs, are doing exactly the same. That's partly why I didn't hate listening to this album. But the truth is that I haven't hated listening to any of these albums, because I've gotten something from all of them. I can tell you now why Spandau Ballet is irredeemable. I can explain why Simply Red simply can't keep up with more technically proficient bands. I can discuss David Bowie's outright weird choices when it comes to selecting his own music. I've learned as a listener and grown as a person through these albums. And of course, some have been excellent additions to my collection: a Beach Boys compilation including some of my favorite songs from childhood; tracks I'd never have picked up from Carly Simon and Rod Stewart; surprising work from groups like Blondie who generally exist outside my frame of reference. Hell, as I write this, sitting on my desk is Life (1995), the second album from the Cardigans--a band I would never even have thought about pursuing until I heard, and seriously enjoyed, their 1996 album First Band on the Moon. I haven't managed a second DeVotchKa album yet, but I'm looking, which is something I'd never have done before hearing 2004's How It Ends. Zygomorphic was never going to be one of those albums. These kids don't have it in them. Whoever sings lead on most of these tracks really can't sing; I'd say his best quality is that he's on key, but really he's not. His voice is all force, and his collaborators aren't any better, which leads to some appropriately sloppy harmonies. The lyrics are inane. There's not a single moment on this album that defies expectations, and it's hard to imagine any of these people continuing to pursue music (or at least songwriting). And I thank you for it just the same. Thank you, Neil, for all the unexpected listening adventures you have given me over the last couple years or so. I haven't loved every album, but I've treasured every experience. Whether or not you can remember sending it, thank you for Zygomorphic, an awful recording I'm probably one of the only people in the world ever to hear. Thank you for the thought that went into sending me these albums and the trans-Atlantic friendship that inspired it. When I first received these albums, I wasn't sure how I was going to handle the listening process. I didn't want that much unexpected material in one blast, so I opted to add one of your gifts to the pile every six listens. From this point on every album in my stack is one I picked out for myself, and while that may mean work more consistent to my tastes, I can already tell I'm going to miss the adventure and the surprises. You've made this hobby of mine a lot more fun. Sincerely, Harrison P.S. No YouTube video for this one. Because, you know. It's Trash.