Bobgoblin's 12-Point Master Plan: Never Sell Out

A look back at a relatively obscure classic from 1998, The 12-Point Master Plan by Bobgoblin.

Relevant links: Text post on Bobgoblin's Love Lost for Blood Lust, my 2016 Album of the Year

Chomsky's "Selections:" Rebooting With Possibilities

Review and Discussion on Chomsky’s 1999 release A Few Possible Selections to the Soundtrack of Your Life.

Relevant Links:

I consider this album to be my 2000 Album of the Year

Moving, Bobgoblin, and "Denton Escape Velocity"

Many years ago, when I had barely been playing Chapman Stick for a matter of months, a jazz pianist friend of mine (whom we shall refer to as “Breakfast”) was kind enough to invite me out to play in a pizza joint on the square with Paul Slavens. I just barely stumbled through the gig. I am not sure what I played, and in retrospect I am sure there were some embarrassing moments, but I made it, nonetheless. I distinctively remember playing a song called Denton Escape Velocity, which described a fascinating phenomenon: it is possible to leave Denton, but you have to be going REALLY fast. Otherwise, you just get sucked back into orbit. As are many of Slavens’ best songs, it was satirical, funny, and inarguably true. Many people who leave Denton seem to come back.

I moved to Denton in 1989 to go to UNT, and I stayed in the city’s orbit for nearly twenty years. When my wife and I finally left the metroplex in 2008, I thought for sure that I had reached Denton Escape Velocity and that my path would lead me away from my second home. I was wrong.

There have been several issues with our life in Austin that have become impossible to ignore.  I have been increasingly dissatisfied with aspects of my position.  The rising cost of living in the city has made it impossible to subsist on our teacher’s salaries.  We have not found a sustainable plan for getting P into kindergarten that doesn’t turn her into a latchkey kid at age 5. These and other nagging problems made the idea of a change more and more appealing. My wife and I began putting out some feelers in Austin, Houston, and the northern DFW metroplex to see if we could land something that would resolve some of these problems. Being an elementary art teacher, she got the first real bite.

And don’t you know where it was?

Denton.

She was offered a position at a brand new elementary school in a reputable district, and we decided that she should accept. Not only would she take the lead at a new school, but she felt so confident in the school’s philosophy that we both felt comfortable about P attending with her. Additionally, P and EJ could grow up in Denton, which is more like the Austin of my youth than the ridiculously overcrowded, overpriced, self-important, bloated mess that the city has sadly become. I would much rather let my kids make fond memories of dancing the polka to Brave Combo at Denton’s Christmas Tree Lighting on the Square than inhaling car fumes at the Trail of Lights.

Seems oddly fitting, then, that after almost two decades, one of my favorite bands from Denton’s big live music boom of the 90s has released a new album this year. Back when I played with Fletcher, we had a few projects that we openly supported whenever we could, and one of them was Bobgoblin. They had all the accessible punk-pop aesthetic of Green Day, but tempered it firmly with the virtuosity, intensity, and intellect of Rush. Plus, they wore uniforms.



They were a great live act whose musicianship far exceeded any superficial preconceptions surrounding the punky style in which they played. I particularly remember finding it difficult to take my attention away from drummer Rob Avsharian. His playing was always a presence, and often a subtle one. He was Bobgoblin’s spark plug, not unlike Terry Bozzio was when he played with the Missing Persons in the 80s. Avsharian could energize a relatively straightforward rhythm simply by aggressively nailing it deep in the pocket, but he could also throw out highly technical and melodic passages when it served the song.

Bobgoblin had a major release in 1997 called the 12-Point Master Plan that deserves its own dedicated post at some point, but for now let’s suffice it to say that it was and still is personal favorite. Since then, the band has been active at varying levels and in different forms, but no plans for a new full-length Bobgoblin release have ever been announced - until recently.

Several months ago, plans for the release of Love Lost for Blood Lust, the first full Bobgoblin album in nearly twenty years, began to surface. Early recordings were posted and taken down.  Partial digital releases were teased on Amazon and other major outlets.  Finally, earlier this year, the album was released in full form on disc.  I ordered it directly from the Bobgoblin site and amazingly, it picks up right where the band left off. The consistency between it and its predecessor belies the decades-long gap that exists between them – a continuity that stands in tribute to Bobgoblin’s unwavering mission statement.



It is important to note, however, that Love Lost for Blood Lust is not a rework of the 12-Point Master Plan. It is a more mature album, but as with most things Bobgoblin, its maturity is only subtly revealed. Superficially, they still present themselves a purveyors of angular, riff-driven, intensely delivered power pop with a countercultural edge. Inside these infectious tunes, however, hide dense production, complex rhythms, and an almost sarcastic mastery of the power chord’s harmonic ambiguity. None of these features are new to Bobgoblin, of course, but they are expressed on this album in way that suggests decades worth of consideration, rather than a spontaneous rehash.



Love Lost for Blood Lust has the sense that it is a labor of love made for long time fans of the band, with the optimistic undercurrent of raising visibility in the process. It is certainly being released to a much different world than its predecessor. Gone are the days of beating the streets to get a record deal and getting gypped by the company. For better or for worse, artists today have much more creative control over their work and often have a direct line toward their audience. I for one am very grateful to have the opportunity to dip my toe in 90s nostalgia without living in the past as I end one era of my life and usher in another.

The Reach: Half of One, Two Thirds of the Other

When I was involved in the 90s Dallas music scene, I saw countless bands, but there were probably a handful of them that I genuinely got behind. One of them was a Dallas-based band called The Reach. We played a gig with them once at The (now defunct) Green Room, and I bought their debut CD Closer on the spot. Although I wasn't entirely convinced that the album really captured the band, it was an enjoyable listen.



What I found appealing about The Reach, more than anything else, is the fascinating way in which they blended the sounds of two very distinctive bands together into a cohesive style. It was as if two thirds of Rush (specifically, guitarist Alex Lifeson and drummer Neil Peart) and half of R.E.M. (singer Michael Stipe and bassist Mike Mills) all sat in with one another and, against all odds, found common ground. While it might be easy to judge the band for wearing these influences on their collective sleeve, I always thought it worked incredibly well in a live setting. They won me over as a fan, and I looked forward to playing gigs with them.

Time came and went: the Dallas music scene crashed and all the bands from that era that I connected with broke up. The great live work of many of these bands was flattened into the various CDs that I got at their shows. The independent studio practices of the day, despite being terribly expensive, often rendered these artifacts sadly muffled, unclear, and bereft of soul.  In most cases, however, they are all that I have left from that time. I was a little distraught, then, when I discovered in 2008 that somewhere along the line, my copy of Closer had disappeared.

I set out on a search to see if it was even possible to replace the album, and I found, to my surprise, that there was another chapter in The Reach’s timeline. The guitarist/lead singer had moved to Colorado after the Dallas scene imploded, but through MySpace, he eventually reconnected with the drummer, who was still living in the Metroplex. They collaborated remotely (which was much less common in the early 00s than it is now) and completed their sophomore album Lift in 2003. I contacted the band about replacing my copy of Closer, and they were kind enough to send me both albums.



Lift really impressed me when I first received it. As I have been revisiting it over the past couple of weeks, however, I am of the opinion that as a studio project, it has a conviction and clarity that renders its predecessor obsolete. Over the course of its thirteen tracks, it thunders and strums, convincingly overlapping the desolate rhythms of Grace Under Pressure with the fervent wailing of Document.  It is actually a great album that stands independent of any nostalgic ideals I hold of my time in the thankless, but interesting, Dallas music scene.  I highly suggest taking the time to track it down and give it a listen in full.

Seryn: More Than A Band of Foxes

I put This Is Where We Are on my list early this year after countless ringing endorsements from many people whose musical opinions I respect, but I just never quite got around to ordering it. It’s not that I didn’t try - I looked into Seryn on a few occasions, and there was nothing about them that I didn’t like, but, despite having some common ground with the Fleet Foxes (whose album Helplessness Blues was my top album of 2011), they didn’t quite hook me into taking the plunge. Still, advocates of the band were unrelenting. Finally, one devoted fan, who is an ex-student and fellow blogger, was insistent enough to send me a copy of This Is Where We Are through the mail. You can’t get much more fervent backing than that.



So, OK, I get it already. Especially as a relatively young, local Denton group just starting to get their work more widely recognized, Seryn is impressively mature.  When I was involved in the Denton “scene” in the late 90s, it was not much more than an appendage of the Dallas live music scene, which circled greedily around the promising success of Deep Blue Something and Tripping Daisy. More and more, I am surprised to see adventurous Denton bands getting national and international attention through current information sharing conduits.  Unlike the pop feeding frenzy that preceded it, the current Denton scene seems more artistically motivated.

As an example, there is a lot more to Seryn than is superficially apparent. At first, I thought that they neatly occupied a space right between Fleet Foxes and the Band of Horses, so I jokingly referred to them as the Band of Foxes.  In the long run, however, this easy and prematurely flippant categorization did not do justice to the way the album evolved in my experience. The tone of This is Where We Are is a bit restrained on the surface, but peeling back the layers reveals a vibrant, radiating, creative center.  Although I still think that they have a certain Appalachian tone that overlaps the Fleet Foxes’ style, there is also Peter Gabrielesque transcendentalism that lifts their work above being merely “folk.”



Also, it does not take much insight to see that Fleet Foxes is centered on the inestimable talents of Robin Pecknold. In comparison, Seryn feels more like a collaborative effort. The band's identity is generated by the synergistic interactions of the band's members rather than a singular musician’s presence. Seryn does, indeed, have some standout performers, but their individual musicality focuses purely on enriching the moments that arise in their music as it happens

Obviously, although I do get a kick out of discovering good music out of the widely available options, I find it much more gratifying to spread the word on local artists with a smaller visibility profile. Seryn has their own distinctive approach - one that I think that is artistically gratifying but also harbors the potential to be widely popular. By potential, I don't mean to imply that sometime in the future, they might release a great album. Seryn has an audience out there right now: This is Where We Are would not be out-of-place playing overhead during your daily Starbuck's constitutional, a medium that by itself probably reaches more people a day than current commercial radio.

The Days, The Grays, and the Life of Mork

The sound of live music in Dallas during the 90s was generally a wash of post-Smashing Pumpkins groups vying to be "The Next Nirvana." Due to the gentle flapping of Jellyfish's wings, however, there was a powerful undercurrent of melodic rock aimed at reimagining the work of the Beatles. I was caught up in this undertow during my stint as a semi-professional rock musician. As a result, for several years the majority of my diet of "new" music was coming from power pop bands, many of them local to the Dallas area.

One of my favorites from this scene was The Days. This amazing trio had brilliant songwriting and stellar three-part harmonies that distinguished them from the crowds of unfocused, jangly pop groups. Additionally, they turned out to be three really nice guys. The Days' debut CD, The Mystery of the Watched Pot, was enviably good. Like the output of many independent bands from the pre-internet 90s, however, this great album is probably doomed to obscurity. I can't guarantee that there are any copies still in existence besides the one in my collection. Streaming clips and MP3s of The Days seem to be nonexistent and the only footage that I have found of them is this early and pretty murky clip from Club Dada.



(UPDATE! Streaming Days track found!  Also, album available here! Enjoy!)



Even with all of the available resources of the internet, relating a really good impression of what they were like when I was into them may be nearly impossible. However, the Days included many great cover songs in their set lists, and this one by The Grays fit them so well that I was convinced, for a very long time, that it was a Days original.

This track, written by Grays guitarist Buddy Judge, is from their singular 1994 release Ro Sham Bo. This album is also relatively obscure entry and has long been out of print, but it is an incredibly important recording in the 90s power pop timeline.  In retrospect, The Grays was a supergroup of incredible musicians before they became super. In addition to Judge, the Grays were also led by Jason Falkner, who had just left Jellyfish in frustration due to lack of creative input, and a young Jon Brion on bass whose studio career had just barely begun. Although all of these musicians had impressive resumes when they formed the Grays, their careers were still mostly in front of them. 



With three distinct songwriters the group, Ro Sham Bo could have been easily been uneven, but the album is unified by their common melodic interest and shared harmonic vocabulary, which allowed the divergences in their writing styles to add variety.



I had a copy of Ro Sham Bo in the mid 90s, thanks to the emergence of CD burning technology and the generosity of Paul, the Days' drummer. I eventually purchased a legit used copy from Amazon. Both this and The Mystery of the Watched Pot are amazing albums that are absolutely worth hunting down. They also have a personal nostalgic value because they mark off a period of time, one that I have been contemplating today in particular.

Mork hanging at the sink, circa 2005

Rick, the Days’ bassist, took a turn singing lead on their cover of Nothing and was the granddaddy of my cat Mork, who I lost this morning after a long and happy life.  Mork originally came from world of live gigs and bass rigs that existed long before I was a teacher or properly tied a white belt around my gi.  He traveled as my companion free of condition through some incredibly difficult times and saw me into happier ones.  I loved and appreciated him in ways that I am sure he did not fully understand, but I am convinced that, given the gift of words, he would have said the same about me.  Mork was, and probably always will be, the only cat I ever had the honor of really knowing.  I will miss him terribly.

Four Hands of Ten: Paul Slavens and the Dead Kenny G's

The setting: August 1989.  My parents had just walked out of my dorm room in Bruce Hall at the University of North Texas.  For the first time, I was alone and acutely aware of the changes I was about to go through, and to say the least I was in a state of silent panic.  My roommate, whom I owe a debt of gratitude for putting up with me as I learned to be a roommate myself, suggested we go see a band called Ten Hands.  Music can be a salve when life changes around you, and Ten Hands not only provided the soundtrack and many Thursday evening social events during that confusing time, they also ended up being an influence on my personal musicking (their bassist was the first person I had ever seen play a Chapman Stick).

Ten Hands struggled to “make it” in those pre-internet days, and, sadly, despite having incredible material, stellar musicianship, and great, great live shows, after probably too long they fizzled out.  There were many incarnations of the band, but my introduction came in the form of a tape called “Kung Fu….That’s What I Like.”  If you were around me at all during this period in my life, I probably stuffed that tape down your throat like it was the cure for what was ailing you.

Ten Hands released three CDs, but I have to say that if you were not there during the time that they were in their ascendancy, you missed it.  None of their recordings came close to capturing what the band did live, and filming a band in those days meant lugging a huge and unsexy camcorder around.  As a result there is very little documentation of them in their prime.  The album that should have been their breakout was “Be My Guru,” which you can still get, and its good, but due to a production problem, you will have to turn up your stereo ridiculously loud to even hear it.  I’m afraid you just had to be there.

Just because a band dies off, however, does not mean that its members do.  Some members of Ten Hands became sought-after studio musicians, while others quit the music scene altogether.  Last year, two ex-Ten Hands members had albums that made my personal top ten, and since you are probably not going to run across these albums anywhere else, it’s time for more medicine.

For all intents and purposes, Paul Slavens was Ten Hands.  He was the lead singer and primary songwriter, and his charismatic humor and musical ability was the glue that held the band’s performance together.  After the band dissolved, he eventually became a bit of a personality in the Dallas/Fort Worth area as a radio host.  His self-titled radio show plays every Sunday night at 8 and it’s a great source for getting exposed to new music (that’s where I got into Deefhoof).  Until recently, Slavens was also known for his longstanding Monday night gig at Dan’s Bar in which audience members would tip him to create a song based on a title that they would provide.  These improvised songs were always entertaining, often pretty good, and sometimes ingenious.  Just don't ask for any Ten Hands songs.  Trust me on this one.

Last year, he released his first solo album, “Alphabet Girls Vol. 1,” which is pretty ingenious all the way through.  Each title in this collection is based on a woman’s name that starts with one of the first 14 letters of the alphabet.  In lesser hands, this concept might be considered a constraint, but Slavens effortlessly imbues each piece with unique character.  In some cases, it is not hard to visualize the archetypical smoky piano bar that may have inspired songs like “Abigail” and “Frieda.”  In others, though, the bar is closing and the pianist who has exhausted his role as an entertainer reveals a more intimate and intellectual side in compositions such as “Clara” and the minimalistic “Janice” (this latter song has my favorite lyric delivery of almost any song in 2010).  This is a radio performance of the “L” entry, “Lucy:”

On the total other end of the stylistic spectrum, percussionist Mike Dillon was a very early member of Ten Hands.  Dillon went on to form his own group Billy Goat, and performed with several experimental groups such as The Black Frames, Critters Buggin, and, most visibly, Les Claypool’s Flying Frog Brigade.  His most recent project, however, is the Dead Kenny G’s.  

I know, right? Best.  Name.  Ever.

At least the most appropriate.  Undoubtedly, Kenny G stands for everything that these guys are against: musical ignorance, record company intervention, commercialism, disingenuous performances, managers, et cetera.  These guys are angry and cynical, and have the chops to really drive that point home.  Getting these three innovators onstage in a live setting is like watching nuclear fusion up close with no sunglasses.  Of particular note is saxophonist Skerik, whose electronically altered “saxophonics” never pushes the instrument past what is essentially a saxophone sound.

Additionally, I suspect that Dillon is a soundman’s nightmare.  The entire right part of the stage is dedicated to his percussion setup, which includes drumset, vibes, tabla, electrics, timbales, a whole mess of effects, and God knows what else he is messing with when he disappears.  It’s not just all for show, either - he plays all of it.  Often, he plays vibes and drumset simultaneously, holding combinations of sticks and mallets in both hands.  Still, he plays as if he just can’t get enough sound out of what he has in front of him.

Gotta say, it’s hard to capture that on a recording, but The Dead Kenny G’s album “Bewildered Herd” is right up there with Mr. Bungle and John Zorn as some of my favorite avant-garde punk-jazz-whatever out there.  Incidentally, the ghost of Fela haunts this band, too – they were covering “Zombie”” for awhile.

I apologize for making this one a little longer than usual this time, but there are multiple threads between these two CDs that make me resist breaking them up.  The main point is, despite having watched these two musicians grow in totally different directions (and grow they have), that first Ten Hands show in 1989 is still reverberating in my listening today.