Beachwood Sparks
(Sub Pop)
2000
In the fall of ‘66, man, L.A. was the place to be. I’m telling ‘ya, all kinds of happening bands were jumping like horny toads into the holes that the Beatles and Dylan had blown into rock and roll, man. The Byrds were totally happening, of course, Roger McGuinn was obsessed with jets, trying to make his guitar sound like a Lear jet taking off, and Neil Young had a band too, man, with Steven Stills and Richie Furay, Buffalo Springfield, great stuff. Man, Arthur Lee, man, his band Love was just outtasite. This freaky dude was freaking people out down at the Whisky with this band called The Doors and the Mamas and Papas, man, “California Dreamin”, man, that said it all. And Zappa! Don’t forget Frank, he was one weird mother, had plans to make a movie with this Howlin’ Wolf freak called Captain Beefheart, and man, they said Brian Wilson was starting fires in his studio, gonna out-Beatle the Beatles, man! This long-haired country singer who just got into town, Gram Parsons, man, that dude was far out too. Man, that was the time...
Hey, listen, I hear you, and Beachwood Sparks do too. Just listen to what guitarist Chris Gunst recently told an interviewer: “We admire what people were doing then. We just wish maybe it could be as peaceful now as it was then.” Hmm. Let’s see, four rail-thin longhairs, pork-chop sideburns, sporting shirts that look like leftovers from "The Horse Whisperer", getting wistful for L.A.’s pre-Altamont days. And, oh yeah, opening shows for Beck, getting hot-picked by the Times of New York and L.A., as well as being writ up in the latest issue of new country’s hip rag, No Depression, which also featured a full-page ad that features the Beachwood Sparks album cover and nothing else. An album, it should be noted, being released by seminal indie Sub Pop, whom the band opted for after a bevy of majors failed to satisfy. For a quartet not yet two years old, with just a pair of rarely-seen singles to its’ credit, the Sparks are indeed flying with band-of-the-moment buzz.
Dip into their eponymous debut and it’s immediately apparent that they’ve soaked up The Byrds, Springfield, Flying Burrito Brothers and Parsons along with choice Moby Grape, Dead and Buck Owens as completely as a blotter of acid used dissolve on David Crosby’s tongue. Specifically, the Sparks dig in where the spare folk groove of The Notorious Byrd Brothers rubs against the creaky harmonica of Young’s After the Goldrush. It is a testament to both the quality of those records and the band’s sharp sensibilities that this audaciously derivative recording doesn’t sound prodigiously stale.
Without grand gesture or chest-thwacking bravado, with rim-shot rhythm in a time when the game is b.p.m. one-upmanship, the Sparks’ album creates a snow-globe world where the past twenty years don’t seem to have occurred at all. They lay under “Desert Skies” pondering “The Calming Seas” and strolling in wonderment through the “Silver Morning After”. Later, they beg the “Old Sea Miner” to “wake us from our winter spell”, and offer the jaunty, jaw-harp driven “See Oh Three”, which hints at the Lovin Spoonful and wouldn’t be out of place on Sesame Street. Their straight-face yearning for natural vibes is the kind of thing ol’ Jed Purdy might enjoy as he bangs out his latest treatise on the connection between wild raspberries and the death of the handshake.
Despite their wide-eyed, back-to-the-Caynon lyrics, the Sparks’ sound shouldn’t chalked up to musical and/or cosmic serendipity. A background check on the Beachwood boys reveals that slide-guitarist Dave Scher and Gurst logged free-form DJ hours at Loyola Marymount’s influential KXLU and bassist Brent Rademaker worked with indie rock journeymen Further. Drummer Aaron Sperske keeps his indie tool sharp in the Lilys.
Not to imply that the whole affair is contrived, either, because that isn’t the case. Beachwood Sparks really comes across as a combination of the two, part willful retrogression and part late-blooming hippie idealism, or perhaps something else, as Gunst explained to Music Connection magazine, “We just started this to play some really good country rock.”
Most compositions are decorated with Scher’s buttery steel licks, but still have far more in common with folk-rock than Parsons’ seminal country rock blend. Given the dangers of playing in such an atavistic style, it’s amazing that the record feels so alive. Even the fact that these 11 songs (not counting three disposable interludes--possibly included for bong-reloading purposes) are mostly about nothing more than staking out the Sparks’ throwback turf is forgivable because, regardless of whether you’re buying the whole Sixties trip, they’re just too damn catchy to overlook. Dig the crackling “Sister Rose”, whose delightfully wavering harmonies tangle with a spiraling guitar, or the stark come-down of “The Reminder”, both possessing melodies that wander into the brain at unexpected moments. “New County”, a Young-ish slice of melancholia, asks “Are you still keeping time in the back of your mind?” Beachwood Sparks might be retro, but after a few spins, it comes alive in the back of your mind, sometimes confusing your mental rock and roll timeline. Ultimately, resisting the Sparks’ charms is futile. You’ll probably feel a whole lot better giving in and letting the tunes wash over you like, well, “The Calming Seas”.
A smattering of speculation has arisen in certain quarters, claiming a movement of “new” folk-rockers (e.g. the Fairport Convention-inspired Continental Drifters) is afoot. While all such thinking should immediately cease, and its’ perpetrators seek professional counseling, watching to see what the Sparks do with their early buzz should prove interesting. Surely a band with such a keen sense of history is well aware of the second-album (and subsequent career) collapses of The Knack, Men Without Hats (anyone listen to Folk Of the 80’s Part Three lately?) and of course Moby Grape. Perhaps the Sparks will just break up right now and fade into obscurity, after all, this whole rock and roll thing is starting to sound kinda...dated.
Washington City Paper, March 2000
