2007-11 Vital Source Mag – November 2007
Enon
Enon waited only a year between the release of their sophomore album, 2002’s High Society, and their third disc, Hocus Pocus, and to a lot of fans’ ears, the lack of wait time showed. Perhaps the band realized this, because now it’s been a four-year wait for new material. The result, Grass Geysers…Carbon Clouds, is the best news possible for Enon fans: not only is the band back with a vengeance, but they spent all that time producing one of the best indie-rock dance records of the year.? Where Hocus Pocus featured a number of low key, mellow dinner party background tracks, Grass Geysers pushes the dinner table to the side to make room for the dance party. “Mirror on You” sets the pace, all fuzzed-out bass, handclaps and Matt Schultz’s shake-it-shake-it drums, with bassist Toko Yasuda’s pixie voice catching the listener’s attention right off the bat. A scant minute-forty-six later, “Colette” delivers more of the same; the synth-bass jam “Dr. Freeze” provides still more after that, its alien Ed-Wood-film-produced-by-Martians vibe providing the best ring entrance theme for a nonexistent luchador ever heard. The closest the album comes to taking a breather is the fantastic and instantly memorable “Mr. Ratatatatat,” a midtempo stomper that utilizes Enon’s secret weapon—the interplay of Yasuda’s demure Japanese vocals with guitarist (and ex-Brainiac gunslinger) John Schmersal’s barking croon. In an alternate universe somewhere, this song is already a smash chart-topper. That should be taken literally. This band isn’t just otherworldly; they’re multi-dimensional. The best we can hope for in this universe is that club deejays everywhere latch onto the unstoppable dance beats pounding their way out of Grass Geysers and into awaiting ears. If it takes another four years for Enon to produce a follow-up, that’ll be just fine. It’ll probably take many years beyond that to tire of this one.
Nov 1st, 2007 by DJ Hostettler
Union Forever
It’s an unseasonably hot October afternoon in Greendale, and Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses S. Grant are holding a press conference. Looking appropriately pallid and drawn, Lincoln dabs at his brow and scans the crowd, patiently awaiting the next question. Minutes pass. Flies plow through the humid air. People shuffle their feet uncomfortably and General Grant looks like he’s going to pass out. Finally, a doughy, middle-aged man in Packers-flavored Zubaz raises his hand and breaks the silence. “Mr. President,” he begins. “Which battle of General Grant’s recent campaign do you feel has been most important for the Union?” Lincoln clears his throat and starts to answer, but his words are lost on me (something about Pittsburgh?) My brain – usually a finely furnished warehouse of post-collegiate knowledge and Full House trivia – is currently nothing more than an aching, throbbing, hung-over mess from the night before. Now, half-asleep in an overcrowded barn, listening to the Great Emancipator himself yammer on about an ancient, tide-turning battle (Vicksburg?), the events of the past 24 hours begin to blend together. One second it’s “We will never forget the sacrifices of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania,” the next it’s “I now pronounce you husband and wife through the authority of the Universal Life Church of Modesto, California.” Eventually, the two men finish things up and the crowd breaks into applause, snapping me back to the re-enacted reality at hand. I’m at the 4th Annual Civil War Encampment at Trimborn Farm, located in charming Greendale, Wisconsin – a five-minute drive from the Southridge Olive Garden. It’s a quaint event, and not nearly as kitschy as one might expect: basically a home-brewed Renaissance Fair with slightly more historical significance and a lot less jousting. As always, I’m accompanied by my long-suffering girlfriend, who, like myself, finds any event whose itinerary includes the words “Press Conference with Abraham Lincoln & General Ulysses S. Grant in the Threshing Barn” simply too good to pass up. Leaving the confines of the Threshing Barn behind, we take in the sights. Horses stand tethered to trees near a clutch of Union tents and lean-tos on the farm’s west end. The Confederate camp lies 100 yards to the east, just beyond a stone root cellar and an entirely authentic Cousins Subs cart. Barefoot children in Huck Finn suspenders dart past period-costumed women tending to small pit-fires across from a dilapidated pump house. A vintage baseball team playing sans gloves – The Milwaukee Cream Citys BBC – puts on an exhibition near the Jeremiah Curtin House (free tours all year round!). The sound of snare drums and harmonicas is inescapable, and the air is thick with the smell of gunpowder and horse shit. We sit down in the grass near the main field for an infantry firing demonstration. As we watch the “troops” go through an endless series of formations and exercises (prompting one snot-nosed weasel to shout, “Start the war, already!”), I’m struck by the precision, the exactness, the reverence of their actions. It’s a […]
Nov 1st, 2007 by Matt Wild
