Pearls Before Swine
Jewels Were The Stars
Water Records
pob 2947 SF, CA 94126
This review originally appeared in Ugly Things
A big stink was made a few years back when the hep crowd “re-discovered” Pearls Before Swine and brought them out into a gauntlet of indie-rock backslapping—a beautiful story for those naive enough to think that bands like Yo La Tengo or Galaxie 500 actually had anything to say besides, “umm. . . we like to look at the ground when we play our Velvet Underground-inspired music.” But for those who choose to look further than Thurston Moore’s approving nod for their musical inspiration, may you direct your appreciation towards a certain group of pasty Englishpeople in fatigues who (God bless them) once gave the world a little something called Throbbing Gristle, and in turn, Psychic TV, the spotty spin-off that in between inventing acid house and peddling sound recordings of the last minutes of Jonestown to doe-eyed teenagers, came out with a couple of heavily PBS-influenced folk albums, even going so far as covering “Translucent Carriages” on one of them. This was back in the early 1980s when most future-Terrastockers’ favorite singer still had a middle name that started with a C and rhymed with booger. What I’m trying to say is that PBS were never lost and certainly not forgotten. Anyone who ever had a pressing need for Zig-Zags knows that the Bosch n’ Brueghel posters from the first two records were standard decor in any head shop until the emergence of bands like the Black Crowes stripped away anything vaguely aesthetic associated with pot smoking.
Upon hearing these first two albums, One Nation Underground from 1967 and Balaklava from ‘68, you may be floored to find such earthy genius in a band from New York City where even creeps like Lou Reed got invited to rich people’s parties and had their own personal doctors. But given the fact that PBS were actually from somewhere down in Florida, and through some magical stroke of fate became labelmates with The Fugs, Steve Lacy, and The Godz, then nothing about them should really come as any surprise, especially the music, which sounds as if leader Thomas Rapp, dressed as an astronaut, is channeling Joe Boyd’s witchy coterie from across the Atlantic, only with more radical politics and less radical fairies. But alas, unfortunately I’m not here to review those two records.
The good news is that Rapp didn’t blow his wad right away, which gives me something more to talk about and gives you, dear reader, something to rush out and buy. True, Rapp inked a deal with a major label and ditched most of his original band, and true, he grew a very big beard. But in spite of all this he did manage to put out four more impressive albums under the PBS moniker, which the good people at Water have gathered together for us in one tidy box. But beware, we’re definitely entering a new stage in the life of Swine here. When Rapp and co. moved uptown to Reprise, things were bound to change. And change they did. Goodbye Cro-Magnon, hello Joni Mitchell.
Accompanied by some real-life Nashville musicians and his attractive Dutch wife, Rapp began his “adult” career with an album called These Things Too, a promising collection of his well-honed songwriting abilities which blasts off with the incredible “Sail Away,” a song that would, for lack of a better analogy, straighten Skip Spence’s hair. The instrumentation is, to borrow a term from Guitar Center, tasty, and the noodling is minimal. Unfortunately the album takes a near-fatal hit when Rapp stumbles into a narcoleptic Dylan cover just three songs in. Bloodied but unbowed, he staggers through some more questionable material before emerging victorious nine songs later with the amazing “When I Was A Child” and makes it all better with the ethereal title track.
Wisely, the second album, The Use of Ashes, avoids any such confrontation with inter-artist borrowing. Instead, Rapp relies solely on his own material and is in true form from the get-go, particularly on “The Jeweler,” “God Save The Child,” and the Ray Bradbury-themed “Rocket Man.” When he’s on like he is on this set, there is really no one to compare him too. Rapp is truly in a league of his own.
City of Gold could be considered the “country” PBS album. Apparently it was taken from the same sessions as Ashes but some desk jockey up at Warner must’ve figured it was a good idea to group all the good timey material together because there’s no shortage of it here. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, although fans of Americana roots music might be put off by Rapp’s ubiquitous furriness and bent towards flutes, which explains why John Stewart and Buffy Ford’s record can be found in the cut-out bins while Springsteen’s heartfelt grunting is likened to poetry. Go figure. Unfortunately Rapp again delves into the repertoires of other artists, this time it’s Leonard Cohen, Judy Collins (sung admirably by his wife) and that naughty Frenchman Jacques Brel. Now I’m not sure what to make of Rapp’s version of “Seasons of the Sun,” but do I know that I’m not comfortable discussing it here.
As you might guess, the last PBS album, Beautiful Lies You Could Live In, is like, uh, more mature or something. It’s got gems and it’s got stinkers, “Snow Queen,” “A Life,” and “Got Pain” among the former and, gasp, more Leonard Cohen among the latter. (Note to would-be recording artists: Unless you’re the Fairport Convention please leave Leonard Cohen songs alone.) Now if all this seems somewhat pessimistic to you, think again. I love Pearls Before Swine. Furthermore, some of my favorite records (Strawberry Alarm Clock excluded) have just one or two good songs on them, while Rapp here is averaging about six. Try finding six good songs on Grand Funk’s sixth record. Or better yet, try finding someone who owns it. So how did Rapp do it? Easy, he says, “Make some records in the sixties, fall out of sight for thirty years and don’t die. That is the secret.”