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Gogol Bordello v. Camper Van Beethoven: Another tedious treatise on authenticity. Maybe.
Most of yesterday morning was spent staring at the arse end of a chicken -- actually, seven chickens; the last of two dozen ordered as the barbeque special from Murry McMurray -- and contemplating the music of Gogol Bordello.
I did not then know a thing about Gogol Bordello, save that I'd heard the name, probably on NPR, intoned by one of their fine critics who know impossible things about a wide range of music I've never had time nor inclination to explore. And I liked the album cover, as it sat atop a stack, a vaguely Soviet graphic package designed by somebody named Josh Cheuse featuring a feral looking bare-chested fellow who might as easily have been a Felice Brother.
Indeed, until I had to pull the CD out of the truck, which is easier than pulling feathers from a newly scalded chicken, and involves considerably less excrement (let it be said now: the nearly headless chicken is still creepy when the beak bangs into your leg), I did not realize that this curious ensemble had ascended to Rick Rubin's heights. But they have.
In the meantime, I tried to make sense of what I had been listening to, to decide whether this antic frenzy of cultural pastiche was honest or hustle, or both. Whether it was, as the fighting words here were for some years, an authentic expression and extension of cultural relics, or an appropriation.
The Gillian Welch argument.
To which my answer, for the moment (though memory says it's consistent) says: Is the music any good? In other words, are these Canadian artists more or less authentic purveyors of country music: Hank Snow, Neil Young, or Shania Twain, one from the other?
The album in question from Gogol Bordello is titled Trans-Continental Hustle. It drifts between languages, both sung and played, at a sometimes dizzying speed. In this way I am reminded of Camper Van Beethoven, about whom a long-ago friend and almost sister once said, They sound like summer. And they do, Camper, do, even all these years later.
It never occurred to me to question Camper's authenticity. They came up through punk rock, glancing again other music traditions and incorporating them with such a sure joie de vivre that I'm emboldened to italicize a phrase in a language I don't even remotely speak. They were fun, Camper were.
Gogol Bordello are also fun, some of the time. Fun in a too-much-vodka way. Fun in a take your money out of your wallet before entering the club way. Fun in a are you sure the person you're going home with is the sex you think they are kind of way, although I never was that guy, but I do read the New Yorker.
So that ethnic stew, with more than a hint of danger, infuses Gogol Bordello's album, this one, their fifth if I've counted right, because I came home and turned on the computer and learned a few things. I'd thought, incidentally, this was a band the kids would like, but the kids here -- the three I interrogated, hip enough -- had no idea what I was talking about. But there's another edge, a wilder, wilding edge to this which manifests particularly on the fifth track, "Immigraniada (We Comin' Rougher)" which somehow reminds me of Fatima Mansions' one great song, "Blues for Ceausescu" fused with a Baltic incarnation of the Dropkick Murphys. (There, did I drop enough names in that sentence to prove I was once a music critic?)
Well. The world wide tower of babel tells me that Gogol Bordello is an ensemble swirling around a fellow named Eugene Hutz, a Ukrainian unhomed by Chernobyl, kicked loose across the Europes until he ended up in New York City. He's a DJ, a club figure, a compelling lead singer. He calls his music gypsy punk.
It may be. I would be curious to know what Mark Rubin makes of them, as knows as much about gypsy music as anybody of my acquaintance, but I won't trouble him by asking directly. It may be the real thing, whatever that means these days. I wouldn't be surprised to discover the whole thing was an elaborate artistic hoax, either.
In the end, I suppose it doesn't matter, not really. I was entertained driving out to the farm listening to this furious, swirling mess and imagining dark rooms filled with spilled drinks and long skirts in which it might be played. Lofty lofts. Places I would never have been invited. So it goes.
In this way I am entertained, filling the bucket with dripping blood and white feathers.
I did not then know a thing about Gogol Bordello, save that I'd heard the name, probably on NPR, intoned by one of their fine critics who know impossible things about a wide range of music I've never had time nor inclination to explore. And I liked the album cover, as it sat atop a stack, a vaguely Soviet graphic package designed by somebody named Josh Cheuse featuring a feral looking bare-chested fellow who might as easily have been a Felice Brother.
Indeed, until I had to pull the CD out of the truck, which is easier than pulling feathers from a newly scalded chicken, and involves considerably less excrement (let it be said now: the nearly headless chicken is still creepy when the beak bangs into your leg), I did not realize that this curious ensemble had ascended to Rick Rubin's heights. But they have.
In the meantime, I tried to make sense of what I had been listening to, to decide whether this antic frenzy of cultural pastiche was honest or hustle, or both. Whether it was, as the fighting words here were for some years, an authentic expression and extension of cultural relics, or an appropriation.
The Gillian Welch argument.
To which my answer, for the moment (though memory says it's consistent) says: Is the music any good? In other words, are these Canadian artists more or less authentic purveyors of country music: Hank Snow, Neil Young, or Shania Twain, one from the other?
The album in question from Gogol Bordello is titled Trans-Continental Hustle. It drifts between languages, both sung and played, at a sometimes dizzying speed. In this way I am reminded of Camper Van Beethoven, about whom a long-ago friend and almost sister once said, They sound like summer. And they do, Camper, do, even all these years later.
It never occurred to me to question Camper's authenticity. They came up through punk rock, glancing again other music traditions and incorporating them with such a sure joie de vivre that I'm emboldened to italicize a phrase in a language I don't even remotely speak. They were fun, Camper were.
Gogol Bordello are also fun, some of the time. Fun in a too-much-vodka way. Fun in a take your money out of your wallet before entering the club way. Fun in a are you sure the person you're going home with is the sex you think they are kind of way, although I never was that guy, but I do read the New Yorker.
So that ethnic stew, with more than a hint of danger, infuses Gogol Bordello's album, this one, their fifth if I've counted right, because I came home and turned on the computer and learned a few things. I'd thought, incidentally, this was a band the kids would like, but the kids here -- the three I interrogated, hip enough -- had no idea what I was talking about. But there's another edge, a wilder, wilding edge to this which manifests particularly on the fifth track, "Immigraniada (We Comin' Rougher)" which somehow reminds me of Fatima Mansions' one great song, "Blues for Ceausescu" fused with a Baltic incarnation of the Dropkick Murphys. (There, did I drop enough names in that sentence to prove I was once a music critic?)
Well. The world wide tower of babel tells me that Gogol Bordello is an ensemble swirling around a fellow named Eugene Hutz, a Ukrainian unhomed by Chernobyl, kicked loose across the Europes until he ended up in New York City. He's a DJ, a club figure, a compelling lead singer. He calls his music gypsy punk.
It may be. I would be curious to know what Mark Rubin makes of them, as knows as much about gypsy music as anybody of my acquaintance, but I won't trouble him by asking directly. It may be the real thing, whatever that means these days. I wouldn't be surprised to discover the whole thing was an elaborate artistic hoax, either.
In the end, I suppose it doesn't matter, not really. I was entertained driving out to the farm listening to this furious, swirling mess and imagining dark rooms filled with spilled drinks and long skirts in which it might be played. Lofty lofts. Places I would never have been invited. So it goes.
In this way I am entertained, filling the bucket with dripping blood and white feathers.
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Comment by swt on July 27, 2010 at 3:36pm -
I'm going to see then in New York Saturday. They're playing on the same bill with Primus.
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Comment by Easy Ed on July 27, 2010 at 4:27pm -
...from the poster child for PETA. Good thing you ain't wearing a fur coat as you pluck, or whatever it is you do. I take no offense at all, even in my new-found vegetarianism which is going just fine in it's fourteenth week. It's actually nice to have a place to come where I'm not surrounded by green leaf eating mock-Buddhists. But do tell...I assume that the bucket of blood and feathers aren't compost-able. So what's the disposal method?
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Comment by Kim Ruehl on July 27, 2010 at 4:32pm -
This may be my favorite line of the week: "Fun in a are you sure the person you're going home with is the sex you think they are kind of way, although I never was that guy, but I do read the New Yorker."
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Comment by Grant Alden on July 27, 2010 at 6:17pm -
The offal (truth) is that my father-in-law takes the leftovers to a cliff and tosses it over, where the vultures feast. I came to peace with meat because (a) I like BBQ too much not to eat meat, and (b) it seems ethical to eat what I'm willing to raise, nurture, and...harvest, as the euphemism goes.
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Comment by Grant Alden on July 27, 2010 at 6:21pm
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With Primus? Really? Be interested to hear how that goes together...
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Comment by Rudyjeep on July 28, 2010 at 6:11am -
I saw them a couple years ago and I don't know authenticity, but I had a great time. Similar to the great times I used to have seeing Buster Poindexter and the Banshees of Blue at the old Tramps in NYC. And I know Buster was putting us on....
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Comment by Mark Rubin on July 28, 2010 at 8:37am -
Grant, there's not much to comment on. As you well know, nomenclature means absolutely nothing and that these descriptives are little more than marketing tools rather than cultural identifiers. His music bores me at best but he hires some friends of mine, actual Rroma musicians which I'm sure help him establish "authenticity" which some quarters. As if that word has any meaning anymore as well.
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Comment by Grant Alden on July 28, 2010 at 9:38am
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Thanks, Mark. I think I'm probably too old and too married to really enjoy what he's after, but that was a fun bit to write...
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Comment by DublinBlues on July 28, 2010 at 12:35pm
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I never heard of them either until I saw them at the ACL Music Festival 2-3 years ago. I'm not sure if I'd listen to their CD's on an extended basis, but I'd sure as hell see them live again. They are a scream in concert. Indelible on my mind is the show ending with Hutz with a bottle of red wine in his hand, twirling around, spraying down the entire stage. Between the wine and the sweat, the stage hands were out there afterwards mopping up a LONG time.
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Comment by Brian Rost on August 3, 2010 at 3:55am -
I saw them about two years ago when they were touring on their previous CD. A fantastic show and an interesting fusion...typical of oh-so-hip NYC...of tradition with punk, hip-hop and humor. People who would never listen to real gypsy music were there and having fun. My wife and I probably had 30 years on the rest of the crowd. I had bought that CD, will not likely buy another but I would go see them again. I didn't drink any vodka but I did down quite a few beers!
P.S. Hutz had a major role in the 2005 Elijah Wood movie Everything Is Illuminated which I enjoyed a lot.
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