PULP MUSIC
Stand up! Hey! What? Press your faces against the
windowpane of the future: for I have heard the future of Rock 'n Roll and it's
name is Scopdom Scop's Equine Spring. The Scopsters have taken every rock
movement, every sound, every hackneyed cliché and every light of pure genius
and mashed them all into a wooden bowl. They've taken this paste and smeared it
onto their bodies like a Jimson music drug; they walk the ceiling of the Amazon
jungle and talk to birds. This is simply the greatest two sides of music ever
cut: better than Brian Auger with Trinity, better than The Seeds, better than
The Cars' Candy-O, side two.
Sit down! Smoke! Make a date for a haircut. Side one
opens with the searing, playful "Dear
Lover" in a groove reminiscent of
Tangerine Dream at their best (say, the Soundtrack from Thief). But we
soon find out this is no Sunday ride on the Autobahn as Met Fields utters the
opening "Dear Lover" - we begin a nightmarish 'lude ride from hell.
Every fear you've experienced or imagined comes to life and vibrates in your rib
cage and you can't turn it off. I spoke extensively with
guitarist-percussionist-keyboard man Sid Hartha about this album, and I still
have no clue. Which is as it should be. Anyway, you're wasted after one tune, so
we mellow out with the "Pinch
Her" hillbilly-funk groove, a la Flying
on the Beatles' Magical Mystery Tour. If this tune were film, it would be noir.
The placement is superb. I would use this song to open my movie. It's about two
guys who save a lot of money they've either stolen from the Mob or got selling
junk bonds, I don't know yet. They meet in Leed, South Dakota, to gamble at the
casinos (Vegas would be too risky, unless they were junk bond salesmen).
Anyways, since they're not good people, they die hideously at the end, maybe
some Native American Sioux kills them. And yes, the trumpet is a nice touch
since it is apparent that nobody really plays.
Hep cats! Hip! Eat some more grapes. Share the land.
Next up is "Trance
Hero", an awesome tune where Fields
sounds like Sting if Sting had talent. The music isn't important here, just the
sheer desperation. That's all we need to hear. But ho! It's a set-up for the
mesmerizing, hauntingly beautiful "Shut
Up! I Have Not Risen". If I have
failed to mention lyricist Michael Zugin so far, it's because I've been waiting
for this. Zugin creates a master- piece of Post-Jungian angst, the imagery of
Norman Rockwell on acid. We not only see the portrait of the artist smoking his
hash-pipe, we see him painting others in a foreign, neon language. Zugin's words
are weapons, semi-automatic, the safety released. Fields delivers them like 10%
of the Post Office, handing out the bills that have come due for Rock 'n Roll as
his tongue dances on the razor's edge of a Carl Sandberg world. (Note: the companion
video for Shut Up!... is also a treat,
directed by Zugin. I detect obvious Rockwell influences again.)
You think to yourself, "whoa! this is over
now", but wait, do some stretching exercises, there's a whole 'nother side.
Get up! Kick! Side two steamrollers into "Hazel
Was Here", loping along on Hartha'
rhythmic, primitive drumming and buzzsaw guitar. Afterwards there is still no
reprieve as we bound into "Louisiana
Girls", Fields and the boy pummeling
every word and note. This jam is the open road, the road to apocalypse. I
had a dream like this once. They made me remember. Help me. Slamming home side
two are a pair of live cuts that show the power of Scopdom Scop in the flesh,
and sometimes with clothes on. "Bloud
Of Me" (not a typo) kickstarts the
beginning of the end with fierce vocals and ominous instrumentation. We have
indeed entered the nether-world, and there is no escape. I tried to turn it off,
turn the damn thing off but I couldn't. Jung says we must confront our dark
side, so I finished it out.
"Stroke Victim" is nothing short of holocaust. It is as if Zugin has written T.S.Elliot's last will and testament and given it to Fields and told him his voice was an aerosol can with the spray stuck open... and he would light the match. He is burning, burning, the world's on fire, the lyrics plain but stated with an awe for simple existence only few have been able to express elegantly (Elliot; Bill Cosby's Why Is There Air, To Russell My Brother...), beneath it all Hartha' sacred, holy keyboards, the drums a mid-tempo march, propelling us to follow, march, we are heading straight for hell, all of us, straight into hell, Met says "Thank you, good night". No, thank you, Scopdom Scop. Thank you and sleep tight. May God bless and keep Scopdom Scop. The bed was in the living room... what else is there left to say. The audience liked it because I heard them clapping... Shanti, shanti, shanti.
ALEX RAFFERTY
October 1994
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