Charles Douglas’s various 1997 recordings (including three full albums ‘The burdens of genius’, ‘The spiders are getting bigger’ and ‘The lives of Charles Douglas’) mostly fell into the abyss of obscurity, a fate they no doubt deserved, but they neatly showed up how far the contemporary lo-fi scene had strayed from its original spark. Listening to these records you might legitimately ask yourself if the artist is mentally ill. According to his own recollections, he might well have been: ‘I’d run out of money to get cd’s made myself, my girlfriend had dumped me, and my insane drug-fueled antics had alienated my few friends and supporters […] I temporarily moved back into my parents’ basement and slept on a piece of carpet on the floor, and used a drain in the center of the room as my toilet. […] The person I’d been just a few years ago was long gone. I didn’t know where that person had gone! I wasn’t even aware that the songs I was recording were becoming increasingly demented. I was still trying to write straight-up pop songs. In my mind, Prince was now my only real competitor.’
These records, of which ‘The burdens of genius’ is the best, offer a concentrated dose of everything that made lo-fi great: a confused man-child with an unhealthy Prince fixation, under the influence of who knows how many substances, looking for love, lashing out at humankind, all the while recording vague or non-existing songs to the best of his limited abilities.
Douglas recorded one further basement album (1999’s ‘Haunting & daunting’) and one attempt at a professional record – well, it has Moe Tucker on drums – (2001’s ‘Statecraft’, one of my favourite records of this century, no less). Then he promptly disappeared. His work continues to be reissued and picks up a couple more fans every edition. All he needs is a Volkswagen commercial.
All this begs the question if Charles Douglas ever really existed? Some historians counter that he’s just too perfect. Was he real, and if so, where did he get recording tape? In fact some are of the opinion the story of Charles Douglas was a particularly obscure apology from Lou to lo-fi.
---
We’re at the end of lo-fi. Between 1996 and 1998 most all of the early ‘90s stalwarts threw in the towel. Some hung on a little longer than others. Some effectively quit the music industry, some adapted. Bill Callahan is touring with the national symphonic orchestra as we speak. But the era ended. As a cultural loss its only parallels are the moment Paul McCartney stopped smoking pot, or when Phil Collins replaced Robbie Robertson as Disney’s soundtrack go-to guy.
But not without one final concerted effort from the lo-fi community. Their ‘Do they know it’s Christmas’ if you will. The rising costs of recording tape, the increasing security measures surrounding Lou Barlow’s turkey farm, made it impossible for the lo-fi artists to continue working in their field. Spiral Stairs organized a last ditch recording tape collection. If everyone chipped in with the last bits of tape they had lying around, they just might have enough left for one last lo-fi record. Everyone chipped in – Will and Bill, Mike D, the Kirkwoods, Murph, Gene and Dean Ween, Daniel, Paul McCartney -, it was a great success. At the end they had thirty minutes of tape.
The choice for recording artist fell on up and coming talent Liam Hayes who had impeccable credentials. Under an alias he had once played with the guy who took the cover shot for Slint’s iconic ‘Spiderland’. In true lo-fi fashion however, they forgot to tell him. When Liam arrived at the make shift studio shack he had nothing prepared. But anyway, they sat him down at the piano and he played his heart out for thirty minutes and that was it. Near the end a lost tubaplayer drifted in and got out three bursts of melody before they could wrestle him down. The tape rolled on.
Behind the glass a crow of lo-fi artists was watching the demise of the only thing in this world they held dear. It was the only tear Bill Callahan ever shed.
The record bombed, of course.
---
[Palace’s 1997 album ‘Lost blues and other songs’ was the last resort of the artist without means of recording, a compilation of earlier EP’s and 7”-singles. The black cover represents the hole Palace and lo-fi as a whole fell into.]
A couple years later police officers finally made their way up to Lou Barlow’s isolated turkey farm. No one had heard of its owner for at least three years. They broke through the security perimeter to find a deserted ranch in disrepair. Inside was a long decayed body. The turkeys had used it as their sole food source before they too had died. Since there were no dental records for Lou Barlow, a positive ID was never made.
The tabloids were in frenzy. Many suppositions were published without any supporting evidence. Who among the lo-fi community did not have cause? Was it Bill Callahan who never forgave Lou for associating lo-fi with the clean life when he soundtracked ‘Kids’? Was it Mike D who could never forget the humiliation of his first round exit in ‘How Lou can you go’ when his lifelong dream was to be a tortured recording artist? Was it Murph whose singer-songwriter career never took off and who once wrote a song about Lou called ‘The freed pig’? Paul McCartney who wanted his ‘McCartney II’ copyrights back, now that unexpectedly they’d become worth billions? Robert Schneider fearing exposure as a government stool with Lou Barlow losing himself in lo-fi alias Charles Douglas? Or was it Will Oldham who couldn’t bear another lo-fi musician with messianic pretensions and who released a song on ‘Arise therefore’ called ‘Ha ha Lou You have [spam filter] in your hair and your guts are hanging out’. Or Spiral Stairs wanting to free the tape recording supply to the world?
The tapes were never found. Presumably Lou hid them fearing another turkey farm security breach. But once we find ‘em, lo-fi will rise again. Meanwhile, I’m waiting…
The End
Geen opmerkingen:
Een reactie posten