Rock 'n' Roll is Dead and the Jesus and Mary Chain Don't Care
Request
1998
1998
There was a time, not all that long ago, when Jim Reid would have blended seamlessly into the scene at New York City's cartoonishy decadent Whisky Bar. But having dispensed with the black leather, wrap-around shades, and speed- freak snarl, the Jesus and Mary Chain frontman looks slightly out of place, exuding a tension that only starts to evaporate a few beers into a grey midtown afternoon.
"I didn't want to be an embarrassment like Mick Jagger, squeezing myself into leather trousers at 60," says Jim, whose mien at the advanced age of 37 is more of that of a vacationing grad student than a rock terrorist. "But to us, the point of it was never in the look or the additude - which some people always try to emphasize. We've always worked really, really hard on our songs in order to get every note right."
That's one reason the Jesus and Mary Chain has outlived a laundry list of Brit-rock saviors who popped up in its wake. Yes, the band's members said they wanted a revolution - and all but set one in motion with the mega-distorted tones of breathtaking early albums Psychocandy and Darklands. Those who bothered to peel back the skin, however, saw a more reasoned rebellion than punk's unilateral hatred of all that had come before. Deep in the recesses of the Jesus and Mary Chain's grooves, listeners could hear the Velvet Underground, of course, but also the Beach Boys, the Shangri-La's, and countless other pure pop purveyors past.
That mix is fully evident on Munki, the band's first "proper" album in more than half a decade (the intervening years saw the realease of two retrospectives and one pseudo-unplugged disc, 1994's largely overlooked Stoned & Dethroned). The 17 songs buzz with conflicting emotions, evident in "Perfume"'s duet between Jim's older brother, William, and ex-girlfriend Hope Sandoval (of Mazzy Star), as well as the unblinkingly self-examining "I Can't Find the Time for Times."
Most compelling, however, are the Reid brothers' odes to the music itself: Bookended by the dissmissive "I Hate Rock 'N' Roll" and the slightly starrier- albeit fairly dark - "I Love Rock 'N' Roll," the album is a vertable Cliff Notes to the music's more meaningful moments, replete with such archetypal Jesus and Mary Chain songs as "Supertramp" and "Mo Tucker" (which is sung by the Reids' younger sister, Linda).
"Rock 'n' roll is so out of fashion these days that people don't even use the term any more," Jim says, his eyes suggesting an epiphany is on the horizon.
"I blame that on rock. See, when I think of rock 'n' roll, I think of the Stooges and Eddie Cochran and Suicide; when I think of rock, I think of Van Halen and things like that. From the very beginning, we were literally offended that similar words were used to describe us and bands like that who were total shite."
The Reids formed the Jesus and Mary Chain nearly 15 years ago, largely in an effort to produce a one-way ticket out of East Kilbride, Scotland, a prefab suburb the singer describes as "one tiny patch of green looking exactly like the next tiny patch of green." Abetted by an ever-changing crew of mates (including Primal Scream's Bobby Gillespie, who served as drummer for a long spell), the Reids courted fear and loathing by trashing club stages after volatile 15-minute sets.
In retrospect, Jim says the band wasn't trying to be particularly snotty - or revolutionary, for that matter. "I'm incredibly shy and I was terrified to even face an audience for years," he reveals, while admitting he's lost a fair amount of hearing as a side effect of all that amp-hugging. "You see, I thought I'd never be as good as Iggy, never roll around in broken glass and bleed for people. I would combat those feelings by getting as drunk as possible and turn my back to the crowd."
He hasn't entirely broken that habit, by all accounts: A short promo appearance in L.A. this spring grew even shorter when the Reids took a dislike to an industry-heavy audience and stalked off after a few liquor-soaked songs. "We're not so paranoid and uptight these days, although that show was the exeption to the rule," Jim says, groaning at the memory.
The brothers' paranoia had receded in part because of healthier - and, by all accounts, more financially equitable - deal with Sub Pop Records. Jim says the band needed more time to regroup after "getting fired" by execs at Warner Bros., who showed the Jesus and Mary Chain the door after hearing rough mixes of about half the songs on Munki - in part because the Reid have been all-too- successful in maintaining their distance from the music industry.
"We never really belonged on a label like that in the first place, which may sound funny since we were on one for so many years," Jim says. "But in reality, very few people there understood what we were doing in the least." To illustrate the point, he reels off a litany of stupid band tricks that were suggested by label paper pushers - from remixes to promo schemes - most of which the Jesus and Mary Chain was able to sidestep.
Except 1992's Lollapalooza, that is.
"That was probably the worst time we ever had," Jim mutters, picking at the psychic scabs from all those years ago. "We were lied to about what it was all about. We thought it would have everyone on equal footing, and we found out too late that we were going on in the middle of the afternoon to support the Red Hot Chili Peppers."
Understandably, that experience took a bit of the bloom off the rose of a budding romance between the Jesus and Mary Chain and the American punter. But if you believe Jim, a transatlantic affection still exists - for favorite bands, cultural touchstones, heck, even the liberations brewed on this side of the pond. And unlike the days of yore, he's hopeful - if not totally obsessive - that the feeling might be mutual this time around.
"Perhaps I'm deluded, but I think we're better than most bands, and I'd like more people to hear our records," he says, pulling a last draw from his beer. "But if we ended up as the Velvet Underground of this era and have an impact down the line, that'd be fine. In fact, it'd be fucking brilliant."
"I didn't want to be an embarrassment like Mick Jagger, squeezing myself into leather trousers at 60," says Jim, whose mien at the advanced age of 37 is more of that of a vacationing grad student than a rock terrorist. "But to us, the point of it was never in the look or the additude - which some people always try to emphasize. We've always worked really, really hard on our songs in order to get every note right."
That's one reason the Jesus and Mary Chain has outlived a laundry list of Brit-rock saviors who popped up in its wake. Yes, the band's members said they wanted a revolution - and all but set one in motion with the mega-distorted tones of breathtaking early albums Psychocandy and Darklands. Those who bothered to peel back the skin, however, saw a more reasoned rebellion than punk's unilateral hatred of all that had come before. Deep in the recesses of the Jesus and Mary Chain's grooves, listeners could hear the Velvet Underground, of course, but also the Beach Boys, the Shangri-La's, and countless other pure pop purveyors past.
That mix is fully evident on Munki, the band's first "proper" album in more than half a decade (the intervening years saw the realease of two retrospectives and one pseudo-unplugged disc, 1994's largely overlooked Stoned & Dethroned). The 17 songs buzz with conflicting emotions, evident in "Perfume"'s duet between Jim's older brother, William, and ex-girlfriend Hope Sandoval (of Mazzy Star), as well as the unblinkingly self-examining "I Can't Find the Time for Times."
Most compelling, however, are the Reid brothers' odes to the music itself: Bookended by the dissmissive "I Hate Rock 'N' Roll" and the slightly starrier- albeit fairly dark - "I Love Rock 'N' Roll," the album is a vertable Cliff Notes to the music's more meaningful moments, replete with such archetypal Jesus and Mary Chain songs as "Supertramp" and "Mo Tucker" (which is sung by the Reids' younger sister, Linda).
"Rock 'n' roll is so out of fashion these days that people don't even use the term any more," Jim says, his eyes suggesting an epiphany is on the horizon.
"I blame that on rock. See, when I think of rock 'n' roll, I think of the Stooges and Eddie Cochran and Suicide; when I think of rock, I think of Van Halen and things like that. From the very beginning, we were literally offended that similar words were used to describe us and bands like that who were total shite."
The Reids formed the Jesus and Mary Chain nearly 15 years ago, largely in an effort to produce a one-way ticket out of East Kilbride, Scotland, a prefab suburb the singer describes as "one tiny patch of green looking exactly like the next tiny patch of green." Abetted by an ever-changing crew of mates (including Primal Scream's Bobby Gillespie, who served as drummer for a long spell), the Reids courted fear and loathing by trashing club stages after volatile 15-minute sets.
In retrospect, Jim says the band wasn't trying to be particularly snotty - or revolutionary, for that matter. "I'm incredibly shy and I was terrified to even face an audience for years," he reveals, while admitting he's lost a fair amount of hearing as a side effect of all that amp-hugging. "You see, I thought I'd never be as good as Iggy, never roll around in broken glass and bleed for people. I would combat those feelings by getting as drunk as possible and turn my back to the crowd."
He hasn't entirely broken that habit, by all accounts: A short promo appearance in L.A. this spring grew even shorter when the Reids took a dislike to an industry-heavy audience and stalked off after a few liquor-soaked songs. "We're not so paranoid and uptight these days, although that show was the exeption to the rule," Jim says, groaning at the memory.
The brothers' paranoia had receded in part because of healthier - and, by all accounts, more financially equitable - deal with Sub Pop Records. Jim says the band needed more time to regroup after "getting fired" by execs at Warner Bros., who showed the Jesus and Mary Chain the door after hearing rough mixes of about half the songs on Munki - in part because the Reid have been all-too- successful in maintaining their distance from the music industry.
"We never really belonged on a label like that in the first place, which may sound funny since we were on one for so many years," Jim says. "But in reality, very few people there understood what we were doing in the least." To illustrate the point, he reels off a litany of stupid band tricks that were suggested by label paper pushers - from remixes to promo schemes - most of which the Jesus and Mary Chain was able to sidestep.
Except 1992's Lollapalooza, that is.
"That was probably the worst time we ever had," Jim mutters, picking at the psychic scabs from all those years ago. "We were lied to about what it was all about. We thought it would have everyone on equal footing, and we found out too late that we were going on in the middle of the afternoon to support the Red Hot Chili Peppers."
Understandably, that experience took a bit of the bloom off the rose of a budding romance between the Jesus and Mary Chain and the American punter. But if you believe Jim, a transatlantic affection still exists - for favorite bands, cultural touchstones, heck, even the liberations brewed on this side of the pond. And unlike the days of yore, he's hopeful - if not totally obsessive - that the feeling might be mutual this time around.
"Perhaps I'm deluded, but I think we're better than most bands, and I'd like more people to hear our records," he says, pulling a last draw from his beer. "But if we ended up as the Velvet Underground of this era and have an impact down the line, that'd be fine. In fact, it'd be fucking brilliant."
