By Emma Silvers
By Gary Moskowitz
By Alee Karim
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Derek Opperman
By Emma Silvers
By Alee Karim
Whatever happened to reverb that shoots through your veins and widens your pupils like a drug? Whatever happened to moody vocals and drooping bass lines that leave trails across your speakers? Whatever happened to the dark, dreamy pop of shoegazers like My Bloody Valentine, Ride, and Swervedriver? In the words of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, "Whatever happened to my rock 'n' roll?"
The last line is a BRMC lyric and a song title from the band's self-titled debut on Virgin Records. These three former Bay Area residents -- guitarist/bassist/vocalist Robert Turner, guitarist/bassist/vocalist Peter Hayes, and British ex-pat drummer Nick Jago -- are barely into their 20s, and yet they already feel modern rock has lost its soul. "I think the whole idea of making music that means something has been forgotten," says Turner via phone from Virgin's L.A. offices. "We're pretty upset about that. You try to look for music that's decent, that's not completely under the radar, and it's almost impossible to find these days. You have to dig so much that it's almost like no one's really on the same page as you any more."
BRMC may be unsatisfied, but some heavy hitters in the music industry have found their rock 'n' roll in this new buzz band. Oasis' guitarist/songwriter Noel Gallagher talked up the Black Rebel boys after hearing their early demos; one-time Jesus and Mary Chain vocalist Jim Reid and former Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr are also admirers. The British music royalty aren't the only ones lining up to salute a band that was eking out gigs at the tiny Purple Onion less than two years ago. BRMC recently landed a No. 5 slot on Rolling Stone's college charts, snagged mentions in Alternative Press, CMJ, and Flaunt, and performed on The Late Late Show With Craig Kilborn.
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How has this relatively unknown band garnered such a bright spotlight? For one thing, the stylish trio mines a sound that hasn't been in the mainstream for nearly a decade, and it mines it well. BRMC's dense psychedelic fuzz is the kind of sonic alternative that flickered across MTV's 120 Minutes in the early '90s, when the late-night program showcased acts like Lush, the Cocteau Twins, and the Stone Roses. These days it feels like hazy-minded rock bands have almost disappeared into the atmosphere, replaced by bubble-gum pop and seething new metal. BRMC is one of the few hopes for audiences that crave an artistic buzz somewhere between the light substance of indie pop and the brutality of ball-busting punk.
BRMC's narcotic rock clearly has one major influence: the heroin-dazed music of the Jesus and Mary Chain. BRMC song titles like "Whatever Happened to My Rock 'n' Roll [Punk Song]" (see JAMC's "I Hate Rock 'n' Roll") and lyrics such as "Jesus won't take me back/ Jesus never coming home" (vs. JAMC's "I wanna die like Jesus Christ") are examples of artistic appreciation taken to the extreme. But every band has its influences -- you wouldn't have JAMC without the Velvet Underground and the Stooges. Blatant reverence doesn't change the fact that BRMC carves out a sound woefully underrepresented on the current rock scene, a sound that mixes the art of noise with the sullen intensity of dark, hook-filled melodies.
BRMC was no more than a gleam in the eyes of Turner and Hayes back in 1994, when the two friends were just a couple of musical outsiders in the high school wastelands of the East Bay. (The exact location is kept a mystery in a BRMC tradition of "never showing the full hand." Turner cites a fear of less-than-perfect yearbook photos.) Hayes and Turner started playing music together because they were both fans of artists like Ride, the Verve, Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones, and T. Rex. "He was the only person I'd met in high school who knew any of those bands," says Turner. The duo needed a drummer, though, and after trying out a number of different contenders, they called Jago, an acquaintance who haunted the same clubs and guitar stores. A six-hour jam session among the three in November 1998 cemented the final lineup.
A year later, BRMC recorded a demo and decided it was time to leave the Bay Area and try to make it in Los Angeles. "Nobody wanted to [move]," says Turner. "We ran out of cash, needed a place to stay, and didn't have anything going on, so we needed to take off. We just had a long conversation about hoping to come back, but the frickin' rents are going up so much, we don't know how we're going to do it. We have to make a little more money because we are so in debt, but hopefully we'll make it back sometime."
After the band relentlessly played the San Francisco and Los Angeles club scenes, selling its demos on the spot, BRMC's 13-song recording fell into the hands of MCA Records staffers. Eventually, word spread throughout the tightly networked music industry, and big label executives ran like lemmings to BRMC's live shows. Instead of taking the highest bidder, the band signed to Virgin in late 1999, enticed by the label's promise of complete artistic control -- a remarkable offering for such a new act, especially from the home of such big sellers as Janet Jackson, Lenny Kravitz, and Mariah Carey.