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
It starts with a quiet, distant guitar line, so you turn your stereo up, trying to find the music. There's a little smudge of cymbal, a tiny note or two from the bass -- still, it's awfully quiet. So you turn it up a little more. That's when his voice arrives, mixed way above the instruments, echoing like it was recorded in St. Paul's Cathedral. "So it's not bloated stadiums or ballparks/ And we're not kids on swing sets on the blacktop/ And I thought at 15 that I'd have it down by 16/ And 24 keeps breathing in my face, like a mad whore/ And 24 keeps pounding at my door/ Like a friend you don't want to see."
That's Mark Kozelek 13 years ago, at age 23, singing the first song off the first album by the Red House Painters, his band at the time. The record is Down Colorful Hill, the song "24." Together they introduced Kozelek and company as a group that -- amid a San Francisco music scene abuzz over acts like Primus and Faith No More -- played slow, languid music. Music that ached. Songs that hurt. Kozelek wrote reflective, confessional songs that kept you up at night, somnambulant songs about being "a million miles away from home," that asked, "Lord, kill the pain." He wrote songs about growing old, about wondering if you were ever going to be fulfilled.
It was heavy, overwrought stuff, to be sure. But there was clearly a need for it, and people listened. One of those people was American Music Club's Mark Eitzel, who played the Painters' early demos for a journalist friend of his, who in turn played them for some music executives. And when those executives heard Kozelek's pain, they sympathized, or empathized, or just imagined large piles of cash. In any case, they quickly reached for their contracts, and before you could say "multialbum deal," the Painters had one, and soon became pretty famous. They toured the world, released a bunch of records -- a few of them classics -- and came to be known as one of the defining San Francisco bands of the '90s.
Mia Doi Todd opens at 9 p.m.
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Now, this is the part where we come back from commercial and reveal that drugs and drink ruined everything, right? Wrong. Kozelek had kicked that habit years before. Still, the demise of the Red House Painters is clichéd: The label fucked them over. Sort of. The bottom line is that as the sun set on the decade, so it did on the career of the Painters. The band played its last San Francisco show in July 2001. And Kozelek -- who as a solo artist had yet to release much in the way of original material (although his album of AC/DC covers was pretty damn original) -- hasn't taken a local stage since April '02. But that's about to change
Kozelek's new "band," Sun Kil Moon, released its debut last November, titled Ghosts of the Great Highway. While the album features guest musicians, Sun Kil Moon is essentially a solo vehicle for the songwriter (who is "not really comfortable with the marketing aspects of my name") -- and its music is stunning.
After scores of fans watched the Painters disintegrate and then read the shit reviews of Kozelek's solo efforts, many lost hope. By the time Ghosts arrived last year, a lot of us were just happy the guy could still get work. But then the buzz began to build, and people started buying the record. Why? It's simple: This is an amazing album, on a par with the best of the Red House Painters' output, but different, evolved, mature -- in short, delightful. At 36, Mark Kozelek has delivered one of his best works, which isn't bad for a guy who, at 23, could barely stomach the passing of another year.
Bob's Doughnuts on Polk and Sacramento is one of those quotidian nooks you find in cities from here to Cleveland to Tampa Bay. The shop is garage-size, its countertops Burger King yellow, its coffee burnt and watery. An older Asian lady runs the counter as gray-haired clients in yesterday's sweaters mutter to themselves. Jeopardy plays on a tiny television. It's the kind of place that, one imagines, hasn't changed in years. But it has.
"I knew a woman ran a doughnut shop/ She worked late serving cops/ But then one morning, baby, her heart stopped/ Place ain't the same no more/ Place ain't the same no more/ Not without my friend/ Man how things change" are lines from "Glenn Tipton," the tune that leads off Ghosts.
Kozelek, who has lived up the block for a dozen years now, used to come into Bob's late at night, when the former proprietress usually worked. Today it's midafternoon when he shows up, and the first thing I notice about him is that he's bigger than I expected. Not big like a linebacker, but not slight and wiry, as his music suggests he might be. Further contrary to his sort of depressing oeuvre is that he's just a real nice guy. He insists on buying me a buttermilk bar, and we sit at the counter, chatting over small things for a while -- homeownership, Portland. Kozelek is friendly and engaging, drawing out his words and thoughts, slowing the conversation to a manageable stroll. Eventually I get around to asking him about Ghosts of the Great Highway.