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Music Review: Primitive Painters
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This piece was written for an entirely different website which, for some unknown reason, no longer exists. The only reason I am posting it here is because people won’t stop bugging me about it. It has nothing to do with my normal column about theatre in New York, and is also, quite possibly, the longest album review you will ever read. If that doesn’t sound interesting, this might not be for you.
Primitive Painters: The Band I Keep Discovering
In 1992, I was a student at the University of Kansas, and during a vacation of some sort, I went to a bar in downtown Lawrence called The Bottleneck with my girlfriend at the time and a few of our friends. Most of the other students were out of town, so the bar was offering something called “Quarter Beer Night.” Seriously, why would we go anywhere else?
After a while, a band started setting up. We weren’t there to see live music, so we didn’t really pay much attention to them. But, when they started playing, all of us were noticeably impressed. They were incredibly tight and fun. The music wasn’t in the angry grunge genre I was obsessed with at the time; it was closer to the Manchester pop scene I had loved when I was younger. There was nothing ironic or jaded about them. They were just playing straightforward rock and roll with lots of guitar effects and a drummer that pushed the tempo with amazing energy. They were similar, I guess, to The Church (although, if all you know of them is their single, “Under The Milky Way,” that comparison may not make a lot of sense). The Stone Roses, maybe? The lead singer had a bizarre performance style that, for lack of a better description, resembled Michael Stipe on acid. I initially thought I was going to be annoyed by it, but I realized fairly quickly that it was genuine. He wasn’t trying to look cool. In fact, it was exactly the opposite. He just wasn’t afraid to look foolish. And that has a disarming effect on an audience. He was saying, in essence, that we didn’t have to pretend to look bored in order to fit in. We could just enjoy ourselves.
The band was called Primitive Painters and they were from California. We offered to buy them a drink afterwards and wound up shooting a game of pool with them. They were really nice guys and I bought a copy of their CD, Dirtclods. It turned out that they weren’t even supposed to be playing that night. They were scheduled to play the following night, but arrived in town a day early and, since there were no bands on the bill, had asked the management if they could go ahead and play. We promised them we would round up as many people as we could and come back with them the next night. And we did. There’s nothing quite like telling a friend you’re taking them to see a band they’ve never heard of with a simple, “Just trust me.” And, when you get there, watching them light up and say, “You’re right. These guys are amazing!”
Fast forward two years…
I’m in graduate school in San Diego at the Old Globe Theatre. It’s a two-year conservatory that accepts seven people a year. But, since a graduate program has to issue a degree through an accredited school (obviously), our classes were held at the University of San Diego. If you’re picturing anything right now, you’re most likely thinking of San Diego State, or UCSD in La Jolla, and it’s neither one of those. USD is “a collegiate car show.” One of my closest friends from KU had gotten into the program the year before me and that’s what he dubbed it. It’s one street on the top of a hill in some of the most beautiful real estate on the planet. The student body is comprised of Mercedes and Lexus owners, and all the women look like spokesmodels. They kept the MFA students secluded in one corner of campus and, walking to the other side, it was possible to fall head over heels in love three or four times before you got to class.
One afternoon, my friend (now my roommate) and I were walking to the Student Union to get a quick bite to eat when we heard a band playing. They reminded me of the Primitive Painters and I started telling him about the band I’d seen at The Bottleneck. When we got to the Union, we could see there was a stage set up in front of the building, with four guys giving a free concert for students sitting on the grass. And, sure enough, the lead singer was jumping around like an epileptic monkey. “Oh my god,” I said. “That’s the same band!”
I asked my friend if we could stay and listen to them for a while and he reminded me that we were due back in class. Then, he decided that he liked what he was hearing enough to say, “What the hell… Let’s blow off the afternoon.” We sat down and watched the whole show and just never went back to class (and when you make up one-seventh of the program’s total enrollment, they have a tendency to notice these things). Afterwards, we went up to the stage and I introduced myself and told them we had met in Kansas two years earlier. They didn’t remember me specifically, but they remembered the shows at The Bottleneck (I think it was the furthest east they had ever played). The lead singer said they had a gig coming up in San Juan Capistrano opening for The Wonder Stuff, and if we wanted, he would leave two tickets for us at the door. We drove up, saw the show, and loved it.
Sadly, that friend of mine was murdered a few weeks later walking from the Old Globe to his car in the parking lot, which turned “a fun afternoon of blowing off class” into “one of the last things we ever did together,” and most assuredly imbued it with more significance than it would have otherwise had.
Fast forward six more years…
It’s 2000, and I’m living in Hell’s Kitchen, New York, trying to be a professional actor, while working for morons at an office job I hate. My copy of Dirtclods has long since been kidnapped by an ex-girlfriend, which is a shame because I used to break out that CD every time the weather was nice. It’s nice weather music, which isn’t all that surprising considering the band is from Orange County. Honestly, I defy anyone to listen to the guitar part on the song, “Take,” and stay in a bad mood. I hadn’t thought about the Painters in years and I’m not sure why I did on this day. My guess is: it was Spring and I was bored at work. So, I decided to look up the band on the internet. And found... nothing. Wait, nothing?... Hell, you can google me and get more than that, and I’ve never released an album. I remembered that the lead singer’s name was Dennis Crupi, so I tried that and saw that he was now singing in a band called Moses McCartney. (I guess the Painters have broken up.) There was a mailing address for a record label and a listing for a self-titled CD. I wrote a letter to the label explaining my strange, every-so-often, connection to Dennis’s previous band (minus a few details) and said I wanted to purchase the new CD. Plus, if it was at all possible, I’d like to find out how to replace my copy of Dirtclods (which is apparently out of print). I enclosed a check and sent it off.
About a week later, I got a package in the mail that contained a copy of the Moses McCartney CD, a copy of Dirtclods, and a letter from Dennis that, to this day, is one of the nicest letters I’ve ever received. He told me what everyone in the Painters was up to, and that he and his wife were the new parents of twins. He said that he had liberated the copy of Dirtclods from the bargain bin at a record store in Long Beach and had been looking to find it a worthy home. My letter had done the trick.
I never wrote back to tell him how much it meant to me. I’m not entirely sure why. I didn’t want to take up any more of his time or something to that effect. The dynamic between artist and audience has always been a strange one, and I’ll admit I’m not very good at it. There are rules for these kinds of situations; I just don’t happen to know what they are. Anytime I know who someone is, without actually knowing them personally (like a celebrity), I always figure they will interpret anything I have to say as either, “I want something from you,” or “I’m a crazy person who’d like to eat your eyeballs in a cream sauce.” So, I tend to not say anything and hope they take my silence to mean, “I’m a normal guy who admires your work.” Hence, I never thanked Dennis for his gesture.
Fast forward nine more years…
It’s May, 2009. I’m listening to Dirtclods on my iPod, and I decide to investigate the band again. But, this time, I see a MySpace page and an article saying they got back together. Not only that, but holy crap, it appears they got back together, like, six years ago. Damn you, East Coast!... Why am I not privy to this kind of news?!... It would be just my luck if they’ve already broken up again!... But, wait... They released a new album 6 months ago. And, they’ve got a new EP out as well. Whew... My guess is, I won’t be able to find these discs in New York, so I go to CD Baby (a very cool site for independent music) and immediately order them both.
Let me explain something. This is not like Jane’s Addiction getting back together. This is a big deal...
Everyone has that one band where listening to them feels like being in on a secret. A band that winds up on mix tapes for friends. A band for who you wish nothing but the best, but, deep down, you know it would somehow hurt in your gut if they got really popular. If you’re the right age, you remember how it felt when REM stopped being a cool band you knew about from Athens, GA, and started being, well, REM. Or, why the Replacements were the greatest band on Earth because they constantly sabotaged any hope of mainstream success. It’s easy to be a fan of nationally marketed bands that get heavy radio play and features in rock magazines. Hell, you can find their records at Best Buy if you want. It's harder to like an independent band, but it’s also much more personal and satisfying. Independent bands remind you of what is possible.
Three days later, the discs showed up at my house. From the opening notes, I was smiling in the same way that you can run into an old friend you haven’t seen in years and strike up a conversation like no time at all has passed. The band hasn’t lost a step. They’ve obviously gotten older (who hasn’t?...), and the sound has matured as a result. The instrumentation has increased, including an occasional violin and keyboards, and the music is fuller and more textured. Former bassist Patrick Homa has moved over to handle lead guitar and he brings with him several new additions to the signature Painters sound.
EP33, released in 2004, kicks off with “Unsub,” which conjures up the best of post-Berry REM. “Cornersong” and “Decline” are solid pop in the manner of Lloyd Cole. “Thirty-three” is energetic, yet gentle, and I love the lyric, “Life is good despite the freaks.” “Crooked Man” is an up-tempo standout.
The full-length album from November 2008, Say It ‘Til You Mean It, has a terrific opening number in “Call This A Draw,” a song in 6/8 which could have appeared on Dirtclods. How can you not love a song in triplet feel? “Funny Times” could easily sit in the latter half of The Smiths’ Louder Than Bombs, although I hear a bit of The Velvet Underground in there as well, along with a guitar line that builds tension a la Radiohead. “Six” is straightforward, Westerberg-ian, rock and roll with a guitar part similar enough to “I Will Follow” to make The Edge proud. “It’s Not Enough To Hold You Down” is an acoustic number that showcases the expanded instrumentation, complete with violin, mandolin, and pedal steel. “Harm” is driving, four-on-the-floor, rock with an expressive vocal track that rivals Glen Hansard of The Frames. “Are You Ready” is a beautifully sincere song that will stay with you. “Nothing Decent Will Ever Come Of This” is reminiscent of “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now.” “Shoulda,” complete with a lyrical nod to The The, is the only track that appears on both discs, with a stripped down version on the EP and an expanded edition on the LP featuring violin and slide guitar. The album finishes strong with the excellent “Throw Your Heart To The Wind,” a soaring, guitar-driven number.
Chances are, you’ve never heard of this band, and I’m well aware of the fact that if they hadn’t played one night earlier than they were supposed to back in 1992, I would never have heard of them either. I can’t honestly say whether or not I’m able to separate my personal history with the band enough to judge the music on its own merits, but I can tell you this: no album from the past year has even come close to making me as happy as this one. Listening to these two discs, I’m struck by an overwhelming and palpable sense of joy. Joy of playing music. Of being part of a band. Of doing exactly what you want to do for a living. And I think the fact that they’re still doing it speaks to that. I also realize that by writing about them this way, I’ve completely “buried the lede,” as they say. Anyone else would have started with this incredible fact: this is a band that put out their first album in 1992 and put out their second album sixteen years later. That is nothing short of remarkable. That amount of time might happen between Mickey Rourke Academy Award nominations or something like that, but it sure as hell doesn’t happen with rock bands. And, when it does, how can you not root for that?
But, don’t take my word for it. Go to www.myspace.com/primitivepainters and listen for yourself.
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