September 21st, 2005
New York City is a tunnel of thieves and vagabonds; a nauseous tale of debauchery told through the medium of billboard advertising and raucous taverns. The smell of angst signals the desperation of the locals to ransack, purge and rape any hint of cultural improvement. But once the rock star hipsters become easy to spot, the day-to-day challenge of reporting the truth can begin.
I ve been told to head for thebigapple to see if I can get the juicy on the gang of gajin talking Yo La Tengo at a shindig called CMJ.
CMJ is a devilish collection of industry narcs, two-bit bar band bozos and chili hot dog vendors, all hoping to stand close enough to 2005 s collection of great white hopes to trade it in for sexual favours and popularity back home. There is much murmur of myth and manic dashes across the long, cavernous city to attend a variety of trophy shows and dancing queen competitions. The Kentucky Derby, this is not.
SPIN: What motivated this move to Ireland?
Mark Lanegan: Well, I thought about coming here a lot, since most of my business is in the UK and Europe, in terms of where I play. And as far as everything else, I can do the rest of it no matter where I’m at I can write, I can record, I can do stuff for people. As long as I’ve got my recording rig, it doesn’t matter where I’m at. Plus I have Irish heritage my great grandparents come from here. And I like it. These are my people. And I’m in County Kerry, in the Southwest, and it’s really beautiful, physically. The past 90 days, up until a week ago, they were on a major lockdown I think it was Level 5, I’m pretty sure that’s the grade they go by here. But it was pretty dead in town. And now they’ve opened it up for Christmas.
June 5th, 2007
I remember the 5K review perfectly: the cover art, a jumble of monochrome and deep crimson with a figure turned away as if some bad shit has just gone down, seemed so appealing, even before the accompanying words were ingested. The bed was a mess, the grey skies full of violence and fire. I had to have this. And I did. Over and over.
Mono was 2001’s greatest rock and roll album, from a band who teetered on self-destruction in the most beautiful way imaginable; their shows – all limbs and teeth, spit and confrontation – weren’t always memorable for the right reasons, but they were memorable nonetheless. Once, in Manchester, I wondered why I’d bothered with them: the set was limp, the band disinterested. I may have heckled them in my drunken disappointment. I did so, of course, from the safety of the venue’s rear. I still recall Joe’s eyes, though, burning bright towards me – he didn’t need to say anything, I got the message.