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Bambara:
Swarm
Neutral Milk Hotel: In The Aeroplane Over The Sea
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Bambara and Neutral Milk Hotel: An Exercise in Contrast and Similarity
by Dena Maxwell
Listening to Bambara’s music gives me the feeling I get when I read Donna Tartt’s second novel; like I’m holding something dark and sharp that I can’t put down. I find the beauty in the ugliness of a burning mattress, a trash-filled alley, a dead-end town that sucks the marrow from the bones of those who live there, leaving them too weak to escape.
They’re not goth. They’re not industrial. They’re not metal. They’re not punk. They combine elements of all of those, without being tied down to any one of them. You can’t really categorize Bambara because they defy genre.
Much like that of a rabid street preacher proclaiming the gospel of decay and ruin, Reid Bateh’s voice is deeply declamatory, the kind of voice that dares you to turn away. Blaze Bateh and William Brookshire seem to work by telepathic communication, pumping out a rhythm between their two instruments as tightly connected as the double helix on a strand of DNA.
The addition of two guitarists adds fullness to the sound of a band whose music I never imagined could get any more massive. And yet it has, and it does. Relieved of guitar duty, Reid Bateh is now free to concentrate solely on his vocal delivery, and said delivery is all the stronger for it. Without a guitar in front of him, he wields an even more commanding stage presence, gripping the mic as if he might strangle it and thrashing on the stage like a southern gothic snake handler.
I found it both surprising and intriguing to read that the music of Neutral Milk Hotel was the impetus that drove Bateh and the men who would become Bambara to move from Atlanta to Athens and form a band.
At first glance, all I could see were dissimilarities between the two bands. But I would learn.
Bambara’s music is dark and intense in the most intoxicating of ways, dripping a narcotic swoon over audiences. Their lyrics and subject matter are arguably darker still. Reid Bateh’s mind is filled with films that he writes down and translates into the language of music, allowing the listener to generate their own corresponding visual images.
Neutral Milk Hotel spins flights of fancy with the lovely melancholy of Julian Koster’s singing saw, followed by the undeniable push aloft of flugelhorn, trombone, and a whole symphony’s worth of brass instruments. I wouldn’t say they play, so much as they soar.
Jeff Mangum is as strong a presence onstage as Reid Bateh, albeit using quite a different approach. Mangum can be quick to laugh and joke in an aw-shucks manner with his audience, to the point of being almost self-effacing. Yet when he opens his mouth to sing, that’s the point at which everyone stops in mid-sentence or mid-sip and shuts the hell up, mesmerized. Mangum’s voice is melodic with a hint of reincarnated folk singer, a voice that can hold notes far past reason, a voice for lullabies.
Yet he’s also been known to go into shouting, street preacher punk mode… but maybe this is reserved for special occasions, like a Halloween house party NMH played in Athens in 1997. All I can say is that I am honored to have been there in person. That’s when I learned something I’d never suspected: that Jeff is punk at heart.
This was confirmed when I spotted him at a late 90s Elephant 6 event which I slipped out of early to go see Fugazi at the 40 Watt Club. When Fugazi started to play I noticed a guy near me dancing with happy abandon, and that guy was none other than Jeff Mangum. Guess I wasn’t the only one who loved Fugazi enough to forego the denouement of an E6 event. The idea that the Elephant 6 Recording Company music collective was modeled after the punk collectives of decades past was related to me one evening during Athens Popfest 2016 in conversation with master musician and mathematician Robert Schneider, engineer/producer and co-collaborator on Neutral Milk Hotel’s two (and only) full length studio albums.
Listening to Neutral Milk Hotel is a near-religious experience. Elation, sheer joy, and the kind of emotion that makes one want to rend one’s garments abound in equal measure. You soar along with them, but the currents on which you float are equal parts agony and ecstasy. You never know which emotion will take hold at any given time, and they come at you like tidal waves.
Although his delivery is different, Jeff Mangum’s lyrics are about as dark as Reid Bateh’s. Mangum speaks of a woman suffering multiple miscarriages alone in her bathroom. A lovely drive through the countryside turns into a drive off a cliff. He speaks of a boy’s head being blown apart during World War II, his friend fruitlessly trying to put the pieces back together. He speaks of bodies in mass graves during the Holocaust, pianos on fire. He speaks of a destitute mother and child sleeping in a trailer park while the father goes out philandering.
Different, yet also alike. Now I understand.
by Dena Maxwell
Listening to Bambara’s music gives me the feeling I get when I read Donna Tartt’s second novel; like I’m holding something dark and sharp that I can’t put down. I find the beauty in the ugliness of a burning mattress, a trash-filled alley, a dead-end town that sucks the marrow from the bones of those who live there, leaving them too weak to escape.
They’re not goth. They’re not industrial. They’re not metal. They’re not punk. They combine elements of all of those, without being tied down to any one of them. You can’t really categorize Bambara because they defy genre.
Much like that of a rabid street preacher proclaiming the gospel of decay and ruin, Reid Bateh’s voice is deeply declamatory, the kind of voice that dares you to turn away. Blaze Bateh and William Brookshire seem to work by telepathic communication, pumping out a rhythm between their two instruments as tightly connected as the double helix on a strand of DNA.
The addition of two guitarists adds fullness to the sound of a band whose music I never imagined could get any more massive. And yet it has, and it does. Relieved of guitar duty, Reid Bateh is now free to concentrate solely on his vocal delivery, and said delivery is all the stronger for it. Without a guitar in front of him, he wields an even more commanding stage presence, gripping the mic as if he might strangle it and thrashing on the stage like a southern gothic snake handler.
I found it both surprising and intriguing to read that the music of Neutral Milk Hotel was the impetus that drove Bateh and the men who would become Bambara to move from Atlanta to Athens and form a band.
At first glance, all I could see were dissimilarities between the two bands. But I would learn.
Bambara’s music is dark and intense in the most intoxicating of ways, dripping a narcotic swoon over audiences. Their lyrics and subject matter are arguably darker still. Reid Bateh’s mind is filled with films that he writes down and translates into the language of music, allowing the listener to generate their own corresponding visual images.
Neutral Milk Hotel spins flights of fancy with the lovely melancholy of Julian Koster’s singing saw, followed by the undeniable push aloft of flugelhorn, trombone, and a whole symphony’s worth of brass instruments. I wouldn’t say they play, so much as they soar.
Jeff Mangum is as strong a presence onstage as Reid Bateh, albeit using quite a different approach. Mangum can be quick to laugh and joke in an aw-shucks manner with his audience, to the point of being almost self-effacing. Yet when he opens his mouth to sing, that’s the point at which everyone stops in mid-sentence or mid-sip and shuts the hell up, mesmerized. Mangum’s voice is melodic with a hint of reincarnated folk singer, a voice that can hold notes far past reason, a voice for lullabies.
Yet he’s also been known to go into shouting, street preacher punk mode… but maybe this is reserved for special occasions, like a Halloween house party NMH played in Athens in 1997. All I can say is that I am honored to have been there in person. That’s when I learned something I’d never suspected: that Jeff is punk at heart.
This was confirmed when I spotted him at a late 90s Elephant 6 event which I slipped out of early to go see Fugazi at the 40 Watt Club. When Fugazi started to play I noticed a guy near me dancing with happy abandon, and that guy was none other than Jeff Mangum. Guess I wasn’t the only one who loved Fugazi enough to forego the denouement of an E6 event. The idea that the Elephant 6 Recording Company music collective was modeled after the punk collectives of decades past was related to me one evening during Athens Popfest 2016 in conversation with master musician and mathematician Robert Schneider, engineer/producer and co-collaborator on Neutral Milk Hotel’s two (and only) full length studio albums.
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Listening to Neutral Milk Hotel is a near-religious experience.
|
Although his delivery is different, Jeff Mangum’s lyrics are about as dark as Reid Bateh’s. Mangum speaks of a woman suffering multiple miscarriages alone in her bathroom. A lovely drive through the countryside turns into a drive off a cliff. He speaks of a boy’s head being blown apart during World War II, his friend fruitlessly trying to put the pieces back together. He speaks of bodies in mass graves during the Holocaust, pianos on fire. He speaks of a destitute mother and child sleeping in a trailer park while the father goes out philandering.
Different, yet also alike. Now I understand.
| dena ([email protected]) ♥ weheartmusic.com ♥ facebook.com ♥ twitter.com/weheartmusic |
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