Jon Spencer Blues Explosion

Jon Spencer had been the leader of Pussy Galore, and he was also the one who brought the band to an end. Before the release of their last album, Spencer had already formed Boss Hog with his wife Cristina Martinez. The band also included bassist Jerry Teel from the Honeymoon Killers (in which Martinez had briefly played) and drummer Charlie Ondras from Unsane. The music of the EP Drinkin' Lechin' & Lyin' (Amphetamine Reptile, 1989), a blues-punk in the style of Birthday Party and Gun Club (Trigger Man, Spanish Fly), was played as if it had been composed five minutes earlier between beers. A couple of tracks were completely haphazard, worthy of the “no wave” of ten years earlier (Sugan Bunny, Fix Me). The EP became notable mostly for the cover photo of a naked Martinez.
Martinez began taking Boss Hog seriously starting with the album Cold Hands (Amphetamine Reptile, 1990). Emancipated from her husband, the singer took control of the project with more accessible songs like Gerard, Eddy, and Pop Catastrophe. The rhythm & blues of Pete Shore and Duchess still sounded like calls to werewolves (more Spencer than Martinez), but the instrumentals Bug Purr and Red Bull, perhaps the true manifestos of the band’s absurd garage-blues, were about as far from Pussy Galore as this community had ever produced.

With Bob Bert (Sonic Youth) and Foetus also in the lineup, the quartet recorded the double single Action Box (Amphetamine Reptile, 1991), featuring the devilish dances of Bunny Fly and Not Guilty, and the lascivious antics of Big Fish and Black Throat.
The EP Girl+ (Amphetamine Reptile, 1993), with the lounge-rock of Ruby reminiscent of Lydia Lunch and the driving The Black Betty, perhaps marked the peak of Martinez’s trajectory toward a less apocalyptic sound. Drummer Hollis Queens had replaced Charlie Ondras, who had passed away in 1992.

After the Boss Hog interlude, and brief collaborations with Honeymoon Killers and Gibson Brothers, Jon Spencer launched the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, once again (as with the last Pussy Galore) a trio without bass in the style of Hound Dog Taylor: Spencer and Judah Bauer on guitars, and Russell Simins (from the Honeymoon Killers) on drums.

The first recordings appeared initially on A Reverse Willie Horton (Public Pop Can, 1992), in a limited edition, and then on Crypt Style (Crypt, 1992), a version that Spencer later disowned. The official debut album, self-titled (Caroline, 1992), drew from this repertoire. With his new band, Spencer could finally unleash his obsession with copying riffs and melodies from the 1950s. The spirit in which the tracks were composed, performed, and recorded—boastful, irreverent, provocative—is the same as in the Pussy Galore records. The novelty is a reckless "punk-blues" that absorbed the lessons of the Cramps and Sonic Youth: both the slow, literally “howling” Like A Hawk and the clattering The Feeling Of Love are blues only in name.
Spencer has fun, jumping from frantic rockabilly like '78 Style to a rhythm-and-blues “rave-up” like Kill-A-Man, from the psychotic dance of Rachel to the “Beefheartian” bacchanal of Twentynine, even attempting to invent a new dance with Chicken Walk. The “intellectual fun” works, even if it demonstrates nothing previously unknown about Spencer.

Extra Width (Matador, 1993), and its “scraps” companion Mo Width (Au-go-go, 1994), are equally irreverent and grotesque tributes to the geriatric sounds of Delta blues (History Of Lies) and Memphis soul (Afro and Soul Typecast, two of his deconstruction masterpieces). Between imitations, Spencer also gives voodoobilly lessons to the Cramps (Back Slider and Pant Leg) and boogie lessons to B.B. King (Big Road); as well as lessons in lasciviousness to Lydia Lunch in the grand erotic finale of The World Of Sex.

His ability to revisit these musics is astonishing, evoking grave-robbing and obsessive necrophilia. Spencer spreads like a vampire, sucking the lifeblood from the roots of rock, leaving only skeletal remnants behind. It is the spirit above all that has been transformed: Spencer injects his nihilistic metaphysics into the harmonic structures of others. The spastic execution is just the icing on the cake: the tone of his voice alone defines the Hell of rock music, in which blues becomes a tangle of moans (Soul Letter) and funk an indistinct strumming (Inside The World). Bauer and Simins wonderfully play the roles of supplementary Lucifers. To avoid any accusation of intellectualism, Spencer even throws in the theremin, one of the least playable instruments that exists.

Orange (Matador, 1994) is even more "primordial," increasingly at the expense of musicality. The album opens in a grotesque way, with a track (Bellbottoms) that fuses a reckless jam with a 1970s orchestral soul sound. Later on, the long Flavor, a duet with Beck, repeats the experiment with a couple of funky interludes. In short, Spencer makes it immediately clear that he has no intention of redeeming himself.
Then Spencer, Simins, and Bauer start playing the blues (Dang, Dissect) in a manner that is simultaneously childish and primal. The effectiveness of their method lies increasingly in the (seemingly) approximate and distracted way the claws of their riffs and lyrics (Orange) embed themselves into the listener’s psyche. Nothing revives the visceral power of the blues like some of their dragging performances (Sweat and Blues X Man). With his werewolf-in-disguise register, Spencer dismantles the genre’s codes. He has perfected an infallible technique, allowing him to convey sensations by obsessively focusing on a single element and ignoring everything else (the lascivious yearning of Brenda).
The cherry on top is the closing instrumental, Greyhound, following the same performance principles. Spencer and guitarist Judah Bauer modeled themselves on Hound Dog Taylor’s band, but used that springboard to dive into the vast sea of Black music (soul, funk, rap).

Cristina Martinez had mostly been the pin-up of her husband’s bands, but with Boss Hog (Geffen, 1995) she decisively asserted her artistic personality. The boogies of Winn Coma and What The Fuck, and the decadent blues-rock (sung by him over her wails) of Beehive, still bear Spencer’s mark, but Martinez takes control when she rasps out the sensual funk of White Sand, screams like Patti Smith in the tribal Ski Bunny, or delivers the spectral chamber-lied of Texas. Nevertheless, the album, highly anticipated by intellectual critics, turned out to be the first disappointment of the couple’s career. By the end of the year, keyboardist Mark Boyce (formerly of Goats) joined the band.

Jon Spencer is officially one of the most reviewed and interviewed musicians of his time. Each of his albums has the rare quality of driving critics wild while entertaining the public. Experimental Remixes (Matador, 1995) even reimagined his music in professional form.
Now I Got Worry (Matador, 1996) displays the usual irreverent boldness and the familiar ear for deconstructing rock tradition. Guitar duets are now refined in their chaotic brilliance. Time changes (or “off-times”) are spectacular. The album lives almost entirely in this state of being and not being what the listener perceives.
The record opens with a James Brown–style animalistic scream. Skunk is relatively innocuous, given what follows. The clattering hardcore of Identify is equally misleading. The ideal spokesperson for this album, on the more commercial side, might be 2 Kindsa Love, surprisingly catchy and driving. The rhythm-and-blues heartbeat still resonates in Dynamite Lover, another Rolling Stones revision—this time almost disco–in Firefly Child and Chicken Dog (with Rufus Thomas on vocals), two tracks that hint at Jimi Hendrix. Then come the Rockabilly variations: Wail, bordering on Cramps’ voodoobilly; Love All Of Me, parodying Presley; and even better, Hot Shot, imbued with the demonic fever of the Gun Club. Finally, there are the vocal-free jams: the semi-instrumental Can’t Stop (honky-tonk piano strumming, gospel organ drone, martial crackle of guitar riffs) and the instrumental B.L. Got Soul (a cross between Allman Brothers and Booker T & the MG’s), both charged with demonic energy and anarchic drive.

At last, Spencer decides to include bass: on Acme (Matador, 1998), Bauer plays bass on half the tracks, leaving guitar entirely to Spencer. The album, which was followed by an outtakes companion, Xtra Acme (Matador, 1999), harks back to Orange: linear, almost mechanical pulse; a melodically delivered narration that never tires; rough edges smoothed as if the band had finally recorded an album sober. The production updated to hip hop tones down guitar irregularities and rounds the timbres of all instruments and vocals.
Spencer opens the album with Wilson Pickett–style raspy moans in Calvin, immediately interrupted by syncopated Hendrix-style guitar riffs and desecrated by a gospel choir disintegrating into ordinary voices. The rest of the album merely expands on this theme.
The more explosive sounds and almost melancholic moods give the impression of being their least wild album, but in reality animalistic guitars and heavy cadences abound (Do You Wanna Get Heavy, with its dirty riff and ferocious vocals, is the slow-motion equivalent of Wild Thing), and decadent orgies like Talk About The Blues compress as much violence as the irrational bursts of the previous album (with added rap, “industrial” syncopation, electronic disturbances).
The vocal harmonies are a puzzle, though they draw more than ever from Black tradition (Do You Wanna Get Heavy blends barbershop harmonies, doo-wop, gospel, rhythm-and-blues shouts, and a touch of rap). Having incorporated the lascivious Memphis soul, Spencer is at the peak of his vocal craft, as shown by the menacing crooning of I Wanna Make It All Right, immersed in an atmosphere both violent and sinister, or the register shifts of Blue Green Olga (now funk, now blues, now soul, now pop). Give Me A Chance brushes against Elvis Presley’s memory while channeling Mick Jagger. Torture is another interpretive masterpiece, with a constantly shifting register (from Presley’s tenor to Orbison’s baritone, Iggy Pop’s yowl, and Tom Waits’ rasp) counterpointing the ragged piano and guitar chords.
Tributes to their masters have become much more refined. The Stones’ imitations, in particular, have never been so oblique: High Gear becomes a ballad at the intersection of Meat Loaf and the Stooges; Magical Colors transforms into a plaintive gospel with organ wails and agonized singing; and Lovin’ Machine superbly copies a piece of Jimi Hendrix and a piece of Sly Stone.
In reality, all the tracks are dominated by an unprecedentedly beastly pride in the blues. At the same time, Spencer skillfully weaves in the best melodies of his career. In short, it is a brilliant experiment in deconstructing the blues, particularly his own blues-punk.
Spencer came within a hair’s breadth of inventing the “industrial” blues of the next century.

The Blues Explosion's next project was an album with Calvin Johnson's Dub Narcotic Sound , Sideways Soul (K, 1999), that contains the demented 10-minute dance-craze Fudgy The Whale.

Boss Hog's White Out (In The Red, 2000) finds Martinez in top form. The album updates the band's sound to dance music without sacrificing their garage-blues roots. Martinez has listened to a lot of drum loops and has matured as a songwriter and performer. The convergence of such favorable signs yields songs that are both for the body and the brain, intellectual exercises while party-ready. Jon Spencer's de-voluted blues permeates White Out, and Spencer himself lends a hand on Chocolate and Jaguar, two fragrant additions to the garage canon. Slowly one starts appreciating the postmodern show that Martinez has set up: there are snippets of oldies in every song, and the record as a whole sounds like a collection of covers, even if no song is a cover itself. The smooth easy listening of Nursery Rhyme, the psychedelic refrain of Sterolight, the funky-soul number Fear For You, the girl-group anthem Trouble hark back to the 1960s, but are propelled by a steady beat while derailed by dirty guitar work. Get It While You Wait has the brio of a Tamla ditty and the passion of a Alanis Morissette hit and embodies the quest for nostalgic/modernistic balance of this record. Itchy & Scratchy, nailed down by a syncopated funky groove and pierced by an "acid" organ solo, serves an even more fascinating blend of the two worlds. Jens Jurgensen on bass and Hollis Queens on drums interpret Martinez's vision with manic agility, and Mark Boyce on keyboards gives a soul to that restless body. The guitars work magic with their trademark dirty riffs. Boss Hog may have just reinvented party music for the new generation the same way Pussy Galore did for the punk generation and the Blues Explosion did for the college-rock generation.

Russell Simins, after playing in Butter 08 (Grand Royal, 1996), recorded his first solo album, Public Places (Grand Royal, 2000), where he indulges in hip-hop and funk rhythms, but not in Spencer's trademark blues. He sounds rather like a cross between Beck and Bob Mould (Feel The Emotion).

Judah Bauer formed 20 Miles which released RL Boyce (Fat Possum, 1997) and Keep It Coming (Fat Possum, 2002).

Plastic Fang (Matador, 2002) was a relatively subdued and linear album for the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, one that never really matches the manic bitterness of the early albums. Sweet 'N' Sour is the lead-off track, and representative of Spencer's new direction, a polite and respectful reprise of funk and soul and rhythm and blues stereotypes (Money Rock And Roll, Killer Wolf). Only towards the end does he return to his deconstructionist folly, with Mean Heart.

Produced by the likes of Dan Nakamura, DJ Shadow and David Holmes, Damage (Sanctuary, 2004) fails to rejuvinate the Blues Explosion. The conversion to hip-hop production techniques is not convincing (despite the sensation of hearing James Chance's saxophone roast Fed Up And Low Down), More convincing are the usual numbers, but even the best ones (Damage, Crunchy, Burn It Off, Spoiled, the instrumental Rivals) sound like pale copies of their classics.

Spencer Dickinson was a collaboration between Jon Spencer and Cody Dickinson The Man Who Lives For Love (2001 - Yep Roc, 2006)

Jukebox Explosion (In the Red, 2007) collects Blues Explosion singles.

Heavy Trash is the duo of Jon Spencer and guitarist Matt Verta-Ray. They debuted with the trite garage-blues of Heavy Trash (2005). Going Way Out With Heavy Trash (2007) was mostly a gritty form of rockabilly with the usual pervented bluesy overtones (They Were Kings, Crazy Pritty Baby, Pure Gold). The more accessible and varied Midnight Soul Serenade (2009) offered charming reconstructions of the 1950s such as Gee I Really Love You, the instrumental Pimento and Bedevilment.