The War on Drugs

Lost in the Dream

Sometimes they do make them like they used to. The film Drive owed a great deal to 80’s touchstones like Miami Vice (and anything else from Michael Mann), To Live and Die in L.A., and what would on the surface be an unlikely source, Risky Business. What all of these have in common is they found the excitement in stillness, and tension in tranquility. Each contains music which emits that kind of ambience. The War on Drugs would’ve fit perfectly on any of those soundtracks.

Coincidentally, 2011’s Slave Ambient, the second album from the Philadelphia band, came out around the same time as Drive. Actually, they’re not really a band so much as a collective masterminded by guitarist-singer-songwriter Adam Granduciel. Slave Ambient connected incongruent influences such as The Replacements, The Verve, Tom Petty, Paul Simon and the experimental German acts of the 70’s like Kraftwerk. One of the many highlights from the album is the moment in “Your Love Is Calling My Name,” when the “Rebel Yell” drums hit like a Tyson uppercut and the celebratory “Born in the U.S.A.” keyboards become more prominent. It’s ideal music for speeding through a tunnel with the top down.

Lost in the Dream, the latest from Granduciel and company, is more than just an album title, it’s a mission statement, featuring even more atmospheric excursions with rootsy folk underpinnings.

“Under the Pressure” presents an alternate universe where Bryan Ferry left Roxy Music before recording Avalon, and was replaced by Bob Dylan. Essentially, you’ve got Infidels-era Dylan mixed with the sonic splendor of  “More Than This,” particularly with Granduciel’s Phil Manzaneraesque guitar colorings throughout. The last line of the song, “Just trying not to crack under the pressure” is followed by a few minutes of the droning sounds of synths entwined with guitar feedback. This section concurrently captures the anger and melancholy of someone attempting not to drown in stress, while being hypnotic and oddly relaxing.

“Red Eyes” is more upbeat, really coming alive when Granduciel lets out a rockabilly “whoop” right out of Springsteen’s Nebraska. Seniors graduating high school in a few month’s should be dancing around bonfires to this.

“Suffering” is a mid-tempo ballad, the kind of song you put on while laying on the hood of your car at night, looking up at the stars. It’s even got a guitar solo right out of 70’s Santana.

In fact, there’s more guitar than on their previous records. “Disappearing” opens with such lyrical guitar work it would seem Granduciel might have a hankering to be Tom Petty and Mike Campbell. The song already has a glowing beauty to it, when midway through, a poignant piano melody takes it to a whole other level of exquisiteness. And that’s on top of a rhythm fit for dance floors everywhere. It’s a perfect example of what makes The War on Drugs stand out. They have a gift for making introspective music that also grooves. And as a bonus, how many ambient dance tunes feature a brief harmonica solo?

“An Ocean in Between the Waves” has fluttering guitars that live up to the title. And “Burning” starts with the feel of someone suffering through a sleepless night, the keyboards lightly flickering like the colon between the numbers on a digital clock. After about a minute, the drums suddenly come to life, with bouncy synths similar to the melody of Rod Stewart’s 1981 hit “Young Turks,” which was Rod’s raise of the pint to Dire Straits. It’s got a triumphant-sounding, sunny afternoon, sing-along chorus reminiscent of another band from Philly (and the 80’s), The Hooters.

War may be part of the band’s name, but don’t let that fool you. Every now and then, there’s more tension in the calm before the storm, than the storm itself.

Originally published as an edited version by DAEP Media. 

Amy Arbus

Leica Gallery

William Shakespeare wrote “All the world’s a stage.” Amy Arbus understands there is no better stage than the streets of New York City. She spent the entire 1980’s taking over 500 portraits of New Yorkers for The Village Voice’s monthly fashion feature, “On the Street.” The Leica Gallery currently has over 40 of these photos in an exhibit titled Amy Arbus/On the Street 1980-1990.

Sometimes empires start with stained camel hair coats and bowling bags. “Madonna, St. Marks Place” from 1983, is perhaps the most famous of the pictures showcased. Madonna’s self-titled debut, full of catchy, melodic dance anthems, would soon be released, poised to become one of the defining albums of the decade, and a soundtrack to millions of people’s youth. By sheer coincidence, the week this photo was taken, she received her first review from The Village Voice. What makes this portrait so unique is that it captures the ambition waiting to burst out of the blemished coat, with that slight glint of impatience in her eyes. In the background, two people are pushing a stroller, their obliviousness to what was happening a stark contrast to the amount of attention Madonna would soon receive.

“Ann Magnuson, Lincoln Center,” features the performance artist/actress/singer/DJ in 1981 looking uncannily like a young Shirley MacLaine, had MacLaine been cast as Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, instead of Audrey Hepburn. Magnuson was about a year away from filming that unforgettable opening scene with David Bowie in the cult classic The Hunger. At the time, she was a DJ and performer at storied venues like Club 57 and The Mudd Club. Arbus immortalizes her leaning against steps at Lincoln Center, a downtown nightlife icon juxtaposed with the ultimate uptown establishment. They’re complete opposites, but equally vital to the artistic soul of the city.

Also from 1981, there’s “The Clash, Broadway” taken from the set of The King of Comedy, where the band and others in the photo were extras, credited as “street scum.” This was around the time The Clash did their fabled series of concerts at Bond’s International Casino in Times Square. Sandinista!, one of the most diverse albums in rock history, was fairly new and already making a huge impact in the city. The first track off the album was “The Magnificent Seven,” and R&B station WBLS had a remix of it called “The Magnificent Dance” in regular rotation. In the song, Joe Strummer has a line about “gypsies on the pavement.” Which is exactly how Arbus portrays them. My girlfriend once said of The Clash that “they seem to have a strong sense of self.” That especially seems to apply to bassist Paul Simonon. He’s staring confidently off into the distance, looking like he owns the city. If you ever need to be reminded, this is what actual freedom looks like.

From 1984, there’s “Hat and Men’s Tie.” Filmmaker Miranda Pennell poses like Annie Hall, if she had listened to a steady diet of The Feelies and The Dream Syndicate. With floppy hat, bandana and tie, Pennell personifies 80’s downtown bohemian cool, although ironically, the picture was taken on Columbus Avenue.

We stay on Columbus for “Moccasins” from 1982. While the elderly man in the photo isn’t as well known as the others, he’s just as memorable. To paraphrase the old editorial, “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and he’s standing in the middle of the street wearing nothing but ball-hugging leopard-print underwear, shirt and moccasins.”

If you resided there back then, or only know that period from movies like Desperately Seeking Susan or After Hours, Amy Arbus takes us back to when the size of your creative ambition brought you the city, not just the size of your wallet.

Originally published by DAEP Media. 

Fred W. McDarrah

Steven Kasher Gallery

There wasn’t much Fred W. McDarrah missed. The 1939 New York World’s Fair? He bought his first camera there. Occupied Japan at the end of World War II? It’s where U.S. Army paratrooper McDarrah first started taking pictures. It’s quite a remarkable prelude, but he still had the rest of the 20^th Century to document.

With his Zelig-like ability of being at historic occasions, a neighbor told McDarrah he was starting a newspaper called The Village Voice. He ended up being their first photo editor and was the only staff photographer for over 20 years. The Steven Kasher Gallery presents some of his greatest work from this time period (1958 to 1979, all in black and white) for an exhibition titled Fred W. McDarrah: Save the Village.

The exhibit covers everything from Stonewall, the closing of the Cedar Tavern, Warhol’s Factory scene, 1960’s peace marches, and everyone from Hubert Selby, Mayor John Lindsay to Donald Trump.

No matter what one thinks of him, Trump is a fascinating subject for the camera. Is there anyone else who somehow looks simultaneously miserable and content? (James Spader, perhaps?)

Trump’s photo is from 1979, and it’s odd to see him pre-80’s, as most tend to associate “the Donald” with the Gekko decade and beyond. Looking down at McDarrah with his characteristic doughy, pouty smugness, it appears as if he can smell the Grey Poupon and “trickle-down economics” just around the corner.

And there’s Susan Sontag, looking like insouciance personified, staring at us staring at her, while holding a cigarette at a 1962 sex symposium. She comes across as a slightly more mainstream Morticia Adams in a French New Wave film, about to ignore the advances of a drunken Roger Sterling.

On April Fools Day 1966, the Velvet Underground are shown performing, bathed in darkness, silhouettes dwarfed by the giant eye of Nico on the screen behind them. The image perfectly captures the grimy phantasmagoric beauty of their music.

Another indelible image is McDarrah’s fellow photography giants, André Kertész, Sylvia Plachy and Fred Ritchin at a gathering in 1978. Plachy is in the middle of the two men, focusing a mildly amused, yet loving grin at a young boy conversing with the adults. It takes about a minute to realize that the child is Plachy’s son, a five-year-old Adrien Brody.

Those of us who were also children (and musically obsessed) during this time can practically hear songs of that era like “Reminiscing” by Little River Band or Billy Joel’s “My Life” emanating from this photograph.

McDarrah photographed plenty of artists as well, including Franz Kline in 1961 standing casually proud by one of his black and white abstract paintings. He also managed to get a classic shot of a Pop Art summit featuring Warhol, Wesselmen, Lichtenstein, Rosenquist and Oldenburg together at a 1964 Factory shindig. To be a fly on that paint splattered wall.

You might recognize the iconic 1959 photo of Jack Kerouac giving a reading in a Lower East Side loft. He looks burnt-out, with arms held out in the Jesus Christ pose.

A much darker portrait of LES life is portrayed in a 1967 photo of Robert Kennedy, a year before his assassination, visiting a run-down tenement that had once been occupied by Jacob Javits. The appalling effects of poverty are reflected in the haunted, furrowed brow of this rich and powerful man, who can only stare at the floor. Hanging crookedly on the cracked wall behind him is a portrait of Christ wearing the crown of thorns, gazing toward the heavens, giving the appearance that even he can’t bear to look at these conditions.

These disparate people and events are linked by one man with a camera who bore witness. Now we can too.

Originally published by DAEP Media.