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"There is something about music that is so unabashedly individual
and uncompromising, in this age of commercialization and record
company bottom lines, that makes Televsion Hill so appealing."
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This Baltimore four piece play a rough-hewn mixture of twanging, Country-inflicted rock and arcane, myth-heavy backwoods folk and blues. Dominated by Rob Wilson’s heavily accented drawl, this is partway between a primitive howl in the wilderness and rolling, ballroom balladry. The group’s versatility is displayed in their ability to shift between shuffling, jazzy blues and wide open country picking, with odd left-field excursion such as the instrumental “Saratoga”. But it is Wilson’s intriguing songs that dominate; even the lyrics are printed phonetically- “She was jud just a release/ But a peach fermi pleasure/ Nudder so’s I could sleep/ A wee bitty better” – which makes him sound even more impenetrable. Chuck in a storming version of “John the Revelator” and you’ve got something boldly distinguishable from the mass of Americana out there.
Rob Wilson's songs hang somewhere between myth, history, folklore, folkmusic and rock. The common place where these areas converge makes Twilight a startling premiere for Television Hill. Recorded in 2003 in Baltimore at Mount Royal Studios, Twilight is now distributed through Morphius records. But Rob, Dave Huemann and Dave Bergander (of Arbouretum), and Walker have been strong voices in Baltimore's meta-folk scene since the mid-nineties, and this album is a fresh reminder that Charm City has much to offer as far as new music is concerned.
There's something uneasily pretty in a lyric like "Well, I used ta love my whiskey / and I used ta love my wife" -- maybe it's because "to" is spelled "ta" in the liner notes, or perhaps it's because the whiskey comes before the wife. Both are good guesses, but the odds are good that the real reason the line is so alluring is because Television Hill singer/songwriter Rob Wilson has pumped it full of old-time country yodel and heartache. Over clean, pure country arrangements, Wilson sings like he's recording in an abandoned Appalachian shack. Probably closer in sound and style to Phosphorescent's Matt Houck or Will Oldham than to Blind Willie Johnson (whose "John the Revelator" is covered here), Television Hill sounds more alive and more visceral than any three modern country stars you'd care to name. -- Tyson Lynn
Singer/songwriter Rob Wilson unearths a pained soul on Television Hill’s Twilight, a Cormac McCarthy-epic journey through rural desperation and primal urges. Musicians David Bergrander, Dave Heumann, and Walker Jeret provide the wee-hours frowns and front-porch scoot to Wilson’s arrestingly expressive weathered voice, right at home as a Southern hick storyteller of “Easy Come, Easy Go” or an apostrophe-strewn phonetic hollers of the transfixing “Bamako Express,” a levitating bowed-saw waltz of drunk joy.
Although hailing from Baltimore, Rob Wilson and his cohorts produce music suffused with the folk sound of the American Deep South – rough, raw and visceral; slow, tub-thumping stories of earthly pleasures and regret. It’s a stripped down and heroically uncommercial sound summed up by the first track ‘Jewel of Texas’. In it, slurred violins accompany Wilson’s slurred vocals that whoop and holler, always one hiccup away from a yodel. The track references Isaac Kline, a member of the US Weather Services Bureau who, near the beginning of the last century, lost his pregnant wife to a flood he had declared would be impossible. Overall, a creaking, crooning slice of American Gothic. Recommended
Steadily over the last decade fans of traditional country music have turned away from the polish and shine of today’s “hat acts” that Nashville pushes onto the public at an alarming rate. These artists are Top 40 acts with a twang, and they bare no resemblance to the artists that paved country music’s path into America’s mainstream culture. As an alternative to these prefab artists, fans have been turning to a new breed of country artists and singer/songwriters outside the mainstream that keep traditional sounds and styles alive. One of the bands on the fringe of the alternative country/Americana movement is Baltimore’s Television Hill. This quartet, comprised of Rob Wilson, David Bergander, Dave Heumann, and Walker, play the kind of alternative country music that defies simple description – making them one of the more unique voices in the genre. On any given song on the band’s new album Twilight you might hear hints of folk, country, rock or even world music – making for a real bouillabaisse of musical styles throughout the 14 tracks. Some songs on the album are pretty straight forward like the Bob Dylan-esque “Easy Come, Easy Go,” the guitar laden cover of the traditional “John the Revelator” and the driving roots rock sound of “Ginx Blues,” but the best songs on this collection are the ones that stray from a common formula. From the somber shuffle of “Fine Fraulein” to the African chant chorus of “Bamako Express,” it is the oddities that set this album and band apart from other alternative country and Americana acts…
Chicken-wire barriers to deflect flying beer bottles from performers were unnecessary Thursday as country-fried, Wisconsin-based folk singer Graham Lindsey and local outfit TV Hill graced the stage of the Talking Head. After short sets from College Park singer/songwriter Mike Roy and Chicago's Thin Man Amongst the Shambles, Lindsey crawled up to the stage carrying a tribunal of dreadnought guitars, easily bigger than the diminutive singer. Lindsey ekes out the kind of country music that Nashville forgot, thankfully without pop influence. His voice is as gravelly but earnest as John Prine's, and his lyrical stanzas are long enough to make three-pack-a-day smokers faint. Lindsey switched comfortably between guitars, at one point simultaneously sliding on a dobro and puffing on blues harp between stanzas of Leadbelly-sinister lyrics. While a Bob Dylan comparison is inevitable, Lindsey has a flair for subtly sneaking snippets of punk ethos into his songs without sounding campy.
At 12, this now-25-year-old Wisconsin native played with Old Skull, the so-called youngest punk band in the world, before he migrated to various cities, eventually undergoing a self-imposed exile in rural Nebraska. He now lives in a log cabin in Viola, Wis., farming organic produce with his girlfriend--the kind of idyllic existence country singers of his ilk only dream about. Lindsey was joined by Television Hill for some of his last songs, including "I Won't Let You Down." Dave Bergander (ex-Love Life) played appropriately lazy fan brush drums over Dave Human's additional electric guitar, Rob Wilson's suitably whiskey-stained lap steel guitar, and Walker Teret on double bass accompaniment. When Lindsey took his leave, TV Hill borrowed members from local outfit Madagascar on accordion, percussion, and saw--too many folks to fit onstage. This combo, which could be called a Baltimore supergroup if it weren't so laid back, has existed in various iterations intermittently for six years. TV Hill's music moves at a slow but climactic pace, reaching crescendos only to double back into glacially paced accordion refrains. Wilson's gritty but plaintive vocals seem to spur the band to action more than anything else as the band around him lurches mellowly and fittingly through the songs. And though musical saws and resonator guitars aren't everyday fare at the Talking Head, the audience hooted and hollered honky-tonk hurrahs as songs lilted to a close well past last call.
On a recent night at downtown rock club the Ottobar, a crowd of about 40 gathered to watch a variety of short sets from a diverse lineup of performers with strong ties to the local music scene. The show opened with Charm City Suicides guitarist Josh Marchant playing an acoustic guitar through a tiny practice amp. To say that this performance was considerably less noisy and aggressive than his work with CCS would be an understatement--but Marchant's plaintive voice and simple strumming captured a sense of childlike innocence similar to the Suicides' work. Tim Kaye followed with a lively performance, mugging and caterwauling and bashing out ragtime-ish tunes on a digital piano. Rob Wilson closed the show with tunes showcasing his strong baritone voice and recalling the bygone music of Appalachia. But by far the standout set was a midshow duet between Ned Oldham and Dave Heumann. Oldham's capoed electric guitar and powerful vocal range, along with Heumann's melodic backup vocals, brought to mind some happy collision of Leonard Cohen, the Carter Family, and Jerry Garcia. This was the Ottobar's Anti-Folk Night, a more or less monthly affair that's part of a movement with roots in New York City's punk era. Although British singer/songwriter Billy Bragg is credited with coining the term to describe his own music, anti-folk as a movement was started by a New Yorker using the nom de guerre Lach in the early 1980s, says Rob Wilson, who, with Heumann, organizes the Ottobar events. "It was in reaction to the sterile, repetitious Greenwich Village scene," Wilson says. "[Lach] wanted to make folk fun." An alternative view holds that Lach was simply getting kicked out of Greenwich Village's traditional folk clubs, but no matter--the punk attitude of early '80s New York had taken hold, and, as anti-folk was to prove, nothing--including the stagnant-since-Dylan Village scene--would make it through unscathed. Thus was born a more lively and often confrontational way of performing solo, a way perhaps more aligned with folk music's original casual intimacy. Among performers of note who've sprung from the anti-folk movement, Wilson lists some familiar names: Beck, Ani DiFranco, and Michelle Shocked. Anti-folk came to Baltimore courtesy of former Buttsteak and Lee Harvey Keitel Band member Ron Spencer roughly around the time the Ottobar opened in late 1997, when that space was featuring almost as much performance art as music. Spencer eventually withdrew from organizing duties, passing the torch in January 1999 to then-regular performer Jon Woodstock, who organized the event for a few months before passing duties on to Wilson and Heumann. (Disclosure: This writer performed at an anti-folk event during the Woodstock administration.) Besides New York, anti-folk nights have also sprung up in Philadelphia, several cities in Texas (including Austin, Houston, and Fort Worth), and San Francisco, but as the case seems to be with most things musical, the Baltimore scene differs slightly. Other cities' anti-folk events favor a faster-paced, more attitude-heavy performance interspersed with storytelling; they fancy their style as a form of "acoustic punk." One exemplar of this approach is the manic and hilarious troubadour Mike Ill, whom Heumann recently brought to Baltimore, and whose book, The Anti-Folk Road Manual, mentions the burgeoning scene here. Baltimore anti-folk is not quite so boisterous, but Mobtown does feature one performer who adopts the Ill ethos--the piano-bashing, caterwauling Kaye, whom Heumann hails as "Baltimore's most prolific and organized anti-folk artist." And, a few months ago, Wilson and Heumann hosted the "New York Anti-Folk Invasion," a cadre of the movement's original practitioners, including scene founder and hard-hitting string-breaker Lach, quietly introspective Major Matt Mason USA, and raspy-voiced punk performer Joie Dead Blonde Girlfriend. The anti-folk scenes in various cities may differ from ours, but the key to preserving the original intent is maintaining a certain openness: On occasion, the Baltimore event has even hosted full electric bands, including Spencer's duo, the People's Army of Rome; Wilson and Heumann's Television Hill; and Heumann's Malevolent Owls, which plays improvised music. But recently, the local focus has shifted from that approach, to shorter, quieter sets, not only to put the focus more on songs, but also for the more practical considerations of time and stage space. The anti-folk ethos is not to be confused with the "unplugged" mania that gripped the '90s, though some performers at Baltimore anti-folk nights play acoustic versions of the songs they play with their regular bands. As Wilson puts it, "[Anti-folk] lets people in bands step outside themselves and do something different, or try out new material. It's definitely a proving ground." Lungfish bassist Nathan Bell, for example, often performs banjo- and guitar-based old-time music. Heumann notes that anti-folk also presents an opportunity for the audience to have a different rock-club experience, one in which they can relax and quietly converse--"hopefully not too much," he says with a grin. The Ottobar's Anti-Folk Night has been around long enough to garner some regulars. In addition to Bell and Kaye, repeat performers include Rob Girardi, guitarist behind the ever-mercurial Womyn of Destruction/Estrojet/Cicaeda continuum, who plays solo electric guitar--often tastefully enhanced with dark and noisy effects. Dave Adams, playing under the pseudonym "Ranahn Sentences," improvises humorous and bizarre tales to the accompaniment of his bass guitar. Glenmont Popes frontman Rodney Henry regularly shares some of his bluesy tales of jealous loneliness, and former Seade songwriter Jack O'Siecki often performs, sometimes acoustic, sometimes doing Gary Numan-esque numbers to the beat of a drum machine. On the other end of the spectrum, the duo of Neil Aviles and Chris Cody (formerly of the now-defunct local electronic group Bad Blood) introduced their brutal assault of electronic noise and distorted, screaming vocals at Anti-Folk Night, while former Little Miss Suction members Kathy Parmelee and Tony Mayes debuted their new project, Headwounds, at the event. The future promises more and even more varied activity for the Baltimore anti-folk scene. Wilson and Heumann have both just recorded albums (Wilson solo; Heumann with his group Neptune Lake), and Heumann will tour Europe with Will Oldham in the spring. There's talk of an anti-folk "invasion" upon an unsuspecting local open-mic night. Wilson, who maintains a Web site devoted to the genre (www.antifolk.com), plans on recording some upcoming shows and posting the tracks on the site as MP3s, if for no other reason than to document the fertile local scene and help spread the word. |
Twilight rising, the spirit of The Basement Tapes rages through this lo- fi country blues in all its ragged, ramshackle glory. Jennifer Hutt draws a weary note from her fiddle, a guitar appears mid- bar as if it had missed its queue, followed by an equally tardy drum roll - 'well I used to play the fiddle in the service of the Queen' - so begins 'Jewel of Texas', the opening track from Twilight, debut release from Baltimore's Television Hill. It is the everyday story of Isaac Cline, the head of the US Weather Service Bureau in 1900, whose pregnant wife was lost in a freak Texas flood. It sounds like the drunken brother of The Rolling Stones Dear Doctor from Beggars Banquet…. It is fractured, it is unfocused it is Godamn brilliant. That sound of The Stones 'toying' with Country music is never far away (Gunny Shiloh has me thinking of Exile on Main Street's Sweet Black Angel), however, while Twilight is a fun record, it is also sincere if not always serious; Country blues tunes like 'Mulberry Bush' and 'Hostage Honey' roll along, dragging their own heels to a place where instrumental space is not so much created as stumbled upon. This slacker style is both best evidenced and simultaneously blown apart by 'Santiago', an instrumental that first has you, fingers crossed, willing the drums to keep up. That is until you listen enough to realise that it is a fantastically intricate pattern, performed in a time signature that mere mortals like me could never work out. As a writer and vocalist, Rob Wilson is just as much of an enigma. As with the rest of Television Hill, he seems to invest a lot of time in making us think he is just playing at this. His singing style is a cross between Jagger's mocking Southern drawl & The Broken Family Band’s Steven Adams – his phrasing, ungainly and laconic renders much of what he sings as almost indecipherable - Remember REM's first couple of records? I make the comparison because, much like Stipe, Wilson has got something to say and it is worth hunting down. He also adopts non- linear approach to language, the skill and power in his songs being as much down to phonetics as the words themselves. A lyric sheet is provided to help you along, which is the only way you could ever make sense of 'Fine Fraulien' - a perfect marriage of borderline English, pigeon German and a scattering of words from neither language which have been completely made up - 'aforen my time is afinied', indeed!