Claw Hammer
Hold Your Tongue (And Say Apple) (Interscope)
by Jon Sarre
If ya take Claw Hammer‘s word for it, they’re a band that’s either loved or hated by those lucky enough to be subjected to ’em. Nobody only kinda likes these guys (which, when ya think about it, is a whole helluva lot better than the wishy-washy emotions most everything else inspires in people). Me, I’d count myself in the pro-Claw Hammer crowd (if ya can call it that), cos I’ve seen ’em before and really liked what I saw. More important, I haven’t been able to take their new release, Hold Your Tongue (And Say Apple), outta my CD player since it showed up in my mailbox. The thing is, for the life’ve me, I can’t quite put my finger on exactly why I like this album. I just do.
It’s kinda like Captain Beefheart (the guy who, after Grover from Sesame Street, is most often cited when the dirty business of describing these Los Angelenoes is attempted); “y’know, he sounds like um… oh hell, he sounds like Captain Beefheart!” Similarly, Claw Hammer goes their own way, mixing disjointed guitar riffs, a right-on-the-money rhythm section, free jazzy saxophone, and kitschy cocktail piano augmentation with singer Jon Wahl’s off-kilter wail to produce what is essentially avant-garde rock’n’roll for people who normally can’t stomach the stuff.
What I’m sayin’ here is Claw Hammer and producer Jim Dickinson (credits include the Replacements, Alex Chilton, the Cramps, playin’ piano on the Stones’ “Wild Horses,” and knowin’ Sam Phillips personally) have created an album that’s idiosyncratic as all hell, but flat out rocks. Even in the wilder moments (the lazy, kinda jazz-like “On Top of Old Smokey” take off, “The Valley So High” and the drunken, Manson-esque cowboy screeches of “Gnashville” for two), you can’t help but be reminded of the fact that this band has got a way of putting together old-fashioned gimmicks like two guitars, a bass, and a drum kit. Hell, their cover of the Duke Ellington standard, “Caravan,” even provides the lost link between the Doors’ “Spanish Caravan” and the Butthole Surfers’ “Mexican Caravan” (and you didn’t think there was one, did ya?). Plus, Californiaphobes’ll get a few chuckles outta the “lost in SoCal”-type subject matter – picture L.A. covered in a shower of bird excrement (“The Day It Rained Pigeon Shit”). Tell me you wouldn’t pay money to see that!
