Dreary bores

Thanks to Mark Nelson for bringing this to my attention: When Fudge's debut LP, The Ferocious Rhythm of Precise Laziness, came out on Caroline, it got really bad reviews in both AP (was there a time when anyone cared?) and Spin.

Here's the Spin review.

FLOPHOUSE
Undaunted
Harp

FUDGE
The Ferocious Rhythm of Precise Laziness
Caroline

Indie-rock will eat itself, and the sooner the better. Stellar purveyors of this social club (Pavement, Unrest, the above-named Flophouse) breathe new life, and even manage to inject a few surprises, into the sagging lungs of this once at-the-very-least exciting musical sub-canon. Dreary bores such as Richmond, Virginia's Fudge, along with such other overhyped null sets as Velocity Girl and Cell, suggest that ideas are a thing of the past, and all that's left are bloodless third-generation retreads. Where Flophouse fills me with hope, Fudge is a deflating experience.

First, the good news. The San Francisco–based trio Flophouse began as an all-acoustic venture, but when the band plugged in, it electrifies, as evidenced on its debut long-player, Undaunted. If this were a fanzine I would rattle off the names of several thoroughly obscure mid-'80s bands with which Flophouse shares a predilection for strained, ragged pop. But 'zines don't have ads with Marky Mark's abdomen, so I'll settle for pointing out that Flophouse's worldview is touchingly naturalistic (sample choruses: "The sun is...rising"; "I'm looking at the clouds / Big white clouds"), balanced nicely by off-kilter stabs at harmonies and frantic guitar noisiness. Flophouse conjures just the right indie spirit; a mite awkward and the better for it. Warts and all, Flophouse's racket is all heart.

On the other hand, Fudge's studied reverence of the U.K. shoegazing scene (from the sound of it, Ride in particular) is cold and feckless, like a box of dietetic candy. While snugly fitting in with the trickle-down alt-rock most A&R reps are dutifully pining over--and the fact of the matter is, Fudge will almost undoubtedly outsell and outcareer Flophouse--there's little to recommend in Fudge's unimaginative glide. There are catchy moments--"Wayside" and "Pez" being two--but the by-the-numbers guitar whoosh, lifeless vocals, and unbearably inert tunes are practically infuriating. Fudge is an all too perfect example of the gross laziness that's enveloped the postpunk '90s. CRAIG MARKS

Whew! At the time he wrote this, Craig was the music editor of Spin and well on his way to becoming the executive editor, which at the time was equivalent to being editor-in-chief. He came to Spin from CMJ, and before that co-ran Homestead Records with Gerard Cosloy. Gerard was by co-running a very hip record label called Matador when this piece ran--in fact, he still is. My experiences working with Craig were always very friendly, and I respect him a great deal, but I can't help but wonder if this piece was colored by a feeling that he was perceived as "uncool" for going over to a mainstream music magazine that covered stuff like Jane's Addiction--check out the first graf, where he calls indie-rock a no longer exciting "social club" and gets in a couple digs at "overhyped" acts of the time.

That attitude was buttressed when Craig brought in Eric Weisbard, who also had a sizable chip on his shoulder about indie-rock. I remember they both were very dismissive about it and oddly boosterish about stuff that really wasn't very good but was on majors (such as Imperial Teen, who sounded completely like Unrest--ideas are a thing of the past, no?). It's almost like when someone switches political orientations and delights in twitting family members who feel like he used to!

But I think, overall, the judgments in this review, while a bit harsh and not mine (I like Fudge and think Flophouse were TOTALLY boring) are completely defensible. I understand Caroline was really pissed about this piece, and apparently Fudge's manager (Bob Schick the singer of one of my favorite ever bands, Honor Role, who recorded for Homestead) called Craig up to yell at him about this review.

(This is not a tactic I recommend, by the way. If you're unhappy with a review, sit on your hands. If you complain, everyone at the magazine will know about it within seconds and you'll be a laughingstock. You wanna play in the big leagues, you gotta take a couple hits. The way you hit back is to do very well and wait till the magazine comes crawling back to do a feature, and then you request they send the writer who wrote the review and then you act really kind to him. He will be miserable!)

But here's the thing: Craig didn't know, or care, that Fudge were bold harbingers of a new pop dawn in a place that more or less missed every wave after postpunk. Nor should he have. He just heard the record and thought it was derivative. And, ironically, thought that meant he'd be writing more about the band in the future.