Nova Mob, Nova Mob (Restless, 1994)

By Null

Lately, I have been revisiting a lot of older records. Part of the reason for this is because when it comes to rock music these days, the bottom line is Pro-Tools and the “loudness wars.” I cannot 

fucking take it anymore.

In regard to making a record, there are those who write songs and play instruments—I am referring to the band. However, there is always another member who plays a big part. This person is the producer, or engineer, who determines the production value of the recording. In essence, the “production” is an additional key component of the group. Every record contains this “invisible” aspect. These days, I have a real hard time distinguishing between rock bands. Sure, the singer’s voice can often que me in, but aren’t these different singers backed up by the same homogeneous band? I believe they are called “The Protool, No Dynamic, Loud As Fuckers Band.” They make almost every record indistinguishable. This was not always the case.

Fuck man, Glen Campbell played on half the songs that were ever recorded in the world, and you wouldn’t even know that if I didn’t tell you. Yeah, Motörhead sounds like a fucking sandstorm, but they sound that way regardless of how they were recorded. It was intentional. I can pick out the difference between instruments on an old Motörhead recording better than I can on any loud-as-fuck fest I have heard these days.

t is not that I am just a grumpy old man, which, of course, I am. It is the fact that digital music is cold and dead. Analog music is warm and alive. It’s science. For instance, take Rise Against, they have good lefty politics, they are good song-writers, and they seem to be good guys. Previously, I had never bought any of their albums because of the sound—the production. However, I picked up End Game a few weeks ago and thought maybe I could get into the album if I just familiarized myself with the sound after repeated listenings. I like the record, but I just couldn’t get past the production. It makes me sad.

While I was driving around rockin’ my new Rise Against album, I stopped at a bookstore in town that has a lot of used CDs, just to try my luck. I was fortunate as I found Nova Mob’s second album. Considering I am a huge Hüsker Dü fan, and that Grant Hart died recently, I was excited to pick it up. As soon as I got back into my car, I threw it into my CD player. Instantly, I noticed that the mix sounded weird. The vocals seemed buried. It was a bit tinny. The bass was muffled. There was also some tape hiss.

It was like a breath of fresh air.

It sounded fucking great. Almost like a real band, with real people, making human mistakes, which often result in making great records. I could actually distinguish the two guitars from each other. What’s that, a bass?

I was floating in paradise. I drifted through the band rehearsal space in somebody’s garage, ya know, the place where music is made. The carpet was stained from spilt beer and flipped ashtrays. There were busted drumsticks on the floor with broken guitar strings coiled around them like snakes from some underground punk rock world. There was sweat. And blood. There was also space. And air. The sky was clear, and I could sense something real.

In this paradise, there is sadness for the current state of record making. I wish Rise Against would visit this place, where their music and their words would be heard; where a guitar and bass complement each other, instead of sounding like one indistinguishable beastly instrument; where they could be heard and seen. It is a place where I could distinguish them from the Foo Fighters.

Nova Mob sustained this paradise for the next 53 minutes.

Nova Mob’s second album has horns, and acoustic numbers, and straight-ahead rockers. It grows on you over time, and the songs lend themselves to emotional interpretations of all colors and hues. At least, that is what it did to me. It felt like going home. Don’t fear the tape hiss. We don’t need to be saved from our imperfections.

“Fast” Eddie Clarke (1950-2018)

PaulySure:

With the death of Fast Eddie, the last original/core member of Motörhead is dead. And while it may end up being an unpopular opinion, with the death of Motörhead, and the much earlier death of the Ramones, rock ‘n’ roll is now dead. Everything else is just imitation, really good imitation.

SoDak:

In the late 1970s and early ‘80s, Motörhead scared me. Heck, I was young. They seemed dangerous. In photos in rock magazines, if they were smiling, it seemed to be sinister. Nevertheless, I was drawn to them, partly due curiosity. Once I heard their music, I became obsessed. My neighbor was much older and immersed in heavier music. We would listen to records in his room. Some of our favorites were Motörhead’s Overkill (1979), Bomber (1979), Ace of Spaces (1980), and Iron Fist (1982). Hearing these records was better than going to school. It served as an education in rock. We spent afternoons headbanging. The assault of drums, bass, and guitar was the perfect storm. Lemmy obviously kicked ass, but I also loved how Eddie’s guitar punctuated key parts in songs, adding power to the rumbling bass, and how he played quick solos on the side. For me, Motörhead was the perfect distillation of all things rock ‘n’ roll, and “Fast” Eddie proudly served, making his mark.

Null:

I became a big fan of Motörhead through the band’s last, and longest, line up. This is the Lemmy, Phil Campbell, and Mickey Dee line up. I was introduced to the earlier and classic period of Motörhead through the Stone Deaf Forever box set. “Fast” Eddie Clarke played on many of Motörhead’s most famous songs. He kept up the pace and left skid marks all over Motörhead’s history. Well done, Eddie. Well done.