David Thomas
Monster

I am a monster.

I know. I see it in your evasive glances, I hear you whispering it.

That's why I hide.

Behind that apparent normality, behind those affected ways of an innocuous countryside bourgeois, behind certain prolonged silences, the monster howls.

Like Crocus Behemoth.

He hides too, only his hiding place has the elephantine features of a young Pantagruel from Cleveland (Ohio): David Thomas. And it must not have been easy for that gigantic teenager, son of a Literature teacher, to carry his hidden ghosts in that body that was impossible to go unnoticed. Depression, paranoia, even schizophrenia, they said; but what do they know: it's just the monster screaming and cursing, it's just Crocus wanting to come out.

Now, we would need another Alcofribas Nasier to tell, much better than I can, the convoluted wandering of our noble Pantagruel. A wandering that leads him neither to the Papefigues nor to the Papimanes but, instead, among the ranks of Jehovah's Witnesses (and, as far as I know, that choice was never renounced). But, luckily for him, David discovers Music and Writing that manage to make him come to terms with his monster, he also discovers that the monster's name is Crocus Behemot and, with that name, he starts writing reviews and music articles for a Cleveland rag: the Scene.

Then David also meets his Panurge.

Panurge has the sharp features and the nervous fingers of Peter Laughner. Together they are Morgante and Margutte, the converted and angry giant and his wild and unruly companion, together they are the Rocket from the Tombs. And they will be incendiary concerts that still today fuel a small legend that, unfortunately, has left very few traces on vinyl. The Rockets, as is right and natural, will last just the time of a liberating scream, then will explode (and a part will end up in the Dead Boys).

And Peter and David start over.

Now they would need a refuge, a place to be, where to plan the assault on the sky. Something like the giant pumpkin refuge of the Baldus congregation by Folengo.

And the pumpkin is there! It’s called “the Plaza”.

The Plaza was a former luxury condo around Euclid Avenue, there in Cleveland. It was built to host the mistresses of millionaire industrialists whose mansions lined the same Euclid Avenue (the courtyard of The Plaza was centered on a heart-shaped fountain!). Here one of the buildings belonged to Allen Ravenstine, who rented the apartments, basically, only to musicians.

At the Plaza are Herman and Kraus and Ravenstine himself (and Ravenstine's alienating synths are as much an engraved mark in the sound of Pere Ubu as Thomas's wheezing singing). Then Maimone will also arrive.

So David/Crocus becomes Père Ubu.

King Ubu, a deformed and visionary mask, plump and animalistic, perpetually hungry and pathologically greedy for power, immoral and subverter of every social convention, invented by that genius Alfred Jarry, is the perfect counterpoint of what – in that sunset of the ‘70s – was our David, now left alone, because Peter was taken away by alcohol and drugs just a moment after Pere Ubu would see the light.

And something should also be said about Alfred Jarry, that Jarry which is a bridge cast between Cleveland and Canterbury (I must have written it somewhere else too), that Jarry who gave us King Ubu, Dr. Faustroll and pataphysics and the “merdre”. But, this time too, I’ve already lingered too long, there should be another occasion. Perhaps.

“Pere Ubu just wanted to be Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young of the Cleveland underground music” (David Thomas).

The idea was to record one, maybe two, singles and then not exist anymore. None of the musicians wanted to be part of another rock band; and yet, that story is not over yet. Well, if you've only listened to “Modern Dance” then – believe me – you have no idea what Pere Ubu are capable of (if you haven't even listened to “Modern Dance” then what are you here reading for? Go on Facebook to post kittens...). From ’78 to ’82 Pere Ubu released 5 amazing records, 5 extraordinary masterpieces (and, in the meantime, the legendary Mayo Thompson also joins Ubu. I don’t have to tell you who he is, do I?), Thomas calls it “avant-garage” and they are records that – naturally – don’t sell a damn thing. Well, to start, get all five, trust me!

But that is another story.

The story I want to tell you begins here, in ’81, after a disastrous American tour and after months of growing friction among the members of the group, the band simply ceased to exist. “Song Of The Bailing Man” still had to be mixed and would not be released until June 1982. But, by then, there was no band for the tour. So David/Crocus heads to Europe and here meets Richard Thompson (yes, THAT Richard Thompson!) and other great names like Chris Cutler, Lindsay Cooper, Garo Yellin, John Greaves, and others; then he reconnects with old friends like Anton Fier and Allen Ravenstine and Tony Maimone with whom relations had not broken and brings out a series of solo records under a couple of bizarre monikers (David Thomas & the Pedestrians, David Thomas & the Wooden Birds). Records that further intensify the rape of pop music already perpetrated by Pere Ubu and that only have a distant semblance of rock, that flay its corpse. Thomas sits among the Holy Trinity of the Liberating Scream, to the right of Captain Beefheart and to the left of Tom Waits, while Scott Walker and Peter Hammill applaud from afar.

Thomas mutters, gibbers, and chants, wheezes, and screams; he is like a guy mumbling disconnected phrases in the crowd – someone will write – but then, if you pay attention, he is actually talking to you. Music that you can only fall madly in love with or hate completely (there's no need to say on which side I stand!). The monster is free, even if the body moans.

“The Sound of the Sand”, “Winter Comes Home”, “Variations on a Theme”, “More Places Forever”, “Monster Walks the Winter Lake”, “Blame the Messenger”; there's no point in saying which is the best: either all or none.

And indeed, in 1997, David/Crocus remixes and releases them all together (except for “Winter Comes Home”, which he disavows and an EP from ’81 “Vocal Performances” with, in the early versions, “Meadville”, a live by David Thomas & Two Pale Boys that will not be included in subsequent reissues) in a box set: the here (ignominiously) reviewed by me “Monster”.

And, believe me, one couldn’t imagine a more fitting title. Monstrous music. Music for monsters.

Now it’s time to talk about the “duck principle”: “If it looks like a duck and waddles like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it is a duck. The overwhelming majority of the reaction to the Wooden Birds live was that the band sounded like Pere Ubu. Denying a historical imperative would be cowardly and indecent” (David Thomas).

So Pere Ubu return to the scene (and they still are today), with mixed results, but at least “The Tenement Years” should be listened to. David Thomas does not stop here: he is a volcano of ideas and projects, from the Two Pale Boys (of which at least, absolutely recover “Erewhon”), the Pale Orchestra with people like Linda Thompson and Peter Hammill (!!), the Foreigners with a group of Danish jazz musicians, the “accordion club”, theater productions, readings, as many as 4 (four) books, radio programs and who knows what else is buzzing in his mind. Just so as not to stop, just so as not to have to deal – once and for all – with Crocus Behemoth.

David is tired, the body is marked by battles. They carry him onto the stage, and what is currently the last album by Pere Ubu has a title that seems to be a prophecy: “The Long Goodbye”.

Where do monsters rest?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days ago I was listening one more time – as I’ve been unable to stop doing for weeks now – to “Monster”.

A friend of my son came over to our house to play. The boy – 8 years old – at a certain point enters my studio and stands absorbed listening for a few minutes.

Then, genuinely curious, he asks me: “what kind of music is this?”

Now, if you are looking for a review that explains how “Monster” sounds – well – I don’t think it can be done better than this.