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It's almost inconceivable that something like Philadelphia's Marah could exist and grow in our current musical climate, soulless and vapid as it often is. In stark contrast to the fleeting, shrink-wrapped, mousse monkeys currently spinning on your local alternative radio station, here's a quintet of organically grown, skilled, tight players with a deep foundation in history, devotion to tradition and unrestrained zeal for the splendor and salvation of ramshackle rock. Fronted by the brothers Bielanko -- Dave (twenty-six), and Serge (twenty-eight) -- Marah (Old Testament speak for "bitter") have crafted a remarkable sophomore effort in Kids in Philly.
With a young Springsteen's gift for
stream-of-thought urban poetry, the Replacements
' indomitable spirit of drink-up and conquer,
Booker T's bottomless soul and the
Band's firm grasp on staying loose, the
guys have drawn some hefty helpers to their corner. Hard-core
troubadour Steve Earle signed them onto his
E-Squared label and asked him to open his recent U.S. stint, a slot
they similarly filled on the Black Crowes
sweep with Jimmy Page. The man who
discovered and later managed the Replacements, Peter Jesperson, is
fond of saying they'll "save rock & roll," as is author Stephen
King, who, besides turning up in a Marah tee in the New York
Times Magazine, was not long ago overheard arguing with
High Fidelity author Nick Hornby over who is a bigger fan
of the band.
"Once you walk into the door of the music industry, you pretty much
go straight to the room you're supposed to be in," says Dave
Bielanko, as he takes in a pre-soundcheck smoke at L.A.'s
perennially cool Spaceland, a venue they'll pack and rock later
that night. His scruffy looks recall Goo Goo Doll
Johnny Rzeznik when he was still just some schmo from
Buffalo (pre-makeover, that is), and his gruff voice suggests
Christian Slater with emphysema. "You find these people almost
immediately. All we did was make a record. We never went looking
for anything."
Though their 1998 debut, Let's Cut the Crap and Hook Up Later
On Tonight, impressed countless folks, including
Blue Mountain's Cary Hudson, who picked the
album up for his Black Dog Records, and Earle, Marah initially
chose to avoid the circus. Holing up in their homemade studio with
an unknown producer named Paul Smith, they set about making
Philly, a kitchen-sink block party where twangy banjos,
clunking pianos and swingin' horns find a home in perfectly painted
songs about passing time in Pennsylvania and trying to find an
outlet on a dead-end street.
"We did this album without anybody's help, without anybody's
money," Dave says proudly. "We literally almost had to tape over
our first record to make this one; we couldn't afford more tape.
Steve [Earle] did loan us a couple of microphones, but that's about
it."
"When we were done," he continues, "it was like, 'OK, of all of
these labels, who wants this music the most and whose gonna care
for it best?' We met with A&R guys, from major labels,
who had never heard of the record Exile on Main Street! We
brought it up and they were like, 'What's that?' That's scary and
weird, and that's the business. So Steve Earle got the gig."
A sense of history, rock & roll and otherwise, is an essential
element of what makes Kids in Philly click. "Christian
St." opens with a lightening speed intro from legendary
Pennsylvania DJ Hy Litt (longtime Phillies' mic man Harry Kalas
guested on Let's Cut the Crap). "Round Eye Blues"
translates author Bill Ehrhart's "Vietnam-Perkasie" into a war
memoir shuffle so moving you forget these chaps were barely born
during that particular conflict. There are references to
Jackie Wilson and Otis
Redding and Todd Rundgren and Mr.
Coffee.
Marah -- the Bielankos, bassist Joe Hooven, drummer Mick Bader and
lap steel/utility guy Mike Brenner -- have been on tour since
March, hitting every club their schedule's allowed for between
stage warmings for Earle and the Crowes/Page thing. Sharing Motel 6
rooms and subsisting more on character than catering, they're a
throwback to the days when bands worked not because they
necessarily wanted something in return, but because they couldn't
imagine what else they'd be doing.
"If we got dropped tomorrow, we would keep doing what we're doing
and I think people would keep connecting with us," Dave says.
"People will always connect with something they see as sincere. The
industry is incidental to the band. Fucking FM radio in the United
States is so piss poor today, to fight that battle, you've gotta
have a sense of humor and look at that stuff as peripheral. The
music that's being churned out is so temporary, no one will care
about it in a year. Even Eminem, singing
about Britney Spears and Tom Green in a
song? It's like Weird Al. People don't
realize it now. They think, 'How great, music for the moment!' But
listen to that in three years and it will be Weird Al.
"There's something a little more timeless about what we're doing,"
he continues. "For every record we sell, we're making a fan,
possibly a fan for life."
GREG HELLER
(August 30, 2000)