“I was playing with this band, Coprolingus: a lotta noise, a lotta drums, almost like Stockhausen with [mumble mumble]…” Master musician Ratty Scurvics is overly soft-spoken but his pretty eyes hold mine as he recalls, “Rod Stewart was coming to town and we were hired to be his backup band. We didn’t know any of his songs. We could only do what we did. So he just tried to sing over it. Of course, right after the show he disappeared, didn’t say goodbye, no ‘nice work guys,’ none of that jazz.”
This is the only tie Mr. Scurvics claims to Mr. Stewart—this dream. This bad, bad dream. We arrived on this topic because in OffBeat‘s June issue I publicly declared that Ratty’s raspy voice sounds like Stewart’s—put to much better use, of course, in Scurvics’ stompin’ one-man-band Singularity, and his six-person band, the Invisible Gambling Jews, an un-amplified multi-instrumental ensemble sounding like New Orleans Jazz Vipers on NyQuil. Days after my Scurvics = Stewart declaration hit newsstands, the phone-lines lit up: eight consecutive prank calls on my message machine from one man posing as Vince Vance’s agent “trying to get Mr. Vance a duet with Rod Stewart, but then we read here that you know someone who sounds just like Rod Stewart, so please give us a call at your earliest convenience…” to a chorus of obviously-drunk white adults caterwauling ”If you want my boooody! Aaaand you think I’m sexxxxy!”
But what else is to be expected of clowns?
No, I’m not trying to instigate more prank calls, though they admittedly stoked my ego—Ratty’s story involves actual clowns: “Guys who are clowns 24-7, even if there’s no circus that day,” Scurvics quietly expounds. “Clowns who tattoo their make-up to their face.” These were Scurvics’ cohorts in both New Orleans’ End of the World Circus, for which he acted as Musical Director and Resident Composer, and the Know Nothing Zirkus, where he simply played guitar. Here Ratty really learned how to dress: “I was doing backing music for the circus,” Scurvics recollects. “But I was pretty ascetic about dressing up—I would just wear whatever I wore—until one day [my fellow circus performers] reminded me ‘You’re a clown!'” Nowadays, Ratty often rocks Singularity wearing whiteface and far-out, beautiful, handmade costumes by Howlpop’s Moe Lappin, against a backdrop of exciting lights, shadows and confetti-explosions, provided by his friends the Puppet Salon.
But back to the circus, which eventually forced Ratty into Singularity: “We kept losing musicians on the road,” explains Scurvics, “until one night in Montana I was the only one left.” Last minute, for the first time ever, Ratty played all the circus’ music by himself on as many instruments as simultaneously possible. This worked out well enough that today, in Singularity, Ratty’s feet pound the bass and snare drums while his hands play keyboards and samples. The resulting sound is decidedly pumpin’ rock ‘n’ roll, with vocals blurred by Ratty’s reverb-drenched personal P.A.
At some Singularity shows, though, Scurvics is less concerned with kicking up a spectacle, and so leaves the make-up and puppets at home, closes his pretty eyes, seems to calm down and concentrates on just the songs. At these shows it becomes more obvious that Ratty is as great a musician/songwriter as he is an entertainer/enigma.
His band, the Invisible Gambling Jews, then take the mood down another notch by switching off Ratty’s reverb along with all amps, handing Scurvics the acoustic guitar, and following his strong, truly-gorgeous singing voice. “Collaboration is usually difficult,” Ratty admits. “Especially if you’re writing a lot of the music and bringing people together to learn, you end up having to play psychologist.” Thus, Ratty writes the Jews’ songs on guitar, “Then they just do what they want.” Sometimes what his band wants is to not fully learn the songs—giving the group a spooky, woozy sound. I would deserve more prank phone calls for assuming their seasickness is the result of some avant-garde musical decision, but it works well.
So, look for Ratty’s new solo record Tests—not technically a Singularity record, since he allowed himself overdubs, including many mysterious ambient sounds, imbuing the songs with striking color and depth. Though I tend to ham it up when describing esoteric acts, Ratty is, sincerely, a wonderfully dynamic artist, a musician’s musician. Despite being a clown. And sounding a bit like Rod Stewart.
GLYN STYLER PRESENTS THE CLERGY
As a New Orleans transplant, it’s not my place to re-tell the history of anyone or anything that’s lived here longer than I have—especially not to you, New Orleans. I would flub one crucial subtlety and show myself for an ass. But that’s only one reason this column strives to emphasize the present and future over this city’s much, much, much celebrated musical past—a past celebrated much too much.
So. Hopefully that qualifier frees me from having to first write the novel-length history of Glyn Styler before discussing his new band, the Clergy. Quickly though, for the uninitiated (meaning me and next year’s Tulane freshman): Styler, lesser-known as Metairie bedding salesman Brent Newman, is a local/national singer of dark modern lounge music. Music aficionados Styler’s age, 47, might lump him in with Frank Sinatra, Scott Walker, maybe Leonard Cohen, while new-school hack music critics will hear Tindersticks and Nick Cave in Styler’s clean, dark baritone delivery. As a modern-day lounge singer, Styler does utilize irony, but more as a means to sincerity; some folks misread Styler as a shtick, but his lounge facade and so-lovely-they’re-evil lyrics act more like masks, worn specifically to make you imagine what’s being hidden. He has released two records of mostly-original material on the Atavistic label (one a collaboration with Lydia Lunch), and major labels have made him many empty professional promises he doesn’t want to discuss.
Though, “Live, I’ve usually done all covers,” explains Styler, whos well-known for paying non-ironic tribute to his favorite crooners. “The band used to have to fight to get me to sing original songs.” But the Clergy’s July 9 debut (at, of course, the Circle Bar) heard the band premiere 20 new songs, co-written by Styler and his long, long, longtime writing partner/impetus bassist Rene Coman of the Iguanas. “Rene forces me to continue playing,” claims Styler. Coman holds down this new holy rhythm section along with Iguanas drummer Doug Garrison. The Clergy also include keyboardist Dave Ellington, guitar wizard Dan Sumner of my favorite electronic jazz duo Permagrin, and percussionist Anthony Cuccia of the Zappa-esque Other Planets, whom I will detail here next month.
Styler describes his new incarnation as at least one layer closer to his Brent Newman core: “I’m not wearing the wig for this,” Styler details. “I used to not do shows from May to September because that wig is just too damn hot in the summer.” Their Circle Bar debut saw Styler’s bald pate proudly shining above a neck wrapped in a cleric’s collar and rosary beads. But despite these aesthetic changes, and those inevitable to any band’s line-up change, the Clergys new demo record isn’t a radical departure for Styler; it’s still him finding and hitting that sweet spot in the darkness.
