The Fiery Furnaces
Gallowsbird’s Bark
(Rough Trade, 2003)

Every couple of years, and shortly after it’s proclaimed “rock is back,” some wags in the criticism biz decide to yank our collective chain and say “rock is dead” again. But I hold firm to the idea that rock isn’t dead yet—just almost—because I can always find evidence of a band or two who can carry rock’s original flame.

Earlier this decade, I thought it was going to be the Mooney Suzuki and Bobby Bare Jr. (shows you what I know), and upon the release of Gallowsbird’s Bark, I added the Fiery Furnaces to my list of rock torchbearers. This was before they became known for their genre-defying, multi-instrumentalist, merry pranksterism. And yes, maybe I am a little over-invested in the “I have seen rock ‘n’ roll future” idea (another tradition that’s persisted among journalists ever since Jon Landau wrote that famous piece calling Bruce Springsteen it in 1974), but I still hold out hope that the Fieries are going to prove me right one day and cut loose and rock like they did on “I’m Gonna Run”, my favorite track from Gallowsbird’s Bark.

The album had all the elements of what constitutes good rock ‘n’ roll for me—first and foremost being mystery. From the outside in, it was an enigma. What’s a gallows bird anyway? A person who deserves to be hanged, states the Oxford English Dictionary. This was the first clue to me that these Fieries were book smart and could probably teach me a thing or two. The track listing also intrigued me: from old timey (a cover of Dock Boggs’ “Rub Alcohol Blues”) and concerns of North (“Up in the North”) versus South (“South is Only a Home”) to what sounded primitively punk (“Asthma Attack” and “Bow Wow”). Featuring a daring combination of the intellectual with the id, further symbols of both abounded on the crafty, hand-drawn cover: a wolf, a goat, a noose, a snake, and a map of the world. All that stuff about a book or a record’s cover being no way to measure its contents is nonsense: I’ve judged many albums by their jackets and, more often than not, the promise has generally been fulfilled, as it was with Gallowsbird’s Bark.

But more importantly, as I popped the disc into the player (I remember I was in a car), I was happy to hear the requisite chords in all the right places. And it had that energy—wildly uncontained. It was real rock ‘n’ roll to my ears. Not indie rock or shock rock, just rock rock. There were no pictures of the group to be found, but according to a story circulating in the press Eleanor and Matthew Friedberger were a brother-sister duo—the so-called real White Stripes. I’d seen that their look was as untamed as their rock ‘n’ roll—no costumery, just convincingly scruffy and thrift store beat rather than off the rack Urban Outfitters-chic. The pair’s androgyny (he’s soft, her vocals are rough) was comfortably compatible with old-school rock esthetics. Naturally dark (their hair untouched by chemical dyes), they claimed half-Greek origins (unusual, because you try naming Greek-Americans in rock ‘n’ roll on two hands), and hailed from Oak Park, IL, just outside of Chicago (Greek-American capital of the U.S.). I had learned from visiting the charming Oak Park district once that it had historically played home to Ernest Hemingway and Frank Lloyd Wright and is still home to one of America’s greatest independent record stores, Val’s Halla. Coming from a place like that, this pair had better be good, though they have since relocated to hipster haven Williamsburg in Brooklyn, N.Y.

I also read that Eleanor and Matt (if I may call him that) were prone to fighting. Like all good sibling bands—Creedence, the Kinks and Oasis—familial high drama keeps things exciting and makes for great rock ‘n’ roll. I guess I was pondering all this over the course of the first track, “South is Only A Home”, which I didn’t really notice much, though by track two, “I’m Gonna Run”, something had grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and was holding me frozen, wide-eyed and mouth agape for the duration of its two minutes and 34 seconds. It was a good thing I was sitting in the passenger seat.

Sounding a little like the jangling opening of “Subterranean Homesick Blues” there is not a true blue rock fan in the world that would neglect to stand at attention at the sound of Matt’s rendering of a classic rock riff. And then here comes Ellie (if I may call her that):

Slit my wrist with my Swingline
Copied myself 500 times
Pierced my ears with a three hole punch
Ate 12 dozen donuts for lunch

Behind this brilliant temp job office worker blues is a fighting spirit—delivered in the voice of someone who has not yet been completely beaten down by menial work. She wants to make herself believe that she still has enough energy to take up jogging (“I’m gonna run” reference in the song). I know this great under-achiever will never get around to it, but I really want her to. I think about Patti Smith (even though Patti Smith would never sing about jogging) and there’s no real rationale behind my comparison except that to my ears, Eleanor Friedberger, singing her brother’s words about someone’s life slipping through her hands, has a rebellious spirit to it. But it’s the way she claims the language as her own that puts her most in line with the fiery spirit of rock ‘n’ roll (not so much indie rock). She sings “so next week I’m a walk,” before its afterthought, “and the week after that I’m gonna run.” It’s with that brilliant bit of phrasing that I mentally pass the torch to the Friedbergers.

The rest of the album lights a fire for me, but never truly illuminates the atmosphere fireworks-style. The inclusion of a song by Dock Boggs means they’ve probably listened to Anthology of American Folk Music (or least have read Greil Marcus), which tells me they like homework, while Matthew’s piano slides from that one into his original “We Got Back the Plague.” Without sounding old timey, the Fieries do right by the good old days.

If the decade’s earliest back-to-basic bands (the White Stripes, the Hives) were like a return to punk, the Fieries were more like a return to new wave. “South is Only a Home”, has the angular shards of that music as does “Don’t Dance Her Down.” And certainly Matthew’s arty tack piano and electronic sounds would indicate a link to the synth-pop era. As it turns out, Gallowsbird’s “Leaky Tunnel” was a gateway to the album’s follow-up, Blueberry Boat (the one I’ve personally subtitled Adventures in Annoying Electronic Beats).

Okay, so the Fiery Furnaces were not the great hopes for rock ‘n’ roll I’d predicted; rather, they’ve become more like genre-bending art rockers. But four years on, it’s safe to say they’re no passing trend and remain an important addition to this decade’s rockin’ roll call. Every time they put out a record, I buy it hoping to enjoy the same rush I got the first time I heard “I’m Gonna Run.” I even picked up Rehearsing My Choir, despite the reviews warning off listeners that the vocals were provided by the pair’s Greek grandmother (not a problem for half-Greek me and a yiayia of my own). But Rehearsing My Choir was by no means a rock ‘n’ roll record, nor was Bitter Tea really, though it moved that way (The “Benton Harbor Blues Again” remix has got that old soul feeling). I’m hoping it’s a sign that Widow City, their fifth album (to be released in October), is going to be the one.When the time comes, you know I’m gonna run rather than a-walk to the recor
d store right away and get me one.

Watch: “I’m Gonna Run” [at youtube.com]

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