So a lot of people are talking about me, about how I cracked the code to their album, how I unleashed the songs imprisoned inside them, how I’m the unseen voice of the culture. Who is saying that? A lot of people.
Do I have any technical skills? I guess that depends on how you define “technical.” And “skills.” You mean producing skills? I can say that I have many, many skills. But if you’re looking for technical knowledge of mixing boards, and tones, and tracking then, no. My skills exist on a higher plane of abstract consciousness.
Let me explain. I was sitting in my house in Malibu listening to the sea, meditating and I could hear the waves crash and I thought, that’s a lot like music? Right? Do you understand what I’m saying? Are you on this wavelength? You’re not? Well I could get you there.
You want technical skills? I have the technical skill of never wearing shoes in places where people think “That guy should be wearing shoes” and still receiving service. Because of my aura. People see me in shorts, with a long beard and no shoes, and they don’t ask me to leave, because I pull it off. And not in a “don’t engage, that guy’s on meth” kind of way, but a “spritual leader kind of way. They see me and they “that man knows art.” Is that a skill? Well, it’s more like something that can’t be taught. Something more than a skill.
But do I play instruments? No. Unless you count the instrument of voice. Singing? No. Rapping? No. I mean the power of voice. What I lack in musical ability I make up for by having a voice that’s both soothing and commanding, like I’m instructing an advanced yoga class and you’re not low enough in Warrior 2. When I say something people listen. Because I do so with supreme confidence and a lack of humor.
What sets me apart is my superior sense of taste. I have a profound sense of what I like, and what I don’t like. People go through this world thinking they like something when really, they need someone like me to tell them what they like. I know, better than anyone else, what is good. You ever see a piece of art and think ‘This is dog shit?” I do that, better than anyone else.
Now, what I’m offering you today is something really special. If you sign with my label today you’re getting in on the ground level of this thing. Full access to my world, my brain, my opinions. I even have a house with a nickname. It’s called “El Dorado” because we’re going to make nothing but gold there. So once you sign, you can start recording, and then even become a producer of your own. If you sign two more artists under you, you’ll unlock special privileges and perks. Then they’ll start signing, and it’ll all kick back up to you. Pretty soon, you too can be a mega-producer guru like me.
No way in hell that Uncle Dan has even heard of Genesis. The guy was locked up for grand theft auto for like a decade and works as a firefighter in the Cayman Islands now. Does he even like music? I’ve only seen him listen to Atlanta Braves games from the ’70s on the radio. This is a major no – I think that if he saw Phil Collins in the wild, he’d dunk him like a basketball.
Uncle Leonard was pushing 80 last time I checked (he’s the first born), and he sure as shit isn’t getting any younger. Not a great look to be covering a band when you’re older than all of the original members. His tinnitus is already a total mess, and I’m pretty sure if he picked up a drumstick his arm would crack in half. Keeping this guy away from any amplifiers is a must.
Uncle Stevie is really, really cool. He rides a motorcycle and drinks beer with his shirt off every night. Never got married, never even had a girlfriend, according to my mom – said he never really bought into the whole “listening” thing. I asked him once when I was 16 if he’d ever heard “Selling England” by the Pound and he blew cigarette smoke in my face. He’s not interested.
Uncle Mark is pretty busy with his King Crimson cover band already – doubt he’d be interested in double dipping.
Uncle Matt loaned me my first-ever guitar when I was a kid, gave me a bunch of Bad Brains tab books for Christmas once too. As a result of his punk tendencies, I don’t really think he’s ever really listened to a song that’s more than 90 seconds long. I reckon he’d freak the hell out around minute eight of “Cinema Show” if he ever had to play it live. Not a great fit.
Okay, we’re starting to get somewhere now! Uncle Zane loves Peter Gabriel, he’s got the words “you could have a steam train” tattooed on his ass. Gregarious guy too, would have killer stage banter I’d bet. Maybe I could convince him Gabriel never left the band? He did a ton of coke when he lived in Berlin in the ’80s and tends to forget major details from his wife and kids’ lives.
Uncle Patrick has straight up zero musical talent – he is, however, a professional foley artist for the movies, so he does know his way around his bleeps, borps, and noisemakers. Obviously Tony Banks was doing all that experimental electronic stuff on the keyboard during Genesis live shows, but I’m sure any cover band would be thrilled to have a “weird sounds guy” in the crew.
No, no, I’m not talking about founding member and guitarist Mike Rutherford! This is just my Uncle Mike. He brews his own beer, which is always a huge “get” for any cover band practice.
Any dude from here on out would be stoked to start his own Genesis cover band. Uncle Billy is a prog nut and had a Foxtrot poster in his first apartment. He’s been playing the drums for like forty years and is about to retire from his job doing customer service for a battery company. The only reason that he isn’t number one is because he legitimately has zero friends.
Uncle Kevin told me that he once spent a whole summer in the English countryside in his early 20s, milking cows and translating an old version of the Farmers Almanac from Gaelic. He’s one of those weird Anglophile dudes who only reads books by Welsh poets – Kevin, you’re from Raleigh, brother! No doubt in my mind that this guy would love to play all of “Wind & Wuthering” in his buddy’s two-car garage.
Aw, man, Uncle Keith. This guy rips! He’s probably the most talented “amateur” pianist that I’ve ever met. Very spiritual dude, sits around all weekend in his gazebo smoking weed from a wizard’s pipe and doing literary analysis on the interconnected universe of the Genesis discography. He even designed his own tabletop role-playing-game loosely based on the events of the band’s history – I rolled Phil as a Cleric with him and his boys last summer. You’re the man, Uncle Keith!
Yeah, yeah, this time I am talking about founding member and guitarist Mike Rutherford – who’s also my Mom’s third oldest brother. He’s getting a little antsy and wants to play the hits again!
White Lung’s debut album is a noisy, grungy and scummy affair, and contains glimpses of future glories, but never quite hits a home run in terms of songwriting or performance. Not to say that there’s anything wrong with that, like ol Squirrely Dan from Letterkenny would say, since this album can be fun to kill a mickey of Canadian Crown in the woods with your friends, providing the soundtrack to the party, and all the chaos that would ensue on that rip.
White Lung’s second album pushed the band out of their comfort zone while still retaining the rawness of their first album, even earning them a Guiness World Record for most Canadian album title. Just like a rare steak, it satisfies your primal lust for blood and stimulates the sophisticated palette with its aggressive but melodic sound that would not sound out of place at a squat house, with the added technical flair courtesy of Kenny William. This album is where the legend was born, or something like that.
The closest thing to a major label debut for a punk band in the 2010s, due to its pristine, sometimes too sterile production and poppier direction. But even with their sound clean and pristine, White Lung continued to sound bellowing and mean, with deceptively nihilistic tales spun atop all the pretty colours conjured by Kenny William (pairs fantastically with BC’s other best export if you know what I mean). As they say in Canada, Oh bah’d that’s givin’er.
White Lung’s first album in three piece configuration, before Kenny decided that rather than be killed, he was going to do the killing, murdering the need for anyone else to play bass for this band (in the studio anyways). This iteration of White Lung would prove punishing and emotive, with a refined, but still cutting edge take on post-punk providing propulsion to their burgeoning career. But with such perfection, how could this album be topped? Which brings us straight to the top of the list in the next entry.
White Lung may have split in 2022, but Holy Hell did they go out with a bang. Written and recorded pre-pandemic, this combines all the tech punky goodness with Mish’s newfound motherhood and sobriety, leading her and the band to give the performance of a lifetime. This album is the crowning achievement of a Canuck band unsung by the masses. So let’s do better and sing their praises to God from the rooftop, but tell him we’re out of darts when he needs a smoke, because, you know, blasphemy.
