The last time I invited my friend Julia to a Jon Spencer Blues Explosion gig, she made up some excuse, adding "Besides, they just aren't Neutral Milk Hotel." Who? Yes, the name is a mouthful; the music, however, is an earful, a headful, a roomful, and a lifetimeful. NMH - essentially the project of Louisianian Jeff Mangum, the outfit's songwriter and one constant, and part of a continent-spanning web of musician-collaborators comprising bands, individuals, labels and microlabels too numerous to list - has gifted us with one of history's most glorious debut LPs, On Avery Island, on which Mangum has enlisted, in addition to his trusty four-track recorder, the talents of Robert Schneider and Lisa Janssen, both of the Apples in Stereo, and others.
In recent performances in New York, which is, for the moment, the band's home, NMH has consisted of Mangum on vocals and guitar; Julian Koster on accordion, saw, banjo, Moog, and guitar; Jeremy Barnes on drums; and Scott Spillane on horns and "fuzzed" acoustic guitar. Before members fly south for the winter, fans have one last opportunity to see live activity. Mangum will make an acoustic appearance at Brownies along with the sometimes-collaborators in the Olivia Tremor Control. Although he's sketchy about what exactly will transpire, Mangum assures that his set "will definitely be a Neutral Milk gig."
I had the good fortune to corner Mangum and Koster at an East Village Indian place. The guys are immediately recognized by some girls at the next table. Mangum and Koster blush; the fans gush. I'm disarmed by the pair's modesty. "God, no thank you," they respond to the prospect of becoming rock stars. I give Mangum some herbal medicine for his cold and pour a round of tequilas. Drug-free, Mangum politely declines. "It burns!" says Koster like a mere boy after taking one sip.
Although Mangum describes his lyrics as "little films in my head," don't expect any music videos from Neutral Milk Hotel. "That's one thing I can say will never happen," says Mangum. In case it seems as though they've eschewed one set of rock cliches in favor of another, the band members are no shoegazers: live, NMH demonstrates energy and charisma. Nor are these boys pontificating message merchants. I glean principally one message from their lyrics: "Live, don't die." On Avery Island consists of compositions knee-deep in sonic lint but no lo-fi posturing. "We've been recording on four-tracks all our lives," says Mangum, "but we were trying to make this very un-lo-fi. I'm just into the freedom of recording at home."
"It's not about throwing on a bunch of hiss as some sort of statement," Koster adds, "It's having the luxury to try out sounds 50,000 different ways and come up with something very beautiful." Indeed, underneath the fuzz are some delicious pop songs. Granted, the tunes are collages of text and unorthodox ear d'oeuvres of instrumentation and found sound, but with no masturbatory repetitiveness. What's striking are the the excruciatingly gorgeous and damned catchy melodies onto which are added the surprise of trombones, vocals delivered with Brian Wilson-style earnestness and lyrics that are a mixture of pure thought and pure heart.
After the dazzling "Song Against Sex," which begins as a surreal romance with a hanged man and then goes on to beg a loved one not to overdose, the rest of the album, populated by angels and ice cream trucks, feels like a single narrative, simultaneously plaintive and exhilarating. One needn't know that many of the songs are privately dedicated to someone who died tragically to be drenched in their poignancy. All this makes for a smooth transition to the live show, where the songs are stripped of much of the four-track hotdoggery that recording affords. Everything is looser and more playful. Koster, especially, is like an otter onstage, springing around in his Burger King crown (a memorial to a lost friend). "Music is a magical place," he says. "A huge group of people in one room lost in the same imaginary world - it's the most beautiful thing humans can do."
By the end of our conversation, the pills I've given Mangum have cured his cold, but that's nothing: his music could cure death or, more amazingly, put a smile on the face of the weariest indie rocker. Skip this show if you feel you must - you might as well miss your own wedding - but if you think this music isn't for everyone, consider this: The first time I played On Avery Island, all my neighbors came running over - middle-aged matrons, Hispanic teenagers, Chinese immigrants - and said, "That sounds great! What is that?"