Try 'til you're tried

Morphin' Marks Cutler and Mulcahy

by Michael Caito

Mark Cutler

When do grown men chasing young men's dreams become ugly to see and -- in the case of rock musicians -- even uglier to hear? At what point does it become pathetic? Usually, it's when the songwriter/performer starts casting about for diversionary ploys and trends which they try to graft onto enfeebled formulas to resuscitate appeal. Bad actors and actresses call it "reinventing themselves," dismantling bands ascribe the catch-all "artistic differences" tag, but it and they are irrelevant in the big picture. Once quenched, wet wood, no matter how fiercely it once burned, is hard to rekindle.

So did you really expect to hear, say, deep house from former Schemer Mark Cutler? Perhaps ska from former Miracle Legion-naire Mark Mulcahy? No, and it's because it'll take more than El Nino to douse the fires of these veteran scrappers. Witness their respective new releases -- Cutler's Skylolo (Potters Field) and Mulcahy's Fathering (Mezzotint). Both hew to the two Marks' strong suits, which means Cutler made another Classic Rock album and Mulcahy made another Modern Rock record. Huh? Let's delve.

Skylolo's title character is a pro rasslin' midget who immediately recreates the midway burlesque so successful on "Bucket," the best track off his previous album Gasboy, back when the band was called Mark Cutler & Useful Things. Gasboy has the goods on Skylolo in terms of singles power, but that scalawag Cutler flings a rock through the bay window of the downloadable, single-mad contempo-rock condo by presenting an album which works as . . . an album. No shovel-handed motifs, no pedantic antics, no pointillistic themes, just an hour in his head. And a pleasantly mid-tempo, tuneful one at that.

Fans knew Cutler's wasn't a get-rich-quick scheme (sorry) before, during or after his days on Atlantic, and to those mindful enough to hear it he's now offered a fresh batch focused on staring down evil apathy, nuclear family skirmishes, and of course those recognizably Cutler-esque, economical examinations of roads taken and passed by, as on the searingly simple "Might Be Recognized:" "All the water in the ocean / Couldn't clean your slate / Now it's off your chest but you still can't rest / Hitch hiking on the interstate / Better hide from the morning / Nighttime's falling behind / Better close your eyes, put on your disguise / You might be recognized."

One distraction is the backing vocals, and the decision to keep a male voice harmonizing periodically on top of Cutler's. It worked with the Schemers thanks to Emerson Torrey. Skylolo's title track is the only one that finds twin vox smoking like back in the day, which is surprising because minus that harmony Cutler's voice has gained a, gulp, Dylanistic inflection without Robert Zimmerman's rasping nasalism. Singing alone, Cutler is convincing, and by disc's end I wondered that blues tsunami Geri Verdi hadn't been offered more than cameo harmonies. But that's nitpicking. On the whole, it took several spins for Skylolo to register, mostly because Iplayed Cutler's best-ever Gasboy into the ground. No Schemers dis meant, but that remains the Cutler benchmark. While other rockers spin their tires, Skylolo keeps the Mok saga moving forward.

Now, Mulcahy is the guy you'd expect to have a record with a wrestling midget on the cover. Fathering is his first solo record for New Haven-based Mezzotint, which offered '96's Portrait of a Damaged Family as the latest (last?) Miracle Legion disc. Add that title to this, and it seems we have issues. Mulcahy's far too complex a cat for anyone to pin down Fathering as pop-psychology therapy for a crappy childhood, and he may slap me for the assertion that Fathering has a lot to do with Mr. Ray, longtime Legion songwriter/guitarist, who gave up music for a while -- and thus

Mark Mulcahy

put an on-the-verge Miracle Legion on hold -- after the birth of his first son. Evidence:"Or will I be like Mister Ray, and get myself right outta here" off the third song "I Woke Up in the Mayflower." Coupled with problems the band had battling with their Morgan Creek label (which eventually went toes-up), Mulcahy's endured a commercially nauseating few years, but keeps writing sharp, poignant tunes with a mixture of Tiny Tim whimsy and Ray Davies venom. Ilove irritating Modern Lovers fans by telling them how much better than perma-teen JoJo Richman Mulcahy has proven to be over and over again. The test is time, and whereas Richman is evidently content to do silly dances and play chestnuts ad infinitum, Mulcahy still pushes the pop envelope, and this TBuck/Adam Lasus-produced disc is Exhibit A. Some is lighthearted, sure, but the point is not to be cute, something a certain Cambridge icon has milked for too long. If I want cute I'll listen to my one-year-old niece babble. That is a cute sound.

So for most of the 10 tracks, Fathering is a painful breakup album slightly leavened with humor, and everyone knows how great that can be as listening experience. Without Ray or the Prov-based rhythm section of Dave McCaffrey and Spot (presently recording in L.A. with Frank Black), there's ample time to examine the nicks and scars absorbed by Mulcahy and turned into songs on the intimate, melodic Fathering. He's the Rockwellian sad-faced clown, the bumbler with a golden heart, and especially the veteran cosmic rocker, to inch a line from the Moody Blues. Fathering listens like someone dared him to write an album of heartbreak just as it was happening. That's like handing Pedro Martinez a tennis ball and asking if he can reach the plate from the mound in less than three bounces.

STARS & BARS. Correct: David Key co-wrote "My Lullaby" on Joe Parillo's Morning In the Garden (Neoga) CD. It was inadvertently co-credited to Jerry Sabatini, who performs with Parillo in Sonic Explorers and co-wrote "Serenity" on the Garden disk. Key, FYI, also leads the Music School organization called the Tone Deaf Choir.

Saturday's RI Philharmonic was frightening because 1) Larry Rachleff picks the night I'm half-croaked with flu to preface the opening Webern selection by half-jokingly chastising all the blue-hairs who cough incessantly during quiet pieces and 2) all the blue hairs clucked incessantly during two (count 'em) playings of that Webern piece, another RIPO premiere. Do you know how Anton Webern died? Shot dead as he stepped outside his daughter's house to have a smoke, mistaken for his son-in-law (the black marketeer) by an American sentry at the tail end of WWII. Which leads to . . . .

Can classical music maintain an audience which pooh-poohs modernists like Webern and Schoenberg and demands, exclusively, symphonies by Mahler and Brahms? It's a heap-big problem, and fits hand-in-elbow-length-glove with classical critics' -- and too many fans' -- penchant for dismissing anything challenging or fresh or different (atonality evidently equals death) as crass. They even kvetch about the term "classical," pouting that "Classical" should be used solely in reference to the post-Baroque period between 1750 and 1830. Oh, shut up. Something's gotta give, and we can't blame the continually rewarding programs of Rachleff and the orchestra if it does. Postscript: the Brahms symphony and the Mozart soloists were excellent, too. Didn't cough once all night. How crass.

PIX.E-mail endhunger@aol.com to get all the details of the 1 of 52 campaign to end hunger in Rhode Island, and heads up for a month-long series of shows at the East Greenwich Odeum with an array of local musical celebrities. Sunday's all-ager at the Met (Rated R, D Bags, Harry & the Commish, The Ones You Hate) looks like fun, while The Slip work their Gecko magic in the same room on Friday. Purple Ivy Shadows join Fly Seville and more at the Century on Friday before Neutral Milk Hotel bring their enthralling sounds in on the 9th.