Lost Vegas

Combustible Edison's new World

by Brett Milano

There was a time when Combustible Edison were the ultimate oddball band. Some 10 years ago, when co-founders Michael Cudahy and Liz Cox (a/k/a the Millionaire and Miss Lily Banquette, on guitar and percussion/vocals, respectively) began performing their "Tiki Wonder Hour," it was something of a last-ditch gesture: their rock band Christmas were about to crash and burn after a failed major-label deal. They'd recently developed a crush on Las Vegas while on tour, and they were sick of pretending that they'd rather listen to punk rock than Henry Mancini. Those early shows were an attempt to see how uncool one could possibly get. Spearheading a trend was the last thing on the minds of Cudahy and Cox -- they were satisfied not to get laughed at.

So it's a major irony that Combustible Edison wound up anticipating the '90s vogue for retro-chic. But if this is cult stardom, Cudahy wants his money back. "We felt like aliens when we had a rock band," he acknowledges from his Providence apartment. "And now that this revival has come to pass, I don't feel at home either. The last thing I want to do is complain about our fans, because there's nothing more annoying than watching people do that. But I remember one show in Seattle three years ago, where one guy was raving about how much he loved the show, except he said, `You played one song that wasn't really '50s.' And I'm thinking, `Oh my God, I hope that's not what we are.' That whole concept of camp and kitsch is something we actively despise. Even someone like Ed Wood, who's considered a kitsch classic because of the ineptitude of his production -- to me that guy was a true pop-culture expressionist. I don't consider it camp. I consider it overwhelming and heartfelt."

Fact is, Combustible's vision was always a little darker than people figured. Going beyond the usual Rat Pack nostalgia, they were the first to admit that their ideal swinger's paradise didn't really exist. Hence the title of their new album, The Impossible World (Sub Pop) -- and for that matter, the album itself. It's the first time they've shaken (not stirred) up their usual formula: instead of evoking the tropical breeziness of Martin Denny or the hipster swagger of Mancini, they filter it all through a dense electronic mix (courtesy of UK DJ Scanner) that adds an air of cool detachment to the proceedings (though it makes the less successful moments sound like Stereolab outtakes). Creepier at times than previous Combustible outings, it also has the least to do with retro-swing -- an obvious commercial move this ain't.

"It's a concept album if you will, about this hopeless quixotic quest we've been on," Cudahy explains. "When we first started this band, we felt disgraced by being in the pop-music business. We thought we'd lose all our friends for even doing this. We felt the same way making this record, that we might alienate anybody who's bought one of our records before. I felt like Coppola making Apocalypse Now, where he was never the same person after he came back from the desert. And of course, Jesus was never the same after he went into the desert . . . and you better stop me now before I compare myself to Jesus again."

But Cudahy really did go into the desert -- the Vegas desert, that is, where the band relocated in 1989-'90. And for him the experience was like a combination of two of his favorite movies: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and, uh, Showgirls. "That was a brilliant film because it was totally immersed in the Vegas aesthetic. Fear and Loathing was more like my experience there, just reeling in terror. We lived there a year and a half, and I still have a love/hate relationship with the place -- it's crass and venal and unapologetic, but now it's hypocritical as well. The old Vegas was a sin-city playground for adults only, where every vice was catered to elegantly. But now it's going for a family kind of appeal. God knows what they're trying to do. I used to find it fascinating because it was the heart of America stripped of all the civilizing European influence -- America's ultimate destiny. We knew it wasn't going to be like the Sands in '62, but it was more of a giant shopping mall."

Recently Cudahy's been working on a lower-profile musical project: he's enrolled part-time at Berklee, where he just wrapped up his freshman year after two summers' worth of work. "I've worked it all out -- if I go every summer I'll graduate in 2006, just in time to retire. I'm self-taught, and you know how it is with a rock band, you can start one six months after you pick up a guitar. I got by for 10 years knowing only three chords. Now I want to learn the vocabulary, because you can't write novels if you can't spell."

How's Cudahy fitting in at Berklee?

"There's definitely some jazz snobbery there, and a big metal contingent. Maybe one or two people there have any idea of what I do, and I've never discussed it much. But one time I brought in a tape I'd made for a class project, and the teacher said, `That sounds like Henry Mancini.' I said, `Right on.' "

Combustible Edison will perform at the Century Lounge on Friday, October 9.