Heatmiser
Mic City Sons
Third Man Records
Exiting stage left without much fanfare, Mic City Sons was thrown out in the street in 1996 and just disappeared. The last of Heatmiser’s album trilogy of dark, bittersweet, indie-rock bloodlettings, the LP, released after a messy divorce, its formative period spent in environs rife with tension, came from a broken home, leaving moody and wounded, slow-burning anger and frustration always simmering. That it came out not long after the band had signed to Virgin Records is telling in a way.
Hardly surprising, then, that one of the singles from a newly expanded reissue of Mic City Sons is the cutting and insistent “Silent Treatment,” a shaky, deadpan, folk-rock bonus cut written by Neil Gust that not so subtly takes a swipe at a distant Elliott Smith, his fellow songwriting savant in Heatmiser. Eyes closed, it sounds like acoustic Beck, its picked knitting tightly wound, while the gnarled, methodical hooks of an electrified “Rocker in C” and a rambunctious “Burned Out, Still Growing” pull Heatmiser’s gritty punk roots right out of the ground, these feral extras a bit mangy, with a nasty bite.
Although the rock version of Smith’s affecting “Christian Brothers,” also included on the accompanying disc of odds and sods, absolutely soars, fighting rough, trashy turbulence to groove and climb to a place of splashed, gently modulated beauty. It’s related to the one that graces the Heaven Adores You soundtrack but less composed, as Gust’s understated, mid-tempo gem “Cocksucker’s Blues” and Smith’s melancholic “I’m Over That Now” stand out, too, among the interesting demos and assorted ephemera, where the slippery, yet buoyant “Dark Cloud” hangs out with a dimly-lit and creepy “Dirty Dream” as Gust’s property. All flesh out the package nicely.
And yet, it’s this remastered 30th anniversary edition of the album itself that remains especially vital, going through hard times to earn its critical hosannahs. It’s an essential part of the ‘90s alt-rock canon, a record that seethes and moans, juxtaposing ecstasy and gloomy misery, the competing styles of Gust and Smith ceding territory and then reclaiming it. Not so different really, Smith’s immaculate smoke and mirrors — held up to himself and others — a soothing, if tortured, alternative to Gust’s anxious urgency and sharp focus, their angst runs both hot and cold emotionally, caring deeply one minute and brushing off some betrayal the next. Growling, grungy opener “Get Lucky,” a cool, rugged, and subversively catchy Smith joint, is a low-slung, detached crawler peeping into smoldering nooks and crannies and making sly declarations, while Gust’s “Cruel Reminder” is agitated and impassioned, strummed vigorously like its predecessor, the latter’s nervy “Eagle Eye.” However, “Low-Flying Jets” sees Gust grabbing Lou Barlow’s solo entries by the lo-fi lapels and wringing all the agony and searching confusion of their diary-like intimacy out of them he can.
Meanwhile, “Plainclothes Man” predicts the depressive folky pop that made Smith iconic, with a stormy bridge that blows and dies down. Even though the late, great Smith had tired of loud rock by this time, he swaggers through “Pop in G” assuredly, hitting every chugging, chordal downstroke like he means business, as it grows increasingly ballsy. The tuneful “See You Later” might be one of the best songs Smith ever wrote, distorted, crispy riffs all tied up in pretty knots, and the lovely, sweeping “You Gotta Move” could top it, veiled in a light mist and tracing steely embroidery and manicured curls — a softly alluring demo awaits among the bonus prizes.
Mic City Sons is the product of volatile chemistry, the rhythm section of bassist Sam Coomes and drummer Tony Lash holding it together as best they can. Heatmiser might have been doomed, but a love affair with the album has been rekindled. ◼
