“The Face Of 68” (Label 51 Records)
By Eleni P. Austin
Peter Holsapple has been a part of the Rock & Roll firmament for nearly half a century. Born in Connecticut in 1956, he spent his formative years in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Connecting with fellow Beatle-obsessive Chris Stamey, the pair cycled through a series of nascent Rock combos before forming The dB’s in 1978.
The dB’s sound echoed antecedents like The Beatles and Big Star, but added a soupcon of snarly Punk energy. Between 1981 and 1988, they released four pluperfect records, Stands For Decibels, Repercussion, Like This and The Sound Of Music. When the band broke up, Peter was added to the touring line-up for R.E.M., playing auxiliary guitar and keys on their Green and Out Of Time tours. In the ‘90s he held the same position with mega-sellers Hootie & The Blowfish. By the start of the 21st century he managed to record Mavericks with Chris Stamey and his first official solo album, Out Of My Way. He also carved out time to be a part of The Continental Drifters. A super group of sorts, it included Vicki Peterson (The Bangles) Mark Walton (The Dream Syndicate), Gary Eaton (Giant Sand), Ray Ganuncheau, Carlo Nuccio and Susan Cowsill (duh, The Cowsills). The band effortlessly drifted from one musical genre to the next, sometimes within the same song.
In the ensuing years, Peter reteamed with Chris Stamey for two more duo albums, 2009’s hERE aND nOW, and 2020’s Our Back Pages, the dB’s reunited for select shows and released a fifth effort, Falling Off The Sky in 2012. His second solo album, Game Day, arrived in 2018. That same year Omnivore Recordings issued THE DEATH OF ROCK: Peter Holsapple Vs. Alex Chilton. A collection of tracks from 1978 that had Peter sorta collaborating with his idol, former Big Star frontman, Alex Chilton. Now, he returns with his third long-player, The Face Of 68.
The record opens with the one-two punch of “Anytime Soon” and The Face Of 68. On the opener, low-slung electric guitars collide with Sci-Fi synths, spiraling rhythm guitar riffs, slingshot bass lines and a junky backbeat. Something of a crabby carpe diem, the lyrics revisit a fractured romance: “When water flowed like wine, I was yours and mine, and all we had was time, time, time, then you walked out of the room.” Skittery guitars bookend each verse, unleashing a squally solo on the break. While their moment has passed, forward-facing lyrics espouse a live-for-today ethos “And all the time that we lost, add it up and it’s just part of paying the cost, this is a finite place where we just occupy a space until we take a little less than we give/And then make no mistake, we’re here and gone, we are my friend, the time we thought would never end, he moments of sun and sky and sand.” Squiggly keys and scabrous guitars end the song on an acrid note.
Then there’s the wiry delight of the title-track. Splayed guitars ride roughshod over thrumming bass and a walloping beat across a Punky-Power Pop arrangement. Peter’s mien is wry and reflective as he navigates the vicissitudes of antiquity, when every day above ground is a gift: “I wake up in the morning with the sun in my eyes, and every day is a total surprise, isn’t that right, isn’t that great?” Of course, gratitude flips over to snark given the chance: “Patience, so virtuous, but it never did amount to much, when you’re holding on til way too late, like grease stains on a paper plate, must’ve been something I ate, making a mess of 68.” Whooshy synths fog on the break just ahead of a scorching guitar solo and plunky keys. The song winds down with a propulsive drum salvo.
Three numbers deftly wrestle with mortality. “Larger Than Life” is a fat slab of Psychedelia powered by a Mastodon stomp, jagged guitars, and brittle bass lines. Tart and truculent, it’s something of a restless farewell to Carlo Nuccio, one of the founders of the Continental Drifters, who’s death hit hard in 2022. The narrative Unspools like an unfinished conversation, Peter addresses Carlo, suggesting he “Breathe in the sky, like you used to do, before the sky got the better of you.” Reining in his grief, the loss is “Like a chill in the air, you are everywhere, making it larger than life and harder to bear, cover us all like the first day of fall/And from time to time, please send us a sign, is it all by design, or just larger than life?” A feral guitar solo prowls across the break. By the close of the song, time signatures shift, locking into a shambolic coda that is anchored by wailing guitar and a triple-time tattoo.
Just as Irish writer James Joyce once offered up a Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man, on “High High Horse,” Peter juxtaposes his own youthful naivete with some hard-won wisdom. This Soulful, slow-cooked groover matches swirly organ and stinging guitar riffs to buoyant bass lines and a chugging beat. His demeanor is rueful as he reflects on the past: “I used to think when I was younger, you had to win at all the games, but the results are still the same, and it will happen again,” and contemplates his own mortality: “I might’ve known every day someone else makes their getaway, and you’re left with just a floating thought, and it’s all that you got, and it’s all that you got, and it’s all that you got.” Serpentine organ and shang-a-lang guitars dart between the verses, by the break they coalesce, adding a staccato dissonance that mirrors his defiance.
Then there’s “So Sad About Sam,” a ragged tribute to Winston-Salem Guitar God, Sam Moss, who took his own life in 2007. Lanky rhythm guitars fall in line with tensile bass, incendiary electric riffs and a trap-kit beat. Peter’s waspish vocals toggle between grief, sorrow and regret as lyrics rage: “It’s so sad, it’s so sad I can’t stand it, to think I’ll never see him again, hope I told him he was my friend,” and ruminate: “And if you hear sweet music, all that music, comin’ from a guitar, you know that’s you beside him, Oh, Sam’s driving you home tonight.” Broody guitars rev and retreat on the break, annotating the surfeit of raw emotions on display.
The best songs here, “That Kind Of Guy” and “Fireflies” simply crackle with authority. The former is a spiky humble-brag from a music obsessive. Reverb-drenched guitars wash over angular bass and a knockabout beat. Lyrics offer a splenetic screed that obliquely name-checks touchstones like The Dave Clark Five, John Coltrane, Big Star, The Stooges, Bix Beiderbecke, Shonen Knife and Dave Edmunds before taking a deep dive into the Glimmer Twins oeuvre: “I got 20 box-sets of The Rolling Stones, Patti Boyd’s copy of A Stone Alone, I liked them best before Taylor left, I mean Dick not Mick, I mean, what did you expect, I got Cocksucker Blues, I got Starfucker too, I got Brian Jones’ shoe from the bottom of the pool….I got all the boxed-up remaindered reminders of what was once to be.” Prickly guitars spark and splinter on the break, walking a knife’s edge between ‘70s AOR pique and primitive Punk Rock cool.
The Latter is a frenetic fever dream powered by strafing guitars, flinty bass and a whiplash beat. Stream-of-conscious lyrics sketch out a shifty scenario with Rashomon-like efficiency: “Carry us in some broken-down van to parts unknown, someone lost his number from their important phone, no one touches us, you’re either on the bus or you’re poking holes in mason jars so the fireflies can breathe.” A pinwheeling guitar solo cuts a swath across the instrumental break, magnifying what Jimi Hendrix once labelled “Love Or Confusion.”
Other interesting tracks include the loose-limbed reportage of “One For The Book, the thorny finesse of “See About You” and the fuzz-crusted verbosity of “My Idea #49,” which includes a laundry list of innovation: “The book of love, fingerless gloves, tantric sex, the new Ford Flex, exposed kitchen beams, clothes without seams. sleep without dreams (whatever that means)/The Brooklyn Bridge, Choctaw Ridge, advise and consent, loitering with intent, trigonometry, plain monotony, Chicken Ala King, almost everything, was my idea, my idea, it was all my idea, believe it or not.”
The album closes “She And Me.” Peter’s tender encomium to his wife is fueled by jangly guitars, twinkly keys, sturdy bass lines and a tick-tock beat. If AM Pop Radio were still a thing, this song would sandwich nicely between The Beatles’ “She’s Leaving Home” and Badfinger’s “No Matter What.” Lush “la-l-la’s” cocoon lyrics that are keen but never cloying: “And She, she probably thinks I’m pretty great, though I’m punching way above my weight, so we’re just gonna wait and see/We, we keep it interesting I must admit, never dreamed we’d find the perfect fit, that we found in she and me.” It’s an affectionate finish to a rollicking record. This blast of raw power was produced by the legendary Don Dixon (R.E.M., The Smithereens, Guadalcanal Diary, Marshall Crenshaw, Tommy Keene) and features Rob Ladd, Robert Sledge, Mark Simonsen Don and Marti Jones Dixon.
The Face Of 68 simply swaggers. Peter’s lyrics, by turns mordant, erudite, poignant and droll, are wed to sprawling arrangements and succinct melodies. This is his best solo effort yet, But that’s no surprise, he’s just that kind of guy.
