Grant Lee Buffalo

(Translated from my original Italian text by ChatGPT and Piero Scaruffi)

Shiva Burlesque was a marginalized Los Angeles band. They recorded two albums of understated, delicate psychedelia: the first in 1987 (for Nate Starkman) and Mercury Blues (Fundamental), released in 1990. The first album, in particular, is one of the finest examples of melodramatic blues-rock since the Doors.

When Shiva Burlesque disbanded in 1989, guitarist Grant Lee Phillips took along the rhythm section (drummer Joey Peters and bassist Paul Kimble) and formed Grant Lee Buffalo. In fact, the album Fuzzy (Slash, 1993) is essentially a solo work, so strong is the imprint of his personality. It is one of the albums marking the return to acoustic music. Phillips, however, is not aiming for country, but folk, as well as an austere form of power-pop.
The best compositions (Fuzzy and The Shining Hour) are framed by the ethereal atmospheres of the American Music Club, the social engagement of Woody Guthrie, and the catchy melodies of Big Star. Above all, they rely on an appealing sonic architecture, such as the intricate arrangement of the swinging The Shining Hour, which borrows its cadence and touches of class from the 1950s, or the dreamy, languid cantilena of Fuzzy.
New horizons are opened by Wish You Well, built on a more vibrant melodic fabric (though at times it evokes Elton John), and the voodoo tribute Dixie Drug Store (actually a light Lou Reed–style boogie); the album closes with the extended delirium of Grace, a driving raga in the vein of Sister Ray (Velvet Underground).
The ghost of Bob Dylan appears throughout (Phillips in Jupiter And Teardrop has memorized the lesson of Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door), and in general, Grant Lee Buffalo, drawing also on “grass-roots” sounds from a dark perspective, extend the Los Angeles musical lineage connecting groups like Green On Red, Dream Syndicate, and the Gun Club.

Mighty Joe Moon (London, 1994) retraces those rural paths with an even purer heart, taking longer, more expansive breaths in Honey Don’t Think and the title track. Resonating throughout the album is the apocalyptic drive of Lone Star Song, the psychedelic blues that serves as the main theme and ideally fuels the mysticism of its most intense moments, such as the dizzying symbols of Sing Along, and the fervor of Nick Cave–style sermons, like Demon Called Deception.
The highlights, however, are the spectral whisper of Happiness, the nadir of a nervous Nick Drake–esque depression, and the monumental Side By Side, an existential plea shouted to the wind, linking back to Wish You Well. Amid so much pain, the baroque-psychedelic arrangement of Mockingbirds (à la Eleanor Rigby) and the ethereal-spatial textures of Drag (reminiscent of Wish You Were Here) stand out, striking yet evocative.
Copperopolis (Slash, 1996) features Ralph Carney on saxophone. Phillips has matured and favors the epic tones of domestic ballads in the style of the Band (Even The Oxen), Tom Petty (Homespun), and Bruce Springsteen (Bethlehem Steel). A couple of tracks lean toward pop (The Bridge, Arousing Thunder), but Phillips’ lyrics—always cinematic and emphatic—are balanced by a voice alternating between tenor and falsetto, and a guitar, often acoustic, that spins like a windmill.

Kimble, who had also produced the previous albums, left the group before Jubilee (Warner Bros, 1998). This album is the most accessible of their career. Phillips’ talent is unquestionable, yet Truly Truly and Change Your Tune could be tracks from a John Lennon album, while APB and My My My are saloon-style boogies worthy of ZZ Top. The stylistic revision is drastic and painful.

If the U2-like melodramatic emphasis takes some of the realist charm from their songs, if Phillips occasionally steals the “cursed” mantle from Cobain, and if the preacher-like poses don’t suit their subdued country-rock, the sum of all these contradictions certainly has the merit of originality.