A state of graceful mourning

Remembering Ron S. Peno from Died Pretty, and other reasons to dig into older albums

Perhaps a better name for this Substack would be "Death and Reissues," as those two topics seem to account for most of my word count since launching this spring. I do listen to new music by new artists, but in what is perhaps a sign of my age, I find that most of the things that have caught my eye and ear of late deal with things from the past. Sometimes, it is good news, such as the recently announced Rhino boxed set that offers what promises to be a revelatory remastering of the notoriously muffled Replacements' album, Tim.

But far too often it has been word of another passing. I suppose that is the curse of our age. When technology means the number of people you admire for their creative expression can number in the thousands, the odds are good on any given day that one or more may have passed. In what has been a depressing summer in that regard, we lost Robbie Robertson, William Friedkin, Paul Reubens, Sinead O'Connor, Cormac McCarthy and many others. But one name that hit particularly hard for me isn't one that will be on any lists here in the U.S. Ron S. Peno, lead singer of Australian rock band Died Pretty succumbed to cancer earlier this month. 

There was a moment in 1991 when it seemed that Died Pretty and Peno might become more well known. That is when the band released its fourth album, Doughboy Hollow. It was the band's third on Columbia after two that went nowhere in the U.S. (the band did better on its home turf.) In a ridiculously remarkable year for music — Nevermind, Loveless, Out of Time, Spiderland, Bandwagonesque, Achtung Baby, Blue Lines, The Low End Theory and so forth — it was a throwback of sorts, a solid rock album heavily reliant on strummed acoustic guitar, swirling B3 organ and keening vocals. No matter the quality of the songs, it was destined to get lost in that burst of the new.

But for those of us who discovered it — in my case it was thanks to a friend's recommendation — Doughboy Hollow was an album that stands shoulder to shoulder with those on that list, and certainly earns as many or more spins to this day as any of those classics.

The first song sets the template. "Doused" starts quietly with a moody guitar figure that is soon joined by a melodic bass line. A second guitar adds a chiming counter melody as light drums set the tempo. Then Peno begins to sing, his nasal baritone sitting atop the mix. A second verse finds the drums in full flower as the organ adds subtle texture. As the chorus hits, guitarist Brett Myers adds his own backing vocal (they never really do a straight harmony vocal). That's it. It sounds simple, but with songs this good, and a leader like Peno, it's enough. There is only one song among the album's 11 that I ever skip, and it's a short, odd homage of sorts to Led Zeppelin's "Battle of Evermore" called "Battle of Stanmore." Otherwise, it is a top-to-bottom gem.

The jaunty — and not just by the standard of the oft-dour Died Pretty — "D.C." felt like a potential hit. Built on an insistent piano line, Peno sings an elegy from a departed friend. The soaring melody, buoyed by a beautiful string part played in part by the Go-Betweens' Amanda Brown, is hard to hear and not be compelled to hum or sing along. But like the rest of the album, it failed to connect at a time when a traditionally beautiful pop song had fallen out of fashion.

I always thought there was a missed opportunity in the tune "Sweetheart," a ballad with a soaring chorus that seems tailor-made for a romance on the silver screen. Peno lays it out artfully as he begins, "You are shining in perfect love.." And then I remember why this was never used in such a way as he continues, "My world lives in these jars...” I realize, after the sort of Internet sleuthing that was impossible back in 1991, that he seems to be singing about Ed Gein, the Butcher of Plainfield, taking the "misunderstood love song" prize away from Sting and lapping him.

The sound of the album is the rare example of a band sanding down the rough edges and having that be a good thing, the grit of earlier — but still good, and quite good in the case of debut, Free Dirt — albums polished away to reveal insistent melodies space for Peno to be more expressive as the challenge of singing over the din fell away. The band doubled down for the follow up, sticking with producer Hugh Jones for 1993's Trace. (Jones deserves a post of his own someday, having helmed two of my favorite albums in Doughboy Hollow and Dumptruck's For the Country, among many other classics). It yielded "Harness Up," a minor hit in Australia, but nothing here, and that was it for the major label indulgence in the U.S. Two more Australia-only albums followed, then a break, a reunion, some tours, and now the end.

Peno's was one of the most distinctive voices in rock, and it has been a joy to return to Died Pretty's full catalog for a listen. It is clear from the relative indifference that met the band's music that it was an acquired taste, but if any of the above sounds remotely interesting, I would encourage you to check it out.

Reissues lead me back to Unrest and Neil Young

Before being compelled to take a look at that 1991 album, I was spending time with an album from 1992. Reissues always seem to drive me back, even when the reissue isn't the album I land on. Sometimes these trips back in time hold up, other times not, and still others lead to me re-evaluate long-held beliefs.

I was able to do this in part because I finally succumbed and started paying for a streaming service. My kids wore me down, and we're now an Apple Music household. I was skeptical, being one of the few, proud purchasers of music who likes to own a physical product, or at least an MP3 that I can do with what I want, when I want. I would load my iPhone with a few hundred songs and swap things out as I listened. It was a good way to force myself to focus on challenging music even when the path of least resistance might be more attractive at a given moment.

The downside has always been that I would read something about a band or record and want to hear it immediately, and either be stymied or be forced to hunt around YouTube for sub-optimal tracks here or there (yes, I know, I suffer for art). Now, if I see that someone has reissued an Air Miami album from the '90s, I can dial up Mark Robinson's previous band and listen to Imperial FFRR for the first time in 20+ years.

I never connected with Air Miami's more dancey vibe, but adored Imperial. In 1992, a year dominated by Slanted and Enchanted, Automatic for the People, Check Your Head, Copper Blue, Hollywood Town Hall, et al, I listened to Unrest as much or more than any of those. When reading about Air Miami, I pined for the expanded CD version of Imperial at home on the shelves. I then remembered my new subscription and 10 seconds later, "Volume Reference Tone" brought me back, followed by the manic strums of "Suki." Suddenly I was back in college, listening to my Walkman while editing the Daily Iowan before heading out for a quick game of Wiffleball. 

I immediately started to look for a vinyl copy. That’s my burgeoning indulgence, forcing myself into a situation when I must sit and listen to albums I love rather than just have them on as background music while I'm doing other things. By the end of the runtime, however, I had abandoned the search. I realized I love half of the record and tolerate the rest of it. Not a high enough batting average to justify dropping $30 on a reissue.

My next trip backward was another trip to the early '90s to revisit Neil Young and Crazy Horse's 1990 album Ragged Glory. After years of teasing an expanded reissue, Young just released Smell the Horse, which adds four tracks to the album. Some have raved about the result, but I found it to be too much. It's a long album that is near perfect as is. The new songs have all been previously released in one form or another, and only "Born to Run" feels at all like the rest of the album. The others don't fit the tone of the album ("Interstate" and "Boxcar") or are marginal B-sides ("Don't Spook the Horse").

Young had announced in 2018 that additional music from the Ragged Glory sessions had been found, stating they were “equal to anything on the existing record, maybe better.” I can’t help but feel we still haven’t heard that material, and at this point, wonder if we ever will.

It was another excuse to revisit an album that had gathered dust on the shelf for a few years. With an artist as prolific as Young — who now competes with himself with an endless stream of archival releases that bookend any new work — it can be a while before you think to pull a 30-year-old album off the shelves. Doing so in this case was a treat. Ragged Glory was the first new album from young I bought, following on used copies of Decade and Zuma found at the local record shop. Everything has been up and down with Young, no matter which direction I traveled from that point, but rarely dull.