Let us examine the concept of the supergroup. We'll skip the debate regarding whether Cream was actually the first (that's for the venerable dudes behind the Guitar Accessories counter) and peruse the composite: The singer would have put in a little time with one of Britain's blues-metal best, preferably Deep Purple or Sabbath. The guitarist could shred as well as write a memorable riff, if only the one. The wildly overqualified bassist and optional synth-man may or may not have been (but probably were) in Yes. The mandatory presence of drummer Tommy Aldridge. Add to all these irrational expectations, the semi-listenable single, followed by the horrific one, followed by the mercifully immediate descent into trivia. For anyone older than 26 and raised on the FM dial, supergroup is nearly synonymous with unfulfilled promises and spectacular failure (Whitesnake, anyone?); for those younger, thankfully, it's irrelevant. New End Original is not a supergroup. Now, let's not mention that nasty little bit of business ever again.
"I understand that we're sort of like the indie-rock Asia," says NEO vocalist Jonah Matrangas with a laugh. "It's just so weird to me. I never, ever, ever thought that I'd end up in this situation. And I guess this is what it's like."
If you play punk — or just about any other style of fringe-oriented music, for that matter — you're only as good as the first band you were in that was worthy of name-droppage. Quite often, you're only as good as your first band's first album. Forget that your latest work might be your best. In underground circles, an artist's past always looms large. New End Original — made up of former members of seminal posthardcore outfits Far (Matrangas) and Texas Is The Reason (Norman Arenas, guitar; Scott Winegard, bass) and obscure/cool Midwestern combo Chamberlain (drummer Charlie Walker) — brings a hell of a history to its seriously accomplished debut full-length, Thriller.
For Matrangas, who rose to notice on a major label with Far before flourishing modestly with ongoing solo project Onelinedrawing, and who has always practiced at the outer borders of punk-clique notoriety, such concerns are new ones.
"This is the first time I've been in something that's put us right smack in the middle of "the scene,'" he says. "Far pretty much existed on the outskirts — at best we created our own little scene. But this is like — we're on (iconic indie label) Jade Tree, and we're all "ex-members.' Though how Far ever became worthy of the ex-member thing in the indie scene, I have no idea."
The engaging, garrulous songwriter cops to insecurities about how he and his tunes are perceived by the perpetually jaded in-crowd. A refreshingly human bundle of questions, attitudes and emotions, Matrangas' work has always exuded a wealth of feeling that those content with emo's one-dimensional girlfriend-angst might find a bit too intimate. Following the dissolution of the heavy, visceral and, at the time, largely ignored Far several years ago, he began recording and performing equally expressive and experimental solo material, to a small but dedicated following. His former band's stature as a posthumous influence grew astoundingly as he toured basements and released Onelinedrawing discs. By the time he began collaborating with Arenas via tape trading, and plans for another full-group project were on the table, Far had assumed a profile equal to that of post-core pioneers like Quicksand or Texas is the Reason. The knowledge that he had unwittingly been absorbed into "the scene" led Matrangas to view his existence as Onelinedrawing as somewhat insular.
"I realized that I built my own little world — with Far, at the end, and Onelinedrawing — of people that were pretty psyched to just be heart-on-their-sleeve geeks with me. And now I'm in this world that feels a little more ironic and analytical," he says. "It's a little sketchy."
Becoming the kind of underground figure that pundits spread rumors about and second-guess online must have been jarring. But for a guy with incredibly disparate musical tastes, an extremely eclectic catalog, a major-label pedigree, and a love-hate relationship with indie cred, feeling out of place has become something of a standard operating procedure.
"I have these more populist ideas, honest, sincere communication, community, intimacy, blah blah blah. That's kind of what I've grown up on. And I've definitely realized that I don't fit into the mainstream in any way, shape or form," affirms the vocalist. "I'm happy that I was on a major label, to see that and get it through my system that that's not my world.
"But I still don't feel like the indie world is my world, either. I feel so not hip. I really love Zeppelin and U2 and Pearl Jam. Sure, I could say I love Superchunk, Tom Waits and Fugazi, and it's true. I adore them so much. But I like all this other stuff too, and it doesn't seem OK to say you listen to a '70s rock band without being very ironic. It's not like I'm a hesher, I just love music."
Nowhere among his output is Matrangas' affinity for various rock styles more apparent than on Thriller (don't ask, I didn't). The album sweeps from muscular rhythms through evocative, transcendent guitar-pop, to sparse, insinuating meditation — with a head for traditional songcraft and a heart for compelling expression. It defies punk dogma and ends up sounding raw and chancy.
While he wrote the songs himself, Matrangas calls the process for Thriller "very collaborative," crediting the four personalities involved with the disc's kinetic arrangements, power, and nearly overwhelming sense of completeness. Listening to it, the fact that the band has rehearsed a total of exactly nine times seems amazing; that they had no idea what the group would sound like at all less than a year ago is simply unbelievable.
"I think we thought it would be a little weirder than it turned out," Matrangas recalls. "What all four of us discovered when we got into a room together was that we just liked being in a rock band. It's a very eclectic record, but the tunes themselves it's not like it's (Radiohead's) Amnesiac. This record, I would say, is easily the most commercial-leaning or rock-oriented thing that Jade Tree has ever put out. And I'm down — I would not put out music that I couldn't stand up for. Never, ever, ever."
By now, the independent environment is littered with artists who have left their well-known outfits to pursue new sounds. And it's only natural that in such a comparatively tight-knit community, guys from great bands would get together with guys from other great bands to form new great bands. But those of us who remember the clashing egos and monetary motivations of the supergroups of yore can't help but be a bit cynical. We wonder whether projects like New End Original, as wonderful as Thriller is, can sustain any kind of longevity.
"Everyone asks that, and it freaks me out — I wonder if there's some sort of prophecy being told to me," half-jokes Matrangas. "In short, I think we will. You can cut out all that other stuff and say that we will be a band. I think everyone involved thinks that. All Norman wants to do is make three records with the same band. He feels that if a band can make three records, they can say that they had a little run," he laughs. "Maybe we'll make it to three and break up that day."
This article appears in Oct 25-31, 2001.