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萌新问问 ty是什么意思？
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display: 'inlay-fix'Ty Segall | PitchforkAaron Leitko trails garage-punk prodigy Ty Segall on tour as he tries to reconcile the past, present, and future of rock, along with his own divided self.by ContributorPhoto by Annabel Mehran
At the end of his set, the audience gets a glimpse of 's ape self. Throughout the night, one of the security beefcakes at The Hoxton in Toronto has been getting progressively more aggressive about giving stage divers the heave-ho. Ty is not pleased with this. So as the show draws to a frenzied close, the 25-year-old garage-rock shredder-- who is not a beefcake-- decides to have a go at him.
After the muscle-head shoves a leather jacket-clad goofball back into the crowd, Ty shoves the bouncer, who loses his balance, but flips around in time to bring the singer down with him. All three tumble into a mass of sweaty, pogo-ing kids. As outros go, it's definitely a step up from the usual "we've got some CDs in the back" routine.
Segall's guitarist, Charlie Moothart, and John Dwyer, frontman for headliners , rush over to help him out and, for a second, it looks like things might get violent. (On , there's a startling video of Dwyer ending a 2004 Toronto show by smashing a guitar over a promoter's head-- tonight's bouncer probably hasn't seen it, though.) Luckily, the bar staff quickly appears with a tray full of complimentary shots and beers. All is forgiven.
Later, while we sit in Segall's tour ride-- a scuffed-up but soccer mom-friendly Toyota Land Cruiser with a U-Haul trailer hitched to the back bumper-- he explains that even with all the moshing, diving, and pushing, tonight's show wasn't even his most physically abusive Toronto gig. Last time he played in town, somebody pushed the microphone into his face and knocked out his tooth. "We finished the set," he says.
Photo by David Elliott
Not every Ty Segall gig ends with a bruise or a trip to the dentist's office, but they do seem pretty strenuous, especially when stacked up one after another. One night earlier, in Buffalo, Segall is looking faded. The singer and his band mates-- Moothart, bassist Mikal Cronin, and drummer Emily Rose Epstein-- are two weeks into a three-week trek, their third tour of the year. The time to go crazy backstage has come and gone. Instead, Epstein is leading Segall through some pre-show stretches. There's a whiff of marijuana in the air, but it seems to have drifted over from down the hall, where Thee Oh Sees are quartered. Everybody seems a little worn out.
Watching Segall on stage, where he shouts and hollers with enough violence to put nodules on his vocal chords, the fatigue is understandable. "We're not a folk band or a dance band," he says. "We're a fucking loud, gnarly, screaming, emotional band. And it's rad, but you gotta be in that zone every night." Segall's public persona, in so much as he presents one, is ebullient and surfer-ish-- he's "stoked," things are generally "rad," and his band "shreds." This relaxed-fit demeanor can be tough to maintain, especially on the nights when the sound guy is an existentially bummed-out gearhead. Or when the best and cheapest place to crash is a friend's underwater ashtray of a sofa. Or when a guy with a robot skull mounted on the dashboard of his pickup truck decides he wants to clobber your guitarist. Each of these nuisances arise at least once during the three tour stops-- in Buffalo, Toronto, and Detroit-- that I spend traveling with Segall and his band. And that's just three days. On tour is a good place to get a sense of Segall, though, because other than a few breaks, that's where he's spent his adult life.
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"So, what's this story going to be about?" asks Segall, partly out of curiosity, partly just to make friendly conversation. "I'm just a normal guy, trying to work things out through song." If there's one thing Ty Segall can't abide, it's TMI. And recently, given the increased attention from an expanding fan base, saying less has become a more time consuming task.
"The thing about rock'n'roll these days is that there's a lot of fucking demystified greatness," he explains while munching down a handful of fries slathered in mayo at a Toronto takeout counter. "You gotta have someone to believe in that will not tell you anything-- somebody that will not give you a single piece of information, but who looks rad and makes rad music. I mean, I would do anything to be a 12-year-old kid when Kiss' Alive came out."
He never wanted a Facebook page, but his fans went ahead and started one for him anyhow. He had to replace it with an official page-- so that he could officially post no information to it. On Twitter, an overzealous admirer squatted his handle and started writing crude, misogynistic, and very un-Ty messages. The bona-fide Ty Segall Twitter page that replaced it displays one post: "This is the real Ty Segall Twitter page."
"There are all these kids who are growing up on Skrillex and all this digital music, what are they gonna think when they hear rock'n'roll?"
His music mostly does the job for him, though. Segall has released a full-length album every year since 2008, but this year he caught a wave of inspiration and made three: , a harshed flower-power homage with Los Angeles weirdo-pop auteur White F , a straight-to-tape 80s scuzz punk-meets acid-rock rave up recorded with his live band; , a headphones-friendly, lose-your-mind concept record. All of them are good.
At 25, Segall is old enough to remember the last gasp of grunge, but he bonded harder with the s dressed in a denim jacket, black jeans, and with a crudely drawn eyeball tattooed on the back of his left hand, he could have plopped out of a yellowing issue of Crawdaddy. Grabbing dinner at a nearby pizza parlor before the Buffalo show, we chit chat about rock trivia. Segall's favorite Black Flag singer is Keith Morris, but he was psyched when he met Henry Rollins, too. The Grateful Dead were awesome, but only until Pig Pen left the band in '72-- after that, they just weren't weird enough anymore. For a long time, he couldn't stomach the sound of rock music that was recorded during the 80s and 90s, with its digital reverb and ultra-dense guitar, so he's only just now coming around to alternative-era staples like My Bloody Valentine and Mudhoney.
He skipped 90s irony, too. When it comes to music built from distortion and volume and ruined vocal chords, he is a true and pure believer. "There are all these kids who are growing up on Skrillex and all this digital music," he says, considering how out-of-place his fuzz and grime probably sound to a generation reared amongst laptop noodlers. "What are those kids gonna think when they hear rock'n'roll?"
In his reckless youth, which was all of three years ago, Segall was a thrasher. He wrote two-minute burners that started quick, ended quicker, and sent audiences scampering up the walls and into the rafters. Recently, he's become more comfortable weaving his melodic gifts into the din, using his eerie, Lennon-esque falsetto to fortify his hooks. And on his last few records, Segall has developed an uncanny ability to slide into the skin of his old-school heroes-- cribbing choice tics from the likes of Neil Young, Black Sabbath, or the Groundhogs, and then weirding them up with his own coat of wobbly sonic ectoplasm. It's the sound of yesterday remade to suit today's signal-to-noise standards.
"His music doesn't have the corny qualities of somebody capturing something from the past, but it has those signifiers, inspirations, and impulses," says Rian Murphy of Drag City, which has released Segall's last two solo albums, arguing against those who would tag Ty's schtick as pure nostalgia. "It's as if something had been [digested and] shit out and, within that shit, was something retro." His songs are too thrashy to register as 60s homage, too bubble-gummy to be mistaken for 70s stoner rock, and too sludgy to pass for hardcore punk. Still, in every Ty Segall song, one can detect a few frayed threads borrowed from each of these genres.
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"Rock'n'roll doesn't tell you what to think and do, it makes you feel a certain way, so you do those things on your own," says Segall. And he knows the hit-you-in-the-face factor is key to making you do those things. Twins, which Segall performed and recorded almost entirely on his own, definitely meets the standard for skronky catharsis.
Another factor zooming Segall into the here-and-now is his prodigious streak, which has been an unintentional but fortuitous adaptation to the era of social media, where music arrives and vanishes from the cultural consciousness in the space of mere days, if not hours. It's tough to forget him, because he always has a release on deck: an album, a 7", or maybe he's just playing drums and singing backup vocals on his friend's record. Suddenly, without realizing it, the last three LPs you bought have Ty Segall's name on the cover, or somewhere in the liners. Though, for better or worse, 2012 may mark a golden age for Segall's workaholic bent. "Never again," he says, laughing, when asked if he's got another three records in the bag for next year.
Photo by Ebru Yildiz
PJ's Lager House is a bar, restaurant, and venue in Detroit, but it's also one of the worst record stores in the history of record stores. Follow a series of cardboard signs down to the unfinished basement and you'll find a couple of boxes filled with mold-crusted mellow-jazz LPs. There are no clerks to mind the stock, but it doesn't matter, because there's nothing worth stealing.
The green room is next door to the "store." Tonight, sci-fi garage rockers Timmy's Organism are opening the show, and Timmy-- looking very glam-rock-zombie in a tattered orange shirt, jeans, and filthy head band-- is reminiscing about the time he tried to fart at a hotel security guard, but wound up (let's say) overcompensating.
Timmy's all right, though. He may be a grown man who pooped his pants in the hard fluorescent light of a Best Western hallway, but at least he has a sense of humor about it. His guest, a local barfly who is looking very zombie-contemporary in a navy sweatshirt and a pair of stonewashed jeans, is a creep. He mostly carries on and on about transsexual hookers-- taking them to bars, getting them thrown out of bars, buying them hamburgers, etc. "The 49ers suck," he blurts to a room full of San Franciscans, in an attempt to start a conversation. "Yeah, they do," says Dwyer, shutting him down. "I don't give a fuck about sports, but we've got the best tranny hookers in the country."
This guy's attitude is too dark for Segall, who excuses himself to the merch table. It's not that he can't handle weirdos, he loves weirdos. It's only the ugly, desperate, and unproductive ones that bring him down. And for every charming Timmy you hang with on tour, there's also a decidedly less charming character who may or may not be wearing stonewashed jeans.
If Twins has a unifying concept, it's split personalities and the friction between competing identities. Segall says that he often worries about losing his mind, referencing a history of mental health issues in his family. But right now, his main internal schism seems to involve being a relative norm in a music community full of wackos, be they lovable or otherwise.
When he's performing, Segall can tear it up with the best of them, but his rock-destructive impulses seem to let up once he sets down his guitar. Gazing at a pot-leaf emblazoned gig poster, Segall reveals that he's never really been interested in drugs. According to Eric Bauer, his long-time recording engineer, the schizophrenic meltdown section of "Scissor People", from Hair-- where the band leaps through four different feels in the space of 30 seconds-- was driven not by schedule one substances, but energy drinks. "He's a big sugar head," says Bauer. "He's a kid when it comes to candy. He gets a little excited."
"I was a very existential 18-year-old drinker-- the guy that would skip class and buy a 40."
Many of Segall's musical compatriots have drifted far enough askew of the straight world's routines that they can't really just call it a day, buy a new set of clothes, and head to law school, but Segall doesn't come off quite so out-there. He is a weirdo, he's just not that kind of weirdo. His personality doesn't click with the cliches that surround his genre. Talk to Segall for 10 minutes and you can tell he's not a hedonist, or a manic depressive, or a mystical glambo space alien. He's just an earnest kid from the 'burbs with a heavy set of emotions, who has made it his business to travel the world, throwing down heavy rock riffs, regardless of what havoc it wreaks on his family's SUV. At times, he seems a little defensive about this.
"There's endless ways of having a double personality," he says. "You can be a showman and a family man-- a wild and crazy person on stage, and then go hang out with your daughter or something." He's right, but in the bizzaro world of rock'n'roll, where listeners often rely on an artist's problems and suffering to define and add narrative weight to their art, just being a regular guy with a dog and a sonic destroyer requires some mental agility in itself.
Photo by David Elliott
Segall grew up in Laguna Beach, California, the adopted son of a lawyer (his father) and an artist (his mother). According to guitarist Moothart, who also grew up in the area, it was a swell place to live. At least, it was until the television crews showed up. In the mid-00s, some kids from Segall's high school were cast for an MTV reality series, "Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County", which would later spin off into "The Hills". The subsequent media attention buffed out the town's old-school hippie-haven vibe. "Everybody wanted drama," says Moothart.
Not that teenage Ty was Mr. Laid Back. "I was a really unstable person emotionally, I wasn't the best communicator," he recalls. "I was a very existential 18-year-old drinker-- the guy that would skip class and buy a 40."
When he attended the University of San Francisco, where he graduated with a degree in media studies, it was partly to please his parents, but also to force himself to fly solo. "I wanted to live far enough away that I couldn't rely on my parents," says Segall. "I didn't want to be able to have a freak-out and just be able to go home for the weekend." Segall may have been a gloomy kid, but he wasn't anti-social. He played in a lot of bands, first as the drummer in an ESG-style dance-punk group and then singing and playing guitar in the Epsilons, a spazzy mod-rock-meets-Devo ensemble that released two albums before breaking up when Segall was 19. In college, he formed the no-frills garage-punk trio Traditional Fools and then, after booking a show that his band mates couldn't make it to, he started playing solo as a one-man-band, using a kick drum and a guitar.
For eight months following college, Segall kept a part-time job helping to build marijuana grow boxes, but after that, it was pretty much all rock'n'roll all the time.
There are two categories of great rock'n'roll performers: visceral and mysterious. Visceral musicians let it all hang out-- their performances are cathartic, unwieldy, and intensely personal. Bob Seg when Eddie Vedder climbs the balcony during "Even Flow", he is displaying his visceral tendencies. Mysterious musicians refuse access to their inner lives. They shield their work from direct interpretation, shy away from on-stage histrionics, and swap out identities as quickly as some people change outfits. Bob Dylan is mysterious. Some artists, like the Rolling Stones, have managed to play both roles simultaneously.
I ask Ty about some of the musicians that we've discussed on tour-- singers and songwriters whose work he reveres or can at least bro down on when their videos are called up on YouTube-- and where they fall along this hypothetical continuum.
Neil Young?
David Bowie?
"Bowie was both."
"Iggy Pop is visceral, but the Stooges are fucking mysterious."
He pauses a moment to consider the hefty, operatic rocker's body of song. "Meatloaf is pretty visceral," he decides. But for the most part, Segall insists that the heavy hitters in his record collection reside squarely between these poles, especially T. Rex's Marc Bolan. "He's a blend, a chameleon," explains Segall. "He knows the power of not screaming in your face, but he also knows the power of screaming in your face, too." Not screaming in your face is fairly new to Segall. The title track of 2011's , his first Drag City release, was a breakthrough on this front-- a mellow power-pop ballad that, for the first time, found Segall favoring vulnerability over velocity. The lyrics are opaque, but unpretentious, with Segall delivering "Sesame Street"-style couplets like "Hello red, goodbye blue, hello me, and goodbye to you," that dial in a surreal, sun-drenched sense of SoCal sentimentality.
Segall is still visceral, but he's making rapid progress on his mysterious side. Though he once created music designed to make people freak out, dance, and pogo at concerts, his recent output has become noticeably more cerebral. Each of the records Segall has released this year occupies its own stran he was a punk rock realist, but now, he's more of an escapist, shifting through musical identities and writing albums that are their own unique biospheres of guitar fuzz, black light, and mystique. "When I was a kid, I'd listen to Bowie and go, 'I'm on a different world,'" recalls Segall. "That's what I wanted. That's what I still want."