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Amnesty (1999)
 "TWBA
mixes hypnotic guitar riffs, dynamic arrangements and Mary Beth
Kite's versatile vocals into a musical Cuisinart that spits out
some engaging rock 'n roll... Amnesty is a satisfying contemporary
rock CD. The band has developed a cohesive sound that pays tribute
to its influences without sounding particularly derivative. It's
an album that I can put on without ever wanting to reach over
and skip a track. Definitely a worthwhile album for those who
like their rock with a little edge to it."
— Wayne
Ellis, The Every Other Weekly, Feb. 10-23, 2000
"The noise
of the Whole Bolivian Army isn't the ominous stomping of boots
on dirt, Paul Newman and Robert Redford's sweat making wet splats
in the dust as their fate approaches in a flurry of gunfire.
This Whole Bolivian Army is from Seattle, not South of the Border,
and dispatches a crisp-as-Wasa-bread power-pop sound, spread
with a touch of honey and butter for added sweetness. 'Modern
rock' -- that is, the left-of-center pop mode that predated "alternative"
-- is a descriptor that springs immediately to mind. Mary Beth
Kite's throaty, vibrato vocals slither over resonating guitar
chimes, and elastic bass lines alternately recall the Sundays
and 10,000 Maniacs."
— John
Graham, Willamette Week, Jan. 7, 2000
"The key
to any creative act, whether baking cakes, building model airplanes,
or making music, is to improve with each endeavor. With Amnesty,
The Whole Bolivian Army have succeeded in this, smoothing out
many of the glitches that made 1998's Spinner an enjoyable
but inconsistent record. Mary Beth Kite's clear, high voice,
which grated on some of Spinner's tracks, sounds much
more relaxed and confident. She still glides through mid-tempo
songs such as 'Wake Up,' but she handles the faster songs much
more capably. TWBA play guitar-based, melodic, modern pop music
with brains. Their songs are all about something, rather than
mouthing pleasant generalities; many of the lyrics on Amnesty
seem to deal with people trapped in no-win situations. 'A Thousand
Miles Away' is a simple, impossibly sad tale of a relationship
splintered beyond hope of repair. 'Party on the Prairie' is hilarious,
skewering any romantic notions of an idyllic life in the old
American West. Featuring the most dysfunctional family since
the Ramones' 'We're a Happy Family,' it'll prevent you from watching
'Little House on the Prairie' for weeks. As always, Matt Kite's
sure-footed guitar work is the core of TWBA's instrumental sound.
On several tracks here, he seems to hit a groove just as the
song fades out. Still, that's a minor quibble. Amnesty
shows a band hitting its stride."
— Robert
Allen, The Iconoclast, Fall 1999
"Great big
wonderful things do come in small packages — proves front
woman Mary Beth Kite of The Whole Bolivian Army (TWBA). Unlike
the soft, girly-like vocals saturating the airwaves these days,
Mary Beth delivers something beyond an extraordinary ability,
she delivers passion."
— Stacy
Emerson, Tacoma Reporter, Nov. 18, 1999
"'Ah-Ah-Ah'
is the greatest song I have ever heard. The whole album is pretty."
— KEXP's
John Richards, Pandemonium Online, Oct. 26, 1999
STUDIO JOURNAL
- TUESDAY, JUNE 29, 1999: When Matt came to me with the lyrics (and the annoyingly
addictive melody line) to "Party on the Prairie" (aka,
"Buck Teeth"), I really thought he was kidding. I mean,
I thought it was just his usual personal jab at me, making fun
of the fact that YES, I do record Little House on the Prairie
every single freakin' day and I watch it when I get home from
work. The show, which Matt lovingly refers to as "Little
Outhouse," is a childhood favorite, which can still give
me a good, cleansing cry at the end of each day. Call it therapy,
call it a little strange, call it really strange -- it's
what I do. Anyway, as for the lyrics (and that annoyingly addictive
melody line), I really thought he was just picking on me. I mean,
he wasn't serious was he? I ask you, is it any wonder so many
mistake us for brother and sister rather than husband and wife?
Well, after about five days of hearing him sing the song around
the house -- his favorite little trick for getting me to like
something that initially made me laugh or cringe (this song made
me do both)-I relented. "Okay fine! I will consider it.
You have my permission to introduce the song to the band."
End of story I thought. They're never gonna go for this. Think
again.
So before I know
it, we are back in the studio (weren't we just here?) and recording
not only that song but also about 14 others. Truly, I lost count.
After three days in the "cave," I am still trying desperately
to remove the smell of Hanzsek from my nose hairs. I just canNOT
seem to shake that smell! Even the food we brought home
from the studio tastes like Hanzsek -- serious gag reflex.
Aside from that, I think we all have good feelings about our
current project. Dave is back and with that, the band has regained
some (if not more) of that ol' chemistry that seemed at one point
forever lost. Mmmmmm… chemistry. Mmmmmm… Dave. So basics
are down and most of the guitar.
The only disappointing
part of the weekend for me was that I was only able to lay down
4 vocal tracks. I am used to working much faster than that but
have decided that I will take a little more time this project
and not feel as rushed. I want to give the vocals everything
they deserve this time around. BUT, being my anal-retentive,
obsessive/compulsive self, I now feel behind… but I have
company. Jay wasn't able to lay as many tracks as he would have
liked either, so at least I'm not alone. When I took off Sunday
evening around 9:30pm, he was still in the control room hashing
through bass lines, a song at a time. He looked pretty beat,
and I felt really sad for him. That night, I had a dream that
he was sitting on my front porch, just looking all forlorn and
saying that he'd wished he was able to get more done at the studio
this weekend. I plunked down beside him and said, "meeeee
tooooooo!!" I'm a whiner, even in my dreams!
The dream ended
there, but we still have two more weekends ahead in the studio.
More vocal tracks, more background vocals, more bass, a little
more guitar, some piano, tambourine, percussion, more mildew
smell… the list is miles long. And ultimately we will have
to decide to axe a few of our ideas in the absence of endless
funds. It always comes down to that, doesn't it? The money. Cashola,
mula... Never enough of the stuff, and what we have goes fast,
so whadayudo? Punt. Excuse me a moment -- I have to go scrub
my nose hairs for the SEVENTEETH TIME!!
- Mary Beth
MONDAY,
JUNE 28, 1999:
The
first thing you need to know about Hanzsek Audio is that it stinks.
It's perhaps Seattle's best bargain of a studio, and it comes
complete with the town's most efficient engineer, Mr. Scott Ross.
But it stinks. Kind of like that old pair of gym shorts in the
corner of the locker room that's been there since the beginning
of the school year -- it has the power to ward off vampires,
evil gym instructors, even. But mustiness becomes Hanzsek, which,
from the outside looks more like a bunker or a bomb shelter than
a recording studio. There are no windows -- save for one in the
office (blinds closed) and one in the bathroom that gazes lovingly
at an auto repair shop. You're in Ballard, a block away from
the bridge. But you could be in Blaine. Or Belgrade. So when
you step outside for a breath of fresh air after spending eight
or nine hours fiddling with knobs and kicking your amp 'cause
it sucks, you can't help but squint. You feel like you've just
emerged from the cave for the first time, wondering where you
put your club. "Ugh."
The Whole Bolivian
Army has recorded its last two albums at Hanzsek. And now we're
back for another go around, working on No. 3. Despite the stink,
despite the florescent bathroom light that has strobed on and
off (mostly off) since we recorded a demo there in 1997, we're
back. We want to get it right. Even if that's an impossible quest.
When Dave left
Saturday after recording his drum tracks, he handed me a little
wadded up piece of paper. It was his click track sheet -- a list
of the songs and the meters we had worked out for each during
pre-production. It was also physical evidence. Proof of a little
studio irony. You have to prepare. You have to plan. And then
you have to be willing to chuck everything. Tempos, guitar sounds,
melody lines -- everything has the potential to go sour once
you're under the microscope that is the studio. You spend years
learning to play live, learning the laws of physics, and then
the studio turns everything upside down.
By now, the band
has a pretty solid working relationship with Scott in the studio.
We know what works, what doesn't. We know where to spend our
energy and what's worth serious discussion. But we've thrown
a little wrench into our idyllic world: Claude Flowers. Claude
is a music writer whose review of our last album impressed us.
"He gets us," Dave said after reading Claude's review
of Spinner. So we invited him a couple months ago to practice,
where he listened to our songs and threw out ideas. We used some
suggestions. Shook off others. The studio, though, has proved
a more challenging testing ground. We've invited Claude into
our private, intense world, where a shrinking budget and time
constraints are the least of the pressures we feel. And the experience
has been illuminating. While Claude has been a veritable fountain
of ideas (this journal being one of them), what I've found is
that this band already knows exactly what it wants. And we're
even learning how to get it, though, in my case, it sometimes
takes a Marshall in the face.
On Saturday,
after 45 agonizing minutes of trying to get a fat distortion
sound from my little Fender Deluxe amp, I ceded to Scott's long-held
battle cry: "Let's go get the Marshall." We hopped
in my little Toyota, drove the 20 blocks to Fremont's Louder
Music, rented a Marshall half stack, shoved the head into
the trunk and the cabinet into the back seat, and returned to
Hanzsek with the beefiest tonemaker known to humankind. The Marshall
had no volume control, just tone. But Martin Klem, a friend of
Jay's and an engineer in his own right, braved the main room
to check the cabinet's sound. He returned with some impressive
information. "It's so loud it's wiggling the guitar cable,"
he said. "It's trying to push sound through the jack."
- Matt
TUESDAY,
AUGUST 10, 1999:
Ahhh, Hanszek
Audio. Much has been written in these pages about the concrete
bunker with the stench that requires the Holy Romanum Ritual
from a team of priests (with medical personnel on standby) to
remove from your clothes and hair, so I'll leave that one out.
It was a great
recording session for me back in late June, quite smooth and
relaxing, mostly stress-free and yet with a festive air to it,
with all the guests. Thanks for coming goes out to my honey De
Ann (who documented it for me on camcorder), Martin the L.A.
engineer, Gabriel the all around cool young fellow, and Claude,
who pointed me in the right direction of unabashed cymbal bashing
on the "Ah Ah Ah" song. I missed a lot of the Kiters
and Mr. Perry's tracking sessions due to my meteoric rise from
the slums of the Lower Magnolia/Burlington Northern Railways
District to a dead psychiatrist's office in the U-District. In
short, I moved.
I was able to
come down on July 23rd, my (oh dear) 33rd birthday, to drink
beer all day, offer ridiculous drummer advice on new guitar parts
to "Wake Up", and play dual guitar w/Matt on his Les
Paul with a drumstick, the guitar body resting on a stool, and
Mr. Phat himself lying down on the floor underneath, manipulating
the neck with his supple fingers. That's a recording session
for the books. Brings new meaning to the title of "rhythm
guitarist." Why was I there on my birthday? Because it was
a Friday, I was out of work, and I have few out-of-work friends.
They were all at the studio.
Mixdown was this
past weekend, Aug 6, 7, 8. I tried my hardest to avoid the studio
completely and let the songwriter and the engineer mix the record,
but I finally broke down and accepted an invitation for a photo
shoot/band meeting on Sunday. And while there I tried my hardest
not to argue for "more drums! more cymbals!" but I
failed miserably. So if some of the drums are up too high in
the mix for listeners, that would be my fault. Overall, the record
sounds fine, and screw the mix anyway -- the SONGS are the only
truly important thing on any record. These songs are to my ears
the best we've ever done, and among the best Matt and MB have
ever written, which was why I jumped at the chance to rejoin
the band last spring. Happy listening to our fans when it comes
out -- I think you're going to really dig this one.
- Dave
TUESDAY,
AUGUST 10, 1999: I don't listen to radio much. And my
CD collection is pretty small. When I was in college, I would
hit the record store about once every month or so, picking up
the latest Smiths album or the new Peter Murphy. I think that
was the last time I bought anything that could be considered
"hip." (Some might argue that Peter's still wicked
cool.)
Regardless, I've
been in a cave since.
We emerged from
Hanzsek Audio last Sunday night. Ears fried. Concentration burned
up. Opened the door to an especially muggy Ballard night.
All weekend,
we watched Scott Ross hunched over the mixing board, making the
songs sound better than when I had first dreamed them up in my
head. I swelled with pride. "That sounds fat," I said.
"Fat with a PH."
But as soon as
I left, the doubts began to emerge.
It's the same
after every album: will anybody care? More importantly, do we
suck? Do we play cheese?
The crisis came
to a head this morning when I was surfing the FM dial while running
errands in my car. I listened to about six or seven songs. And
I didn't get it. I thought some of it was OK. But mostly I didn't
get it. It left me feeling empty. And I was surprised how much
technology has invaded rock music. Even Cheryl Crow, someone
shamelessly wed to the 70's and this decade's nifty retro refit,
loads her songs with drum loops, samples, stuff I can't comprehend.
I started to
feel old. And extremely uncool.
And then I remembered:
I've ALWAYS been uncool. Whew! What a load off my mind. When
everybody was listening to the Boss, I was cranking Iron Maiden.
When everyone graduated to Depeche Mode and started wearing trench
coats and bringing their skateboards to school ("skateboards
are for little kids," I thought), I went back to AC/DC.
When rock took a nasty, glamorous turn, I rotated to Devo. (What
the heck!) Even when I went through "hip" music phases,
I was always a few months (or years) late discovering what the
rest of the music world had already digested. I didn't latch
on to U2 until they released the "War" album, long
after my savvy friends said they weren't cool anymore. I dug
Kate Bush when a girl introduced me to her while I was a freshman
in college. "The Hounds of Love" album. Still one of
the best. But long after Kate's core fans had discovered her.
I still listen
to U2. I still think "War" is one of the most passionate
albums ever written (next to "Unforgettable Fire").
And I just listened to Ms. Bush the other day. I dig "The
Morning Fog."
To me it's all
about the way the music makes me feel, and that's where I'm stuck.
The Whole Bolivian
Army started playing live when grunge was reaching its zenith
in Seattle. What a horrible time to be a pop band. We were just
trying to write songs we could still care about in 10 years.
But we lacked flannel. Then came alternative and then ska and
then electronica and then swing. And what now? I guess we're
back to RAWK for the moment.
TWBA has never
been cool. Never been cutting edge. Never been the flavor of
the month. Never known the trends, much less followed them. Hopelessly
isolated in our own little world of what moves us.
Heck, I still
think Sabbath's "The Mob Rules" rocks utterly beyond
belief. And when I hear "Bad" by U2, I still get that
longing in the pit of my stomach -- a feeling somewhere between
nostalgia and déjà vu. A feeling that everything
that ever happened in my life led me to this moment right HERE,
and nothing has ever been or ever will be this important again.
And everything just keeps unfolding into the same limitless horizon
I felt when I was 16.
I never want
to lose that feeling.
- Matt
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SOUND SAMPLES
You can listen to free song samples from Amnesty at Giant
Radio.
VIDEO
"Big
Frank"
live/unplugged at the Kite house (2011)
"Too" (Amnesty) live
at the Kite house (2011)
"Party
on the Prairie" live at Graceland (2000)
"Amnesty" live at Jamnesty (2011)
TRACK LIST
1. Too
2. Split Rail
3. Absolutely
4. Amnesty
5. Big Frank
6. Crack in the Tree
7. Party on the Prairie
8. Ah-Ah-Ah
9. Death of a Thief
10. A Thousand Miles Away
11. Wake Up
12. Indian John Hill
ALBUM
CREDITS:
MB, vocals,
percussion; Matt Kite, guitar, vocals, keyboard, percussion;
Jay Perry, bass; Dave Warburton, drums, percussion. Produced by Scott Ross and TWBA. Preproduction
and arrangements by Claude Flowers and TWBA. Recorded, mixed,
and mastered by Scott Ross at Hanzsek Audio (Seattle, WA). Cover
photo courtesy of Scott Ross. Music by TWBA. Lyrics by Matt Kite.
© 1999 Gargantuan Records/TWUBBA Music (ASCAP).
STUDIO
JOURNAL:
Below.
Too
too unkempt
for myself
for my way
to the broken glass in my room
in my way
you won't
find me
you won't find me
you won't find me anywhere
I wash the
mud away
the mud, the mud away
I wash the mud away
the mud, the mud away
too much muddle
for me
for my head
too much trouble to repeat
what I said
you can't
hold me
you can't hold me
you can't hold me anymore
I wash the
mud away
the mud, the mud away
I tried to get clean
to clean the things I've seen
I tried to
make it straight
I tried to make it right
to take the gray
and turn it black and white
to the spoken
word
I lost my past, I lost the truth
too much wasted breath
to break the cast holding you
I can't see
you
I can't see you
I can't see you anywhere...
Split
Rail
snow underneath
studded tires
it follows me as the road goes higher
I've never been in -- I've never seen a white out before
headlights
plow a line of sight
they show me how to pray tonight
I found out
I found God
I found everything buried in white
summer's long
gone
suddenly
I can't feel the road I'm on
suddenly
horizon fades,
shrinking silhouettes
the split rail thins around the furrowed fields
I tunnel inside the frozen cloud
I watch the flakes swirl on the windshield
headlights
plow a line of sight
they show me how to pray tonight
I found out
I found God
I found everything buried in white
summer's long
gone
suddenly
I can't feel the road I'm on
suddenly
I take my foot off the brake
suddenly
I know I can stay awake
suddenly
Absolutely
I'm from L.A
I love the rain
I love the way the farmers walk
I'm from New
York
I love that town
I love the way the cowboys talk
I know you
know
you know me
absolutely, you can see me
I'm not from here
I'm not me
I crashed this party
and now I flee thee
I'm from the
south
way up south
I broke my arm in North Dakota
I'm headed
west
to the rising sun
I bought the farm in East Virginia
I know you
know
you know me
absolutely, you can see me
I'm not from here
I'm not me
I crashed this party
and now I flee thee
I'll keep
the light on
I'll keep the fight up
I see the way you look at me
you've got your guard down
I'll keep my pants on
despite the way you think of me
I'm from the
country
in front of me
you can still see where I was buried
I'm from the
city
wild, open city
you can see the stars like crazy
I know you
know
you know me
absolutely, you can see me
I'm not from here
I'm not me
I crashed this party
and now I flee thee
Amnesty
at night when
I lie awake
I feel your heart beat to survive
you're a thousand miles away
and I pray you're still alive
I sent you a letter
but they wouldn't let you read it
and I sent food for you
but they wouldn't let you eat it
love, my leader,
it's strange
I saw you with her, and I changed
you swore
by your God
that the truth would not burn
you held your head up high
as the verdict was returned
you can't chew your food anymore
or walk in a straight line
but you stood up for us all
as we waited for a sign
love, my leader,
it's strange
I saw you with her, and I changed
I led them to you, you see
I hoped they'd break you, then me
you never
thought about your family
or what this might do to us
the boys, they try not to hate you
but they've learned to tell lies and to cuss
We wait for you...
at night when
I lie awake
I try to imagine your cell
I sleep on the cold hardwood
and dream about your hell
I wonder if you know
I'm the one who turned you in
I never thought they'd take you
now I know my sin
love, my leader,
it's strange
I saw you with her, and I changed
I led them to you, you see
I hoped they'd break you, then me
Big
Frank
you need what
I don't have
you want what I can't give
you see what I don't say
and I don't know...
if I can change
all you can take
if I can bend but not break
(two rivers run inside of me
I dam the one that swallows me)
I don't want
to cut you down
I don't want to break us down
I don't want to make you cry
you don't want to wonder why
we don't want to tear this down
'cause we
can't change your secret sin
but we can bend in the wind
you can change
your secret's safe
you can bend... you can bend
(two rivers run inside of me
I dam the one that swallows me)
Crack
in the Tree
I threw
I threw my love away
I threw
I threw the letter away
I feel
I am
I feel like a fool
I wish I had
a second chance
I would not run away
I wish I had a second chance
I would not run away
the tree
I stare at the crack in the tree
look at me
there's no one left but me
I feel
I am
I feel like a fool
I wish I had
a second chance
I would not run away
I wish I had a second chance
I would not run away
Party
on the Prairie
here comes
Laura down the hillside
she's got hornets in her bonnet
she's screaming through the gap in her teeth
buck teeth
here come
five desperate people
they throw parties with no laughter
and someone's really angry with you
what's new?
soon we'll
be away from here
we'll run so far away from here
I think Mary's
got the fever
I think Charlie's got the cancer
thank God for the leaches we found
we're cured
there's a
fire in the barnyard
there's a fire in their hearts
thank God they help us live out our lives
we're spared
soon we'll
be away from here
we'll run so far away from here
here comes
Laura down the hillside
she's got hornets in her bonnet
she's screaming through the gap in her teeth
buck teeth
here come
five lonely people
they throw parties for each other
they're coping with their problems again
again...
Ah-Ah-Ah
I wanted to
be you
I wanted to feel what if feels like to be you
I wanted to beat you
I wanted the world to watch me while I beat you
ah-ah-ah...
(Thomas) Mann
would have loved you
with your blue eyes and your blonde hair
he would have loved you
ah-ah-ah...
ooh -- I love
you
ooh -- you love you
I wanted to
meet you
I wanted to see what you see
but I already know you
there's nothing inside you
it's all on the outside and that's fine
I guess I love you
ah-ah-ah...
Death
of a Thief
let me feel
this on my knees
I've always hated what's good for me
all my life
now
I've run from you and my own fate
so I'm shaking now
you've come to steal the life I made
do you feel
the man?
can you see who I am?
let me see
her one last time
I've always loved her
she was good to me
I dreamed
I saw you here
but you were the one in chains -- not me
and Allah spoke to me
he told me I should set you free
do you feel
the man?
can you see who I am?
will you feel any pain?
can you ever be the same?
A Thousand
Miles Away
the truth
-- it's simple
it's sitting in front of me
just sitting in front of me
won't you
be true to us?
and say goodbye to me?
just say goodbye to me
you won't
be happy
'til you're a thousand miles away
a thousand miles away
what am I
to do?
what am I to do with you?
Wake
Up
sweet morning
kiss
on my breath
on my lips
falling hard
falling fast
on my life
to the last
sweet morning
rays
on my skin
on my face
trusting you
trusting me
in my heart
I am free
wake up
wake up, boy
I saw you dreaming
I heard you speaking
something's haunting you
I felt you crying
I held you screaming
sweet morning
kiss
on my breath
on my lips
falling hard
falling fast
on my life
to the last
wake up
wake up, boy
I saw you dreaming
I heard you speaking
something's haunting you
I felt you crying
I held you screaming
something's
wrong
but I don't know what
If you don't talk to me
we'll never sleep
sweet morning
lost
in the scream
in the cost
shaking you
shaking you
in the dark
please come to
wake up
wake up, love
I saw you dreaming
I heard you speaking
something's haunting you
a voice somewhere low
coming from the radio
I can hear
the bells ringing
hear the pigeons scatter
I can see the church glowing
hear the old town clatter
we're golden in the sun
golden in your sun
our eyes shimmer like the sea...
Indian
John Hill
the sky's
frozen still
grey against the steel
I found my lover still
asleep against the wheel
across the
broken hills
stone against water
I found my lover's hill
the engine running hotter
he told me
"be still, be free"
he holds me
we run on empty
I'm falling
today, too fast
I'm dreaming
one more, one last
the valley
cannot hold
a storm we've never seen
I see the clouds unfold
come to wash us clean
inside a frozen
truck
he's got no heat to spare
we've always been stuck
somewhere next to nowhere
he told me
"be still, be free"
he holds me
we run on empty
I'm falling
today, too fast
I'm dreaming
one more, one last
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