By Christopher Orman
The Beatles' "Sgt. Pepper's", and "Revolver", Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks", the Beach Boys' "Pet Sounds", the Rolling Stones' "Sticky Fingers", and the Mother Hips' "Green Hills of Earth." Sounds strange, a band unheard of by the Eastern forty-five states being added to a list featuring the five dubiously titled "greatest albums ever". However, the Mother Hips deserve such hyperbolic placement. In fact, the most ineffable question facing many first-time listeners will be "How the hell did a band this good slip under the proverbial musical radar?"

There are many reasons, the most paramount being the Mother Hips refusal to pander to any labeling, and most specifically the irritating "jamband" label forced upon the band in 1995. Given the fact the Northern California quartet live never noodles and refuses to fall into the self-masturbatory exile of a ten-minute guitar solo, an astute individual can comprehend their indignation towards inaccurate classification. Instead, the band creates tightly crafted songs which lyrically rival the works of Lennon/McCartney, and feature harmonies conceivably better than Brian Wilson's bubble-gum harmonic symphonies. Titling the album "Green Hills of Earth" creates a literary connotation as if the band remains foreign to Earth, which becomes an attempt to attach the album to a previous epoch where great albums did exist. The group, estranged from Earth, must be looking down on our current musical depravity and feel as though they have the antidote. They do, but are we listening?

Still confused or uncertain about the rather lofty territory and names being connected to the Mother Hips' "Green Hills of Earth"? Being blunt and succinct, the Mother Hips have crafted the best album in nearly twenty years, and as a result will force listeners to examine the works of the Beatles, Beach Boys, Bee Gees and Kinks in a far more intellectual light -- an album, not a collection of singles, nor a work which has one stupendous jam then ten really soporific tracks, but an album, with a vibe, a concept and a presence of literary acumen.

However, a paragraph to paragraph, song to song summary seems not only rudimentary but damaging to the music being created by the Mother Hips. Can writing truly express jangling guitars, tape loops, perfect harmonies and lyrics loaded with literary allusions? Paul de Man stands over my shoulder and cries about the genocide of language, allegory versus symbol, melody versus harmony, the sign and symbol do not coincide.

Hopefully a serious aura surrounds my tone and the reader can understand my trepidation. "Green Hills of Earth" deserves such immediate literary respect, as extra commentary may destroy one of the more valuable musical releases. As with most music which has been siphoned and distilled to an immediately palatable and commercial form, destruction and analysis can be rather easily written. Listening to the newest pop/rock/jam/hip hop act of the month, most writers are so sick of the standard, socially anticipated chord changes, that destruction and analysis may actually aid the artwork.

When the Mother Hips resurrect the sounds of the Beach Boys on Singing Seems to Ease Me, Channel Island Girl and Sarah Bellum or the equally ancient genius of John Lennon on Given For You and Pull Us All Together, sincerity, not nmetonics, becomes readily conspicuous. The music exists on another level, in another time and in a way which belays standard classification. A writer, when faced with analyzing Ryan Adams' "Heartbreaker" - an album which ended up on the top five lists of every major publication in the country and ventured into similar Bob Dylan/Beatles musical territories - felt he could only make one statement about the album, "fucking perfect" [1]. My only amendment might be another adjective, to add some necessary emphasis, and even there I might be overstepping my boundaries; if only I could write with Blanchot's impersonality.

Notes: 1. A recent trip to my local record store allowed me to touch base with owners and managers, who - receiving a promo - have heard the same music -- all of whom could not help but discuss the music. People who claimed Tortoise and God Speed You Black Emperor! are the only acts worth listening to, were enamored by the music; vivacious, reactionary, genius music which surpasses the quote "great albums" released by Son Volt, Wilco and Whiskeytown. The trip also revealed to me the album's ineffability. Hours of conversations left me mumbling about pop music's heroes; which says something.