Shell-shocked with Jungle Rot

George Brigman, 1973

When Pave­ment broke up, it was imme­di­ate­ly clear that lead singer and song­writer Stephen Malk­mus was about to embark on a jour­ney that was as much ped­a­gog­i­cal as it was cre­ative. Long viewed as some­thing of a prophet to indie rock­’s faith­ful, it came as no sur­prise that as he fell into the Anglo-Amer­i­can garage, psych, folk and prog mix that those mean­der­ings would reach a curi­ous, def­er­en­tial audi­ence. Soon bands like Mel­low Can­dle, Fair­port Con­ven­tion and J.K. & Co. were count­ed among Malk­mus’ many ref­er­ences made less obscure, and thanks to labels like Sun­dazed, once out of print discs were avail­able again.

Giv­en Malk­mus’ track record for Moore-ian crate dig­ging, it would­n’t sur­prise me if George Brig­man’s recent­ly reis­sued Jun­gle Rot had­n’t inspired “Pen­cil Rot” from his most recent album Face the Truth. You see, Malk­mus appre­ci­ates the vague ele­gance of Jef­fer­son­ian idylls and Emer­son­ian self-made men, like imag­in­ing Rousseau’s noble sav­age with an M.F.A. and a drink­ing prob­lem, so to speak.

For­tu­nate­ly, this arti­cle will dis­abuse you of any roman­tic notions you may hold. You can save those for Ozy­man­dias, but Brig­man’s influ­ence on Malk­mus is unde­ni­able. Unlike Malk­mus’s solo records, Brig­man’s work is less self-con­scious and feels more nat­ur­al — but before I slip into the same whig­gish, state-of-nature trap I laid for Malk­mus — Jun­gle Rot comes from an ama­teur’s heart, the sort of purist rock nos­tal­gia that makes Lit­tle Steven twitch.

Like Malk­mus, Brig­man found inspi­ra­tion in Tony McPhee’s work with The Ground­hogs, the oft-ref­er­enced, rarely lis­tened to U.K. prog/classic rock group. The sim­ple, straight­for­ward lyrics con­vey a great deal more emo­tion than most of Malk­mus’ cat­a­logue — the lone­some, wail­ing har­mon­i­ca on work­ing-class drug anthem “DMT” embod­ies the strife of urban liv­ing in fac­to­ry cor­ri­dors all the way up the coast from the mid-Atlantic to New England.

Brig­man com­bines the dis­parate ele­ments of psych, surf and garage and blooze very capa­bly. “Don’t Both­er Me” sounds like a mis­an­throp­ic surf rock tune played on a mid-win­ter beach in the sting­ing cold. “I Feel Alright” has a bub­bling bassline that gur­gles like phlegm-choked lungs, mak­ing it the track that best cap­tures the fren­zy Brig­man hoped to imitate.

Capri­cious and pre­co­cious, yet wise beyond his years, Brig­man’s Jun­gle Rot ought to have been the sort of record that defined the dis­il­lu­sion­ment of the new day dawn­ing in Amer­i­ca, as Viet­nam vet­er­ans returned home to find them­selves aban­doned by their gov­ern­ment and out of touch with their friends and fam­i­ly. Alien­at­ed and left to face the ene­my with­in alone, Brig­man’s Jun­gle Rot makes up for lost time with his anx­ious intro­spec­tion and odes to self-med­ica­tion with hazy tunes right out of Amer­i­ca’s post-war coma.

George Brig­man — “Jun­gle Rot”

Stephen Malk­mus — “Pen­cil Rot”