By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
The three musicians that compose the jazz-rock hybrid Swivel Stick face each other in a dark corner of South Miami's Space Cadette Studios. Behind them a wall lined with compact discs pasted onto multicolored squares reflects the faint light from an overhead lamp. Christopher Cline hunches over his simple drum kit, a pair of drumsticks hanging limply from his hands. Richard Rippe's towering, spindly body braces an upright bass, his spidery fingers spread over the instrument's thick strings. The smaller-framed and bespectacled Carl Ferrari stands straight and stiff with his blue Fender guitar tucked under his armpit, staring at the fret board. Everything's quiet for a long moment.
Then Ferrari starts plucking the first scattered, stuttering notes of "Liduam." Rippe strokes long, shivering notes out of his bass with a bow, and Cline erratically rolls his sticks from drum to drum. For six minutes the trio weaves harmonically, at varying tempos. Cymbals crash, guitar strings quaver, bass strings hum. The sound is dark and cavernous. Suddenly Cline taps the rim of his snare and the sonic intensity segues into a smooth bop, the group swinging as if accompanying Brazilian jazz master Antonio Carlos Jobim on some patio overlooking the beach.
Swivel Stick plays music that is constantly exploring itself. Recent performances included horns provided by Marcus Ware (saxophone) and Henry Rajan (clarinet). Ferrari has also begun experimenting with electronic backing tracks. The music sounds like a combination of early Seventies prog-rock courtesy of Pink Floyd or King Crimson, the wail of John Coltrane, and the free jazz of Ornette Coleman.
Swivel Stick's set lists often include classic jazz pieces such as "Afro Blue," by 1950s Afro-Cuban jazz percussionist Mongo Santamaria, as well as traditional music like "Saltarello," an Italian Renaissance song once covered by goth darlings Dead Can Dance. Swivel Stick approaches these covers with its own distinct style. Melodies stay intact and they often swing like jazz pieces, but the musicians' approach is exploratory and foreboding, as if they were coaxing the sounds out of some dark recess.
Cline was the death-metal freak, Rippe the die-hard indie punker. The two convinced Bennet and Cavanaugh to play guitar and sing, with Rippe writing the lyrics. During these high school years, the group brought their frenzied sound to parties and warehouses before graduating to local clubs and various bars in Tampa, Orlando, and Gainesville. After tuning their sound a bit, the group decided to add another layer of guitar for a more assaultive sound.
"We were going for a thicker rhythm section," Cline says, "just something more powerful than basic guitar, drums, bass, and vocals." They found Ferrari, who was playing bass in another local band (Ed Matus' Struggle) but wanted to explore his guitar-playing talent. "I wasn't cut out to play the bass," Ferrari explains. "You see how Rich has huge hands? Well, mine are small. It would hurt me sometimes to play that shit for a whole show."
Ferrari was only in the band a few months when Bennet left, soon followed by Cavanaugh, forcing Rippe to take over vocal duties and reducing the band to a trio. Joe Miranda joined the band in spring 1995 and took part in the recording of their fifteen-track debut CD that fall (he quit the band before the four-week national tour that followed). Recorded over a period of two months at Miami's Tapeworm Studios, Notes Towards a Mental Breakdown was an eerie opus that combined abrasive guitars and emotional fervor with meditative passages and tranquilizing ambient effects.
The album opens with the fade-in of lightly tapped guitar strings. The noise meanders in search of a melody, then turns to some quiet electric guitar strumming. Rippe's words drip desire and self-loathing ("You're the angel burned by my foolishness"), a schism that's wonderfully -- albeit uncomfortably -- complemented by the division between the band's hardcore and embracing impulses throughout the record.
The grating, guitar-swirling, drum-pummeling finale of "You and Her" is followed by a hushed piece constructed from archival footage of the Apollo 11 launch. In turn "Mistaken Migration" is cut short by the layers of feedback that intro "Biggest Mess I've Been In," a catchy, superfast punk song that recalls Bad Religion.
The band sold many of the discs at a CD release party at Space Cadette in July 1996, as well as on the subsequent tour, which took them to New York. "Now there are like 50 left," Ferrari says. "So we're just holding on to them. I'm not going to bust them out at local shows and try to sell them. Maybe if we go outside of Miami to play, then I would just have some to sell. It's not worth it here. We get letters from people. The last one we got was from this girl from Texas who had our CD and she wanted to buy one for her friend, and she made us this whole little package of artwork. We got letters from Russia, Italy. I think there was one from Spain."