Buried treasures have always been about the unburying more than the treasure itself. In “The Goonies,” nobody got rich. The reward was that they got to live in exactly the same place as they always had. But that adventure -- through The Fratellis’ house and into the caves and the water slides and onto One Eyed Willy’s ship -- that was the thing. This same premise applies in real life, too. Nowadays, it’s harder than ever to bury or unbury things. But there was a time -- just before eBay -- when we were all treasure hunters. We might find the dusty, not too old, Danish Modern desk at the thrift store. Or the bruised Mickey Mantle card in a shoebox in our parents’ attic. Or a possibly functional Braun turntable, ignorantly priced at the vintage shop near the college. These were thrilling occasions that still seemed plausible. They didn’t happen often, but they happened often enough for us to believe we could all be Goonies.

In the world of music, there has recently become a cottage industry devoted to the unburying. Numero Group digs through old tapes from churches and temples around the world to see if there’s gold. Joyful Noise focuses on out of print albums that were deeply beloved by very few. For half a decade, Light in the Attic and Four Men with Beards were able to get a jumpstart on the competition, simply because major record labels couldn’t figure out how to make money from vinyl. Today, there’s money to be made in limited editions. So, nothing gets buried very deeply and, if it does, it will eventually wash up on the beaches of the streaming services.

To state the obvious, the hyper-availability of music is a plainly modern, highly digital phenomenon. As recently as thirty years ago, music discovery was radically different. Many bands that we call “influential” or even “essential” today were lost before they got found. During high school in the late 80s,  I did not know a single person who’d ever heard of “Marquee Moon,” or “Pink Moon,” for that matter. Even ten years later, after discovering Trouser Press and Magnet Magazine and MAXIMUM ROCKNROLL, I still didn’t know what Shuggie Otis or Roky Erickson actually sounded like, or if they were even real or made up figures. As recently as 1996, and in spite of the fact that I lived in New York City, near countless great record stores, I remember ordering music via the mail. I bought a dreamy, droney album by a band called Yume Bitsu by sending a check to the label’s post office box. And then, as if to confirm that it was not a fraud or an old dude imitating Mogwai, I flew to Portland to see them, alongside eight or nine other Goonies. I did basically the same thing with all of those Tooth and Nail Records from that time. There I was, a Jewish kid from New York, money that I could not afford to spend, to a Christian Rock label in Seattle, so I could hear Sal Paradise, Joe Christmas and Pedro the Lion. The reward was not simply the music. It was the searching, the digging and the finding.

All of that treasure hunting has served me well. Through the Talking Heads, I found The Velvet Underground. That didn’t require much effort, to be honest. Even in the 1980s, the legend of Lou, John, Sterling and Mo had been well established. But through The Velvets, I found The Modern Lovers and The New York Dolls. They were treasures, to be sure, but only partially buried. Through those bands, I discovered Television, whose records were not easy to find in the late 80s. Through Television, I found The Feelies, who were three quarters submerged. And, in 1989, through The Feelies, I discovered The Clean. I’d fully dug a hole from New York to China, on the other side of the world, then turned right about one hundred and twenty degrees, passed Australia, and landed in New Zealand. 

The Clean were buried treasure. They lived on an exotic and beautiful, far off island. Functionally, they only existed for a few, brilliant years, before they flamed out around 1984. Apparently, in their home country, they were seen as both revolutionary and marginally popular. But I’d never seen their CDs in a store. I’d never read a review of their music. I certainly had never seen them perform live. All I had to go on was a casual mention in an article about The Feelies. Based on that, I asked the grouch at my favorite record shop to special order their one, compilation album. A month later, it arrived. I rushed it home, opened the curious, cartoonish cover, unpacked the disc, put it in my shitty boombox and pressed play. Immediately, I experienced something so unusually tuneful and delirious that I was taken aback. A few songs in, I heard a ringing organ and three boys squealing “Tally Ho” under a wall of feedback. I wanted to scream along. It was all so delightful that I could not imagine that they had actually written it. I guessed it was like a classic Kiwi children’s song played by Punk Rock kids. But it wasn’t. And the tunes kept coming. Some of them too fast. A couple were weirdly slow, though no less melodic. All of them drenched in buzz and feedback, with vocals fighting their way up from the bottom. 

Thirty years later, I can still recall that feeling. That feeling of discovering a clue and then following up on it and sending up a flare to the other side of the world and getting a response and then listening to that response and digging beneath the feedback of the guitar and the shrill of the organ to hear the songs like polished gems. Discovering The Clean was exactly like unburying a deeply submerged treasure. 

Like any good surveyor, once I struck gold, I kept digging. And the more I dug, the more I found. Other than images of sheep and vineyards, and the presumption of a slower, richer life, I knew absolutely nothing about New Zealand. I certainly did not expect to discover Flying Nun Records, the label that The Clean helped put on the map. And even when I discovered that treasure chest, I did not expect to discover the riches inside -- The Bats, The Chills, The Tall Dwarfs, The Verlaines, The Straitjacket Fits, Graeme and Peter Jeffries and The Jean-Paul Sartre Experience. There seemed to be dozens of these darling, slightly off-kilter bands down there. And the more I listened, the more convinced I became that New Zealand was an island with two suns -- one for The Beatles and the other for The Velvet Underground. In fact, listening to that first waves of Flying Nun bands helped me understand what the world have sounded like if Lou Reed, and not John and Paul, had figured out “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” In the 1980s, there was an arty, syncopated jangle that ran through the waters of Dunedin, a college town of a hundred thousand people in a country that only had three million people. Auckland, the home to roughly half of the country’s population, is fifteen hundred miles north of Dunedin -- a country away. To understand The Clean is to appreciate how deeply buried they were in 1989, just five years after they stopped being the face of Indie Rock in New Zealand.

Apparently, being in The Clean was an all encompassing job for the band’s barely twenty year old singer and guitarist, David Kilgour. Practices half the week and shows the other half. And though they recorded dozens of songs during that first run, the band only managed to release two “official” EPs. On the basis of those songs and their ecstatic live shows, though, David and Hamish Kilgour, and their buddy Robert Scott, became legends in their homeland. This elite status, however, apparently did not carry very far. Nor was it especially lucrative. In 1986, the first compilation of their songs, appropriately entitled “Compilation” was released and made it all the way to America. It was a momentary spark that simply did not get enough oxygen. That first pressing served mostly as a gift to local fans and as confirmation to college radio DJs that, in fact, The Clean had actually existed. But, within a year, the treasure had sunk back to the bottom of the ocean. 

Many early interviews with David Kilgour call out the irony (or tragedy) of an adored local musician who cannot earn a living wage doing what he is locally beloved for. Throughout these interviews, he politely brushes off his reputation in order to establish the sober reality of life as an occasionally working musician, whose beautiful homeland cannot sustain him. He wonders if a label from Europe or, ideally, The States, might come calling. Through the end of the eighties and into the nineties, however, the calls didn’t come. David and Hamish released more curious, less polished, gems as The Great Unwashed. And, by the end of the eighties, barely thirty years old, their bright stars were fading. Robert Scott had steady work with his other band, The Bats. Hamish moved to New York. And David stayed home, painting, listening to music and writing songs. 

In 1989, however, the trio did what most defunct but revered Indie acts do today — they reunited. In 1990, the band released “Vehicle,” their first full length album. With thirteen songs in under thirty minutes, its length could have been questioned, but its luster could not. “Vehicle” is a delightful album, full of compact, breathless Indie Pop. It was a cause for celebration and some touring. But it was not much more. Released a few years before the Alternative revolution and nearly a decade before the Digital revolution, the album came, received its due praise, and went away. By that point, it was clear: The Clean was an occasional, semi-active project that David, Hamish and Robert would only occasionally return to. 

I was unsure how much I would hear from David Kilgour after “Vehicle.” He lived beyond the other side of the world. It seemed that, despite his obvious talent and less obvious fanbase, his songs might not be paying the bills. Import records were hard to come by in 1990. And information about David Kilgour was even harder to come by. Even today, his website is only updated at the time of a new release. It still advertises his MySpace page. There is no biography. His Wikipedia entry stops around 2017, even though he has released several records since. In interviews, I’ve never once heard him mention a partner or a child or another career, outside of music. I presume not that he’s being willfully obscure, but rather that he’s modest and, possibly, tired of the fanfare without all the benefit. Nowadays, and all grown up with a family of my own, I don’t think about David Kilgour very often. But, in 1990, after “Vehicle” came and went, I wondered where he was and what he was up to.

In 1991, I got an answer back when he released “Here Come the Cars,” his debut solo album. Upon first listen, it seemed almost too simple. Just three guys. Mostly three instruments -- guitar, bass and drums. Occasionally, a fourth -- piano. Nearly all of the songs were built on an easy hook repeated leisurely for three to four minutes. There was almost zero distortion. The songs didn’t get loud. Some of them moved faster than others, but there was nothing Punk about any of it. The title track crawled its way out of bed towards heaven. And everything after that was so gorgeous that you had to play it over and over simply to convince yourself that what you heard was really that modest and really that beautiful. The album’s cover is a chest up portrait of the Kilgour, with something of a sad smile. He is looking right at you, possibly dejected, but totally honest. He has a smattering of faint blemishes on his face. He’s just a regular guy. Thirty years old. Writing and singing songs that sound a little like Bob Dylan if he was trying to sing to birds or to a rainbow. It has none of the ambition of “OK Computer” or sprawl of “I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One” or the immediacy of “Nevermind,” but I think that “Here Comes the Cars” was the prettiest album of the 1990s. For a couple of years, I thought maybe Emmylou Harris’ “Wrecking Ball” was close. But, as great as that album was, it’s simply not as attractive as David Kilgour’s perfect debut.

Had “Here Come the Cars” been released ten years later, Pitchfork would have coronated it instantly. It’s just that sort of album. It would have been like Bon Iver’s “For Emma, Forever Ago,” except by an artist with a more fabled backstory. But, in 1991, Kilgour’s debut barely made it to the U.S. He then formed a band called Stephen, who released one record in 1993. Just a year later, I got a hold of his second solo album, “Sugar Mouth.” Then, in 1996, the treasures really started to float up to the surface. That year, The Clean released “Unknown Country.” And, in 1997, as David Kilgour and The Heavy Eights, he released an eponymous album that featured his nonchalant Indie Pop alongside more cutting, psychedelic jams. That same year he joined Yo La Tengo on tour, as both an opening act and a second guitarist. Amazingly, it was also in 1997 that Pavement, Guided by Voices and a dozen other Indie darlings helped make “God Save the Clean,” a tribute to the Kiwi Rock pioneers. Closing in on forty, David Kilgour’s music was increasingly available worldwide. He was the subject of fawning profiles in American Alternative and Indie Rock magazines. He had befriended Mac from Superchunk and Merge Records. He’d also befriended the guys from Lambchop. For the first time in many years, it seemed that David Kilgour had a viable career in music. 

Over the next decade, he recorded mostly for Arch Hill Recordings in New Zealand, but with a licensing deal overseas with Merge Records. As the Indie Rock canon got reshuffled in his favor and as The Clean got more frequently namechecked, David Kilgour’s status was cemented. The Clean released a boxed set anthology in 2002. Their legendary B-sides and demo compilation, “Oddities” was rereleased several times, each version with heavier vinyl and more elaborate packaging. Today, those early Clean EPs can go for hundreds of dollars online. Their legend has been written and rewritten. But, somewhere in between 1997 and today, something happened to David Kilgour. He became a middle-age, hopefully middle-class, working guy. He now puts out albums every three years. Once or twice a decade, he reunites The Clean for a big money gig, an album and a short tour. And then, he returns to the grind of whittling songs and painting whimsical abstracts on canvas.

Precisely when David Kilgour went from earnest, should be legend to a much lower stakes version of that is hard to say. Most casual fans point to his consistency and reliability as a songwriter, how his albums all have a sweet and lovely and breezy air about them. This is generally true. But it would also be fair to say that his recent albums, while equally sweet and breezy, have been a notch less lovely. They still have that “is that a sketch or a masterpiece” quality about them. But, generally speaking, they sound much less labored over. In truth, there have been no masterpieces since “Here Come the Cars.” And there have been a few albums that could be replaced with the previous one or the next one without any appreciable difference. For years, I have wondered when that shift happened. Or why it happened. When did he go from reaching to accepting? When did he stop holding in his gut and just let his belly hang over the edge? Did he lose a gear at some point? Did he just not want to try as hard? When did he go from making diamonds to making semi-precious gems? Obviously, I have no actual idea. But, to me, the last of the buried treasure was “The Far Now,” from 2007. It’s the album that sounds like a middle aged man who, in spite of knowing better, is still reaching out for something greater. To my ears, it’s the last time David Kilgour sounded that way -- earnest, sweet as ever, feet still on the ground, but looking up to the sky.

The boy who co-founded The Clean was obviously listening to a lot of first wave Punk and The Velvet Underground. The young solo artist was more a master songwriter, in the vein of Bob Dylan or Paul Simon, but without all the words. As he aged, however, Kilgour’s songs got roomier and trippier. There was apparently a little Syd Barrett and a lot of George Harrison in him. “Frozen Orange,” recorded in Nashville in 2004 with members of Lambchop, was a surprisingly stripped down, unsurprisingly countryfied affair. Three years later, “The Far Now” split the difference between that album and its predecessor, “A Feather in the Engine.” It was more mystical and roomier than either. It was also a slow and sun-drenched album. But, the singer’s voice retained most of its reedy, honey-coated sweetness and the remnants of Nashville were still there, but only subtly so. It had the sound of a man who, at forty seven, seemed to have found his place in the universe. There’s a great peacefulness about “The Far Now,” like a guy who stopped trying to run fast and started to simply walk, and think and notice things.

“The Far Now” opens with “Sun of God,” a wonderful outlier in the Kilgour songbook. Between a hum of feedback and a hypnotic, tiny guitar hook, he whispers something that could be a pagan offering or a Buddhist mantra. There’s not much structure to it. There are no verses or choruses. But it’s heavy on vibe. It sounds like a sunrise at the moment of rebirth. And then it quickly fades and we return to the more familiar, secular life on the delightful “BBC World.” With a slide guitar and a nasal twang, the second track resembles Americana. But, Kilgour’s melodies are so charming and immediate that, when he lands them, they are practically genreless. They sound like Folk songs or nursery rhymes or early sixties Pop songs or something else you once heard that made you smile.

The three best songs on “The Far Now,” are also probably the most patient ones.  “Wave of Love” is a slow, Hippie pop gem -- a little piano, some searching guitar and the simplest of minor chord progressions. He rushes nothing. He lets us savor the bittersweetness. “I’m Gonna Get Better Lately” has the sound and feel of a slow sunrise after a sad night or a morning hangover. It wakes up gradually, looks at the ocean and the guitars sing like gulls. And “Too Long From Me” is the closest to a tear jerker of the trio, full of organ and strings and dreams. 

Generally speaking, “The Far Now” has two modes -- those unhurried, candied ballads and the slightly jangly, slightly stoned Pop songs, like “BBC World” and “We Really Can’t Get Along.” Both are familiar terrain for devoted Kilgourites. And when he stays in these modes, he sounds better than good. He sounds offhandedly great. But this record also sounds like an apex. This is not to say that they are his best bunch of songs, but more that they reach up higher into the sky and deeper into the human heart. After this, the only thing to do was to exhale and the only place to go was back down, closer to the earth. 

In the same way that the album opens with a mystical convocation, it closes with an experimental remission. “Out of the Moment” is a serpentine jam that evokes The Velvets by way of a middle eastern canteen. It’s completely unlike the rest of the record, a sleepy, half drunk sunset that is less feeling and more being. It’s not what David Kilgour is known for. And it’s not the bass heavy, guttural sort of freak out that The Clean were occasionally known for. It sounds like a departure. Or a coda. 

What passes for casual cool or laid back talent in youth can read glib or smug in middle age. But, “The Far Now” never crosses that line. It feels more like a middle-aged man, slightly proud of his paunch, very comfortable with where he is at. Maybe he’s cooked a big dinner and he loosens his belt after he cleans his plate. Maybe he rolls a joint and smokes it. Maybe he leaves the party a little early and sleeps deeply and happily. That’s the David Kilgour who I imagine made “The Far Now.” Obviously, I could never really know. If he’s in Dunedin, he’s almost eight thousand miles away. For all I know, he could recording a masterpiece as I write this. Or he could be painting. Or he could be with his family, drinking wine and singing to sheep. He could be resenting his very local, very minor fame. He could be struggling in some way. I wouldn’t know. What I can say is that he’s made four solo albums and another Clean album since 2007 that, to my ears, sound like they are slowly coasting downhill. The way up, from tuneful 1980 punk to master songwriter in middle age was an uphill sprint that turned out to be a marathon. “The Far Now” was the view from the mountaintop. It was the end of the searching. It was the treasure, fully unburied.

by Matty Wishnow