In the poem “Song of Myself,” Walt Whitman famously wrote: “I am large, I contain multitudes.” Many years later, Bob Dylan borrowed the second half of that line for “Rough and Rowdy Ways.” I’ve not read any Whitman since college, but I trust the old Brooklyn bard’s claim. Similarly, contradiction is the very cornerstone of Dylan’s brand. To suggest that both writers are vast and elusive is to suggest something both obvious and insufficient. Compared to Anton Newcombe, however, those icons seem almost quaint. Over the last three decades, Newcombe, the founder of The Brian Jonestown Massacre, has been admired, pitied, extolled and vilified. He is frequently hard to watch and even harder to ignore. If you discounted ninety nine percent of what he has said and what has been said about him, he would still seem more grandiose and more puzzling than any living songwriter. Anton Newcombe contains universes.

The mythology of Newcombe and The Brian Jonestown Massacre is hard to unpack, mostly on account of its unreliable narrator. He has been the subject of countless, highly quotable interviews during his thirty year run in with BJM. He was infamously the anti-hero of “Dig!,” a documentary that may have been a mockumentary. He was the next big thing, briefly, once. He was a walking dead man for over a decade. He’s been a nearly has been for even longer. He’s constantly tweeting and posting videos of himself. He’s cooked for Anthony Bourdain. But when The Brian Jonestown Massacre, with all their many guitars and tambourines and reverb and mono din get together on the big beat, you believe all of it. You believe in everything.

Like many great songwriters before him, Newcombe is intellectually and psychologically different. How much of this is physiological versus social versus pharmacological is not especially useful. But, in his exceptionalism, he is frequently plotted on a continuum that begins far out, with Daniel Johnston, and then travels through the minds of Syd Barrett and Roky Erickson until reaches its end, somewhere near Brian Wilson. In truth, those comparisons are probably not super pertinent. In spite of whatever abuses he has suffered or inflicted, Newcombe has proven to be both more functional and creatively resilient than any of those men. No songwriter has ever stood so close to the brink of annihilation for so long, while also managing to take steps forward creatively and, seemingly, emotionally. 

Most of Newcombe’s mythology is self-mythology. Even his casual fans, like me, have heard his stories many times over. The addiction stories, the time he broke his arm and got hooked on smack, the times he got arrested, the time he quit dope, the time he quit booze, the stuff about “Rubber Soul” and “Let it Bleed,” the Simon and Garfunkel story, the Dusty Springfield one, the line about Punk Rock, the one about My Bloody Valentine, and the Britpop one, and his thoughts on Israel, Iceland, Germany, sex, love, ex-bandmates, drugs and Rock and Roll. I think I’ve heard all of them because he is so good at telling them and so apt to repeat them. As wild and voluminous as his interviews are, I tend to ignore these stories at this point. I do this, in part, from the boredom that comes with repetition. But, I do this, also, because the myths and the half-truths and the outright lies obscure a career that has been punctuated by the highest of highs and, more amazingly, the highest of lows. Decades later, even the worst moments in his music -- the ones that sound like shitty, out of tune, single note drone moans -- even those sound like they contain multitudes.

In 1996, I was working as an assistant at a record company, leveraging my youth and record buying habit to curry favor with the A&R department. At the time, I was certain that it was a crap job, but to describe it now makes it sound like Xanadu. In return for seeing shows five nights a week and making mix tapes of new bands that I liked, the company gave me a small expense account. Once a month, I’d hand over a report and cassette to somebody a few years older than me, who had presumably done my job not too long before. Normally, I was the person who knew about the weird, new and obscure stuff while the almost thirty-something knew about the catchy, new, commercially viable stuff. That was the case, every month, until November of 1996, when one of those almost thirty-somethings handed me a copy of “Methodrone” by The Brian Jonestown Massacre. She then handed me four other albums by the band and indicated that all of them had been recorded and released in the last two years. Partly astounded but mostly suspicious, I took the compact discs home. I was pretty straight at the time. No drinks. No drugs. But, by the end of that weekend, I was fucking levitating.

Those first five BJM records, starting with “Methodrone” and running through “Thank God for Mental Illness,” were unlike anything being made at the time. The best point of reference I had was Oasis, if Noel was an even better songwriter (to be clear, he is great) but if they recorded on two tracks and slightly out of tune. Or maybe a better comp was The Olivia Tremor Control, if they were on hallucinogens and opiates. Whatever the sound I was hearing, it was massive and massively delightful. While anachronistic in 1996, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, were entirely reminiscent of the music I loved from before that time. They magically bridged the galaxies between The Beatles, The Stones, and The Velvets. They were slow and spacey like Shoegaze but kind of sloppy and spontaneous like Punk. In 1996, it was the very early days of the internet as we know it. Information was scant. I knew almost nothing of Anton Newcombe or his band. But I knew what I needed to know. 

Over next two years, culminating in the debacle of their major label tryouts and their debut for a “minor major,” I listened to a lot of BJM. They were not my favorite band of that era (I adored The American Analog Set and Yo La Tengo). They were not the greatest (Radiohead). But they may well have been the most interesting. Everywhere I traveled, somebody had an Anton Newcombe story. “One time, my friend’s friend woke up with Anton standing over him naked, pointing a gun at his face.” “Anton once stayed awake for eleven days straight.” “Anton shoots acid into his veins.” “Anton has an IQ near two hundred.” “Anton can play any instrument and any song by ear.” The stories sounded minimally to be apocryphal and possibly like propaganda created by The Committee to Keep Music Evil. Enthralled and impossibly curious, I needed to see the man and his band for myself.

The first time I saw The Brian Jonestown Massacre was in 1997, in the packed downstairs room at Coney Island High on Saint Mark’s Place in New York City. The band was too big for the stage and they sounded like a ringing loud, wall of feedback. If they were The Beatles, this was The Beatles in Hamburg, but with the deafening audio of Shea Stadium. Underneath the squalor, you could make out some of the songs. You could almost hear the singer. But, mostly what I noticed was that they seemed kind of normal. There were no fights. No blood was shed. No fits and starts. They played a long, loud show to a small, but packed and excited, room. And then they lugged their equipment offstage. It was not legendary. They were, in fact, real people. They were an actual band.

After the show, my friend and I headed towards the bar because we saw Anton hanging out there. I was reluctant, to say the very least. But my friend, who was more lubricated than I, ambled up and pulled me along. He introduced himself to Anton and I, sheepishly, did the same. I was embarrassed, starstruck and, perhaps more than anything, uneasy with the idea of ambushing a man who was reportedly so unpredictable. Anton, however, smiled politely and asked us if we wanted to have a drink. He then looked at my friend and asked him if he was Jewish. My friend confirmed that he was, to which Anton said, “I am very interested in Jews.” 

My second, and final time, seeing The Brian Jonestown Massacre live was at South by Southwest in 1998. My co-worker, the same one who had first given me the band’s music, was now something of a friend of Anton’s. She was also interested in possibly signing them to the label where we worked. So, when I arrived in Austin, I called her to see where she was at. She shared an address and told me that she was pretty sure that BJM would be playing there that afternoon. I headed right over. When I arrived, I realized that the venue was actually a miniature golf course. Confused, I wandered up towards some picnic tables where I found my friend sitting and drinking beer while Anton and his massive band played very stripped down versions of songs from “Give it Back!” There were a couple of small amps, maybe a dozen or so friends in the audience and the feeling of 1967 around us. If the New York show was the ear-splitting My Bloody Valentine version of the band, this one looked like The Monkees after a weeklong trip.

For me, that moment in March of 1998 was peak Anton Newcombe. The weather was perfect. The songs were dreamy and beautiful and a little sad. The band looked and sounded hung over and perfect. It was the end of the beginning and, for a while, the beginning of an end. That summer, they would release “Strung Out in Heaven,” a bigger, scrubbed up, stellar album. It was the one that could have and should have been released on a major label. 1998 was also the year where the backlash, fatigue and concern for Anton Newcombe and his band came out from the underground. Where they went from indie gossip and fanzine snark to MTV news and Spin columns. And the strung out but brilliant legend eventually became canon in 2004, with the release of “Dig!” That hysterical, watchable, pathetic documentary validated every worst assumption about the man and his band. At the time, Newcombe was struggling to keep his group, his career and, most importantly, his life together. Around that time, and for several years after, Anton Newcombe, the signifier, was a walking-dead punchline. 

Between 2003 and 2010, BJM albums came less frequently, while many of us imagined Newcombe to be holding on for dear life. The three records released during that period each contained titular references to great bands and influences: 2000s “...And This is Our Music” references Galaxie 500, “My Bloody Underground” from 2008 namechecks two more famous noisemakers. And, 2010 brought the least interesting title of the trio: “Who Killed Sergeant Pepper?” While perhaps slightly more erratic than their predecessors, these albums demonstrated Newcombe’s restless desire to learn and improve, no matter the conditions. During this time, while endlessly traveling and searching, Anton Newcombe found his new home. In 2007, he moved to Berlin. He still lives there today, with his wife, Katy, and their son, Wolfgang.

Sometime in 2011, Newcombe emerged, domesticated and sober. There is a long line of artists who have found muse and refuge in Berlin. Some found solitude. Some found clarity. Some found inspiration. Some found cocaine and heroin. Anton Newcombe found anonymity and purpose. The new man who seemingly crept out from the grave was unerringly similar to his former self and, ever so slightly, more measured and motivated. In videos and interviews, his sober version does not look or sound especially different than the junkie version. The visions of grandeur are still there though they sound a notch less deluded. His monologues are still familiar — free and long. But there is still something charming and delightful in his manner. Honestly, New Anton is among the most intellectually open and curious person I’ve ever heard or read. But he simultaneously seems emotionally closed. In interviews, he listens deeply to the questions and answers as though it was a defense of a Master’s thesis. But rarely does it sound like there is conversation. Like Old Anton, with New Anton is desperately searching for something. And like Old Anton, with New Anton, there is only room for answers and ideas. 

The apotheosis of all this searching came in 2012, with BJM’s twelfth studio album, “Aufheben.” The title, often associated with German philosopher, Hegel, refers to the interaction of a thesis and antithesis. And although my understanding of the word is admittedly shallow, I tend to think of it also as the relationship between obstacle and revelation. I’ve heard some describe it as exalting something to destroy it or cancelling something in order to preserve it. Protecting the environment by retiring fossil fuels and its industry, for example, could be considered aufheben. Or, in the case of Anton Newcombe, the relationship between physiological health and creative health feels especially relevant.

At eleven songs and roughly fifty minutes, “Aufheben” is a relatively concise Brian Jonestown Massacre album. And, given its title, one might expect the music to be conceptually and sonically consistent, or perhaps, polar. However, it is none of those things. Released in the late, high days of file sharing and the early days of streaming, “Aufheben” is something of a restless, eclectic jukebox. Many of the tracks are instrumentals and those with the most lyrics are in either French or Finnish. When it begins, you feel as though you are in some swinging Bombay canteen in the late 1960s. But, moments later, you are transported to 1970s Paris, only to then take a puddle-jumper to 1980s London or a transatlantic flight to Warhol’s Factory. Whereas earlier BJM records each reeked of their distinct vibe, “Aufheben” smells much more like aromatic tinkering. Newcombe sounded very aware of and intentional in this pursuit, referring to the “jukebox” or “mixtape” nature of the albums he made around this time. He was unusually, and precociously, interested in musical discovery in the age of algorithms. “Aufheben,” in its sonic and linguistic eclecticism and its extra-textual references, feels uniquely designed for algorithmic consumption. 

For me, the greatest joy of the early BJM albums was the “oneness” of them. Not simply the oneness of tone or style, but the way in which all the instruments would all come together, lock into a stoned groove, and crash on the beat. When the band was one, you almost believed all of Anton Newcombe’s bullshit. You almost believed that he could achieve a higher plain of consciousness. Beyond the Marquee Moon. Beyond the Astral Weeks. Beyond the Moonlight Mile. 

“Aufheben” has a lot of groove. But it does not sound or feel like a three guitar album. It does not sound like a stoner album. And, frequently, it does not sound like Shoegaze album. To be sure, it does sound like it was born from the 1960s, like the writer himself. And there are plenty of hypnotic grooves. But it sounds lighter, like a weightless maestro, unencumbered of some pretense and expectations. Newcombe can still sound plenty pretentious, but with some greater wisdom that comes with age. By 2012, he had grown out mutton chops and his hair was just above shoulder length and parted down the middle. Although musically dissimilar, the forty-something version of Anton Newcombe had come to resemble Neil Young -- ragged, intense and a little ornery, but also tender and peaceful at the core.

New, sober, curious, Dad Anton, comes out swinging on “Aufheben.” The opener, “Panic in Babylon” is a groovy, snake-charming instrumental that features a a slithering melody and a thunderous beat. It lands somewhere between The Beatles in India and Cornershop on MTV2. For nearly five minutes, you feel like you are dancing in a linen, nehru-collar shirt in the late 1960s. As quickly as we settle into the milieu, however, the band takes us through Germany to Paris for "Viholliseni Maalla,” which is a dead ringer for mid-90s Stereolab. The jittery beat, Factory Records bass and plastic melody bop along while the singer deadpans in Finnish. There’s almost no variation in the song’s melody or meter for nearly four minutes, because, when it’s that good, why deviate.  

Following the exotic start, the band departs Paris for the peace and love of Sixties San Francisco. "Gaz Hilarant" slows the groove down to the rhythm of crystals swaying in the wind. For the first time on the album, we get to hear Anton, as he purrs at a go-go dancer at 2am. The electric acoustic guitar jangle is comfortable and familiar, like all good BJM songs. And this is just that -- a good BJM song. It has vibe. It has melody. It has feel. But not much more.

The end of the album’s first half falters a bit, vacillating between Ganisbourgish Mod Pop and Ragga Jazz. And while these flute-filled songs would be an improvement upon 1980s Jethro Tull, they are not Newcombe’s strong suit. Sandwiched in between is “I Want to Hold Your Other Hand,” a song title so good and so obvious that only Newcombe dared write it. The track itself is not quite as clever as its title, but it’s still plenty good. The groove is patient and there is some inversion in the familiar riff. It sounds not unlike a great Oasis demo reimagined through a broken kaleidoscope that was discovered by a brilliant outsider artist from the streets of Portland. Newcombe has no doubt been accused of much worse.

The album’s second half does not present as well as its first. "The Clouds Are Lies" and "Seven Kinds of Wonderful,” however, are great exceptions. On the former, the band gets back to the jangle and the steady beat. This version of Altogether Now has choir boys dreaming, black lights and a very Lou and Nico vibe. It takes flight. And the latter returns us to that canteen in Bombay. With its big, loud groove and swirl of psychedelia, you feel like you are on Molly, in India in the 60s and London in the 90s. Both at once. 

Unfortunately, “Aufheben” limps to its finish. Newcombe belabors the flute before closing with "Blue Order / New Monday.” Despite its punchline of a title, the finale sounds like neither of its namechecks. It’s a one note plodder with a hook that never sets. Repeated for over seven minutes, the slight melody reads more unnerving than trippy. And then, eventually, it’s just grating. There’s no groove. No tambourines. No whispers. No crashing on the beat. No breakthrough. No thesis. No antithesis.

All of which brings us back to the multitudes of Anton Newcombe. The man who wrote, recorded and released this album in 2012 was not the same man we were used to hearing. He was sober. He was European. He was kind of Eastern. He was kind of Nordic. He was a husband and a father. His ideas were still singular but the stakes seemed more reasonable. He had experiments but no trials. He had failures but no tribulations.  

This older but newer Anton went on to make a string of more frequent, more eclectic, but lesser known records between 2014 and 2019. Today, he is something of a reliable Psych Rock pillar, always good for a hard to believe interview and a few perfect songs per year. No doubt, he still struggles, like all of us. But like none of us, he can also radiate grand ideas, heady references, perfect melodies, deep truths and incredible lies. This version of Anton — the man who cooks lamb and potatoes for his family in between studio sessions — does not sound like a matter of life and death. And, in that way, “Aufheben” rebuts Dylan, who once sang: “he not busy being born is busy dying.” Forty five years on, Newcombe figured out that “he not busy dying is busy living.” Maybe that’s aufheben.

by Matty Wishnow