Being in Boston for grad school in the early- to mid-‘90s meant that Morphine was the local act to see. I saw them several times, and at their best, they could blow you away. I saw them a couple times at outdoor festivals, and in the open air their sound was diffused a little. But indoors, in a small- to mid-sized venue, the immense echo chamber of sound created by Mark Sandman’s fretless bass sliding and curling beneath Dana Colley’s dual-saxophone buzz just sent your brain a-shiver. Truly unique, absolutely mesmerizing.
Their albums don’t completely capture this buzz, but they do come close, if you turn the music up loud enough. I’ll admit there’s something of a schtick to Sandman’s beatnik-meets-sleazy-barroom-seducer lyrics and sly vocals. When they work, they’re quite good; when they don’t, they’re still okay. But I love Morphine’s sax-and-fretless-bass sound—it’s a warm, vibrating hum and squawk that still sounds unique and was even more so back then when the scene was filled with alt-guitar noise. With a sound like that, I could tolerate even the worst of lyrics just to be engulfed some more in that ocean of fuzzed-out glory.
One of the best shows I ever saw was a Morphine benefit show at the Middle East in Cambridge (a great-sized venue for them, with a capacity of maybe 500-600 people), in which they played as a two-piece. (If I remember right, their drummer Billy Conway was out, injured in a snowmobile accident.) Morphine was great, although incomplete sonically, and headliner Soul Coughing really pulled out all the stops and blew the place out.
Back in the mid- to late-‘90s, I spent a fair amount of time in the coffee shops near my Somerville apartment working on some writing. On day, I brought a pile of change that had accumulated on my desk to pay for my latte, and as I was sorting it into piles for the barista (a very hip, grungy chick who was at one point in a fairly well-known local band whose name I forget), I became aware of someone next to me in line. I turned to see Mark Sandman observing my coin counting, a wry smirk on his face. I couldn’t tell if it was a been-there-done-that type of smirk or more of a who-is-this-square-loser-paying-with-nickels-and-dimes? kind of smirk. I’m holding out for the former, but I suspect it was most likely the latter.
Playlist 1
Playlist One presents their classic Cure for Pain (1993) album in its entirety (all 37 minutes of it), slightly re-sequenced.
Playlist 2
Playlist Two presents a healthy selection from their remaining albums. Mark Sandman died of a heart attack onstage in 1999. RIP.
Cover Art:
- Cure for Pain (front cover and inner sleeve): Source, Discogs.com, Fair use.
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