Your questions answered by Greg Dulli, Weird Fox who sings for the Afghan Whigs
Greg Picks his favorites of 1994.
Excerpts from the zine Fat Greg Dulli, issue #6
The Afghan Whigs Take Memphis Sometimes the best way to get ahead is to turn back. That’s what Cincinnati rockers The Afghan Whigs found when they moseyed over to Memphis to record their major label debut within the soul-drenched walls of Ardent Studios. On Gentlemen (Elektra), the Whigs prove they can still kick up the caterwaul that made them contenders on the Sub Pop label, but the riffs and walls are now soaked with molasses and moonshine. “The city’s heyday has come and gone,” says…
Great American Music Hall San Francisco, California December 13, 1993
Afghan Whigs join Sub pop alumni with a major label debut, “Gentlemen” by Michael Azerrad Rolling Stone Magazine “The theme is love,” says the charismatic Afghan Whigs singer-guitarist Greg Dulli of his band’s dark major-label debut, on Elektra, Gentlemen. “Lack thereof, problems with it, the sadness when something kind of beautiful turns ugly.”
Greg Dulli is a passionate man. He’s lived, he’s loved; he’s fought- literally- for what he believes in, and he doesn’t like people who fuck him around.
November 6, 1992, Friday The Cincinnati Enquirer The Afghan Whigs stand on the brink. And the Cincinnati quartet could be pushed over the edge by a ”Band of Gold.”
Most everything about the Afghan Whigs is uniquely contorted. They’re a loud, rebellious voice from the middle of America that refuses to be silenced. If it weren’t for rock ‘n’ roll, vocalist/guitarist Greg Dulli and company would doubtless be in a tower with an automatic rifle, taking pot shots at passers-by.
Sniff City Village Voice, March 24, 1992 Inescapable facts: Pearl Jam are a fraud, Bill Clinton blows goats, Hole can’t play, Bill Clinton still has a lawn jockey, Helmet need a singer, Bill Clinton eats human flesh. Notice a pattern? In rock, as in politics, artifice counts more than substance with the “intelligentsia.” Cincinnati’s Afghan Whigs are a weird case in point: about to blow up big-time with the dead-hip/better-off-dead crowd, their trad-rock belch (think Aerosmith’s Rocks without the bombast) perfectly disguises lyrical depth and…