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the GRACCHI, the DEADLY
COMPANIONS, the EXTRAVAGANZA
4/04/08 @ Burt’s
See show photos
here
They don’t make shows like this anymore. Loud and sloppy with broken glass
with beer and whiskey splashed in every direction. Whether that’s good or
bad, you decide.
From Austin our old buddy Rob Yazzie (ex-Fells, sort of Tucson’s Scared
of Chaka) rolled into town with bandmates Deadly Companions and townmates
the Extravaganza for some good ol’ retardo punk rock fun. About ten years
ago, locals the Impatients won my “drunkest band alive” seal of approval
but put half of each of these two acts together and they swipe the coveted
crown.
The Extravaganza took us back to the days of fast songs tossed
off without a second look, discarded like a half-finished ham sandwich. Endearing
(ahem) songs such as Too Dumb To Die, I Don’t Like Anybody or Just Another
Fag--some clock in at under sixty seconds-- have that old aesthetic: if
you can’t say it in under a minute or two, don’t bother. All three members
sing (yell) too: mostly bassist Cody and Yucky (guitar) but drummer Jillian
Jerk jumps right in as well. It’s the kind of singing that sounds painful
to the larynx but everyone’s throats were well-lubricated with cheap beers
and fruity tequila drinks. Nowhere near what you’d call hi-fi, their recorded
output sounds as smooth as Steven Sondheim compared to the live performance
that induces vocal cord lesions.
It only took a Deadly Companions song or two before drunken mofo
Yucky Extravaganza was going back and forth from the bar with drinks for
singer Allen Degenerate. This might sound like a nice gesture but two double
shots of whiskey tossed in your face at once says otherwise. Degenerate didn’t
bat an eye but kept jumping on (and falling off) the stage wall, rolling
on the floor in bedlam, his voice like an adolescent Iggy Pop with a bad headcold.
Dressed in black leather cap, black leather gloves and shirtless under
a black leather vest--all the better to bare the lewd comments magic-markered
on his chest and arms-- he looked like one of those old queer subculture
“Leathermen” dealing in rough trade at the public baths.
Last time I saw Sandra Jake (in town two years ago traveling with boyfriend
Rob’s last band Amazing Larry) she was just thinking about learning drums.
Now she’s my new favorite grrrl drummer thumping out solid beats heavy on
the tom action, complimenting Eloy’s firm bass. Her mom & dad came down
from the Four Corners to cheer her on and it looked like they brought the
whole outfit along: cousins, brothers an’ all.
I stayed stage left partly to keep away from the whiskey-flingin’ melee
but mostly to stay close to Rob’s rusty buzzsaw guitar attack: fast, furious
and fucked up. Although he didn’t let on, Yazzie was a little peeved that
his old faithful Epiphone kept shorting in & out. A faithful warhorse,
that guitar has seen its share of action, spilled beer and neck-warping over
the years but it still had that same old dirty sound I love and that Rob
delivers.
Songwise, the tunes were a step up from the Extravaganza with lots more
tune-smithing under the uproar, like the best of punk rock before melody
became a much-lamented casualty (Wayne County & the Electric Chairs or
Dolls with a Dead Boys fury).1990s Wasteland drives ahead, pummeling with
power riffs and Your House features Sandra’s tough and snotty vocals. But
Midnight Soldiers kicks ass around the block, opening with a call-to-arms
lead, feedback squall and a mighty marching tom beat, followed by a street-walkin’
cheetah strut and Johnny Thunders licks. This one’s gotta be their hit single--
if shit like this got radio play. Although Degenerate’s antics were overbearing,
I loved the fuck outta their set.
I think I enjoyed the Gracchi tonight more than any in recent memory,
playing as they did the next level in musicianship of the night. Man! When
did they get so good? Apparently, they’ve been lying in wait working over
--I mean--working out their new drummer Rob who pulls double duty in Pan!c.
Literally. Tonight he dashed from a Pan!c set at Misty’s Hideaway to this
one at Burt’s, with plans the next night to do the same, in reverse order.
The band was as tight as a new pair of pleather pants and as hot &
sweaty as someone wearing ‘em. A highlight among many was Burning
Bag, complete with-- whether they know it or not --moves copped from the
Shadows circa 1963 (aiming all guitars in the same direction in time to the
riffs), a catchy song in the style of the Muffs, still one of my favorite
pop punk outfits ever. It was followed by the multi-vocal Standing
on the Corner, always a fist-in-the-air crowd pleaser. In all it was great
raucous-and-roll but under control, having a calming effect on the sloppy
drunks.
In light of the preceding melee, special mention must be made of the punker-dude
that sorta looks like Pinhead from that Hellraiser movie who moshed all over
the place but respectfully kept from slamming into innocent bystanders. Very
cool. Contrary to popular belief, ya don’t have be a dick to be punk.
AMPLAB, ACIDS AND BASES,
47TH STAR
4/11/08 @ Hunab Hookah
See
Show Photos Here
What, so tobacco is OK now, even hip? I have no
problem with that, I just find it curious.
As soon as I walked in the door it hit me. You know the way aromas can
make a memory more immediate, more than a sight or sound? It wasn’t tobacco.
I didn’t even notice any smoke but the overwhelming smell of incense. Zap!
It brought me back : a kid venturing to St Mark’s Place Bookstore in Greenwich
Village for underground newspapers, black light posters and rolling papers
& pipe screens. The speed freak who recommended R. Crumb’s Despair
comix to me. The lurid swirly day-glo paint peeling off the storefront. Actually,
quite a bit of this show brought me back but more of that later.
Steaming bowl-size cups of chai and coffee. Three foot hookahs, their
bowls full of tobacco flavored with cherry or (gag!) blueberry. Lots of
soft sink-in couches, black light glow and enough over-stuffed pillows to
cushion an Asian rhino. I don’t really get it. Pass me the opium though
and I’m down.
We walked in on 47th Star, a lone guy playing downlow beats, tweaking
knobs, dialogue loops and synth-y keys. Yup. It was the ol’ Apple notebook
mix with more gear than an entire rock combo. Behind him were projections
of classic Ray Harryhausen stop-motion animation.
Music and random film clips? Sounds like light shows from San Francisco’s
Family Dog collective or Fluxus artists like Al Hansen (Beck’s grandfather),
George Maciunas and Nam June Paik mixing media like Betty Crocker does cakes.
Next was Acids and Basses, two guys with guitar, electronic loops,
synths and sequences combined into (boy, it gets hard to describe this kind
of stuff without using the same metaphors over and over) drones, uptempo
beats (200 or 300 bpm? yeah!), downtempo beats, sci-fi themes/music of the
spheres, theramin-in-a-wind-tunnel, Star Trek reruns and yes the inevitable
whale noises.
Bet if I played a tape of this for you-- minus the bleepy-bloopy parts
--and told ya it was old Grateful Dead space jams you’d probably like it
less. I can’t defend Deadhead dancers but the Dead’s a better band than you
think, given members’ backgrounds: guitarist Garcia (folk /blue-grass/ jazz)
, bassist Lesh (classical/electronic/math)and songwriter Hunter (folk) which
in one way or another adds up to what we have here. Definitely not the kind
of music you want to slam tequila shots to. I was digging on the faster,
darker stuff.
Next Amplab, along similar lines but more jazz-inflected with guitar,
5-string bass, drums and keyboards that at times brought sounds forth like
vibraphone, nose flute (look it up) and an aberrant pinball machine. Rhythm
and melody were in (purposeful) short supply which loses me a bit since those
are my bread n’ butter. A little Chick Webb drumming intro’s were welcome.
Then the A & B guys joined in for a free-love/ free-for-all Mahavishnu/Dead/Anita
O’Day trippy jam-o-rama, thick as space marmalade spread on galactic toast.
Sorry, that’s a mouthful. Must’ve been a contact high from that blueberry
smoke, the legal Purple Haze.
INNER PARLORS/MESA SUNS, TATTERSAINTS,
JASPER BROWN, DIRT CITY RADIO
4/18/08 @ 3rd Street Art Gallery
See Show Photos Here
A way-early all-ages show, we balked for a second or two at the ten buck
cover (yikes!) then paid our way inside just in time to see Dirt City
Radio wailing down n’ dirty twang on Guardian Angel (of the Alcohol),
which could be the theme song of just about any band of Rod Shot’s .
Here we have Rod on a purty hollowbody f-hole geetar, Nick Fingers picking
nice-as-hell licks accenting the tunes and Jeffrey Richards with his signature
non-goober banjo. By “non-goober” I mean his style is not trad jaunty bluegrass
or old-timey pickin’ that most people (wrongly) associate with toothless
hicks, likkered-up moonshiners and country cousin goobers. Its laid back and
melodic, comfortable, comforting and sans showboating Scruggs-style licks.
Richards’ work fits well with all kinds of Americana, y’allternative,
twangcore and No Depression musix. Don’t get me wrong: I love the hot picking
“goober” stuff (and no fuck you, Jack, its not really ‘goober’ but
so many people hate banjos I may as well stoop to your level).
Dirt City Radio was making up song endings left and right, leaving you
with the impression that these guys could just keep on with each one for
many boozey hours. A fellow name of Sean joined on drums but was a little
too hard on the kick. Trying to drive the relax-o group to more rockin’ territory,
he failed to realize that a good drummer knows when to hold back and when
to let go.
Master of Ceremonies was the too-often overlooked Jasper Brown
who took the floor for a few tunes between each set with the able assist
of Mr Richards who also played with every act this night without break.
I tell ya, Jeffery’s a one-man Wrecking Crew, a guy who’s played, recorded
or sat in with more bands than most people listen to in a lifetime. A Jasper
highlight was I’ve Got Mine, a song where Brown name-drops himself with
much more finesse than any number of boastful egocentric rappers. Also heard
was a tune or two from his upcoming much-anticipated (in my household anyway)
CD. Three years between releases is plenty !
Next was the latest incarnation of the Tattersaints led by musical
maverick Freddie Raygun sitting at a Roland electric piano. Freddie’s stuff
is just beautiful in a twisted sort of way like fusilli pasta in a savory
cream sauce with a surprise dose of something weird like cinnamon or cloves.
Somehow the flavors work together and you find yourself going back for heaping
seconds, spice shaker in hand. The rest of the ‘saints : Ben Harrisongs on
melodium, Heath Moon on the traps, Chris Kitsch slinging bass and the always-game
Richards playing anything with strings you put into his talented hands.
Soon Raygun cut the set off for a previous engagement, leaving the stage
to the Inner Parlors covering the Mesa Suns…or is that the
Mesa Suns covering the Inner Parlors? No matter, its pretty much the same
personnel just standing in different places. It was finely done, sweet and
low. Slow enough in fact to change the demeanor to the Funeral Parlors but
without being sullen or morose, just kinda quiet. Maybe they weren’t, uh,
lubricated enough. In any case, these guys (essentially the Tattersaints
minus Mr Raygun) play together like second nature, knowing where each other
are heading before they know themselves.
One of the unsung stars of this show was the Gallery itself, a great old
1940s (?) house retrofitted to showspace. With a wide open stage area of
polished wooden floors, the walls are stripped to brick and ceiling stripped
to the rafters, making for jim-dandy acoustics. A nice homey place, it was
BYOB and head to the backyard for a cigarette or two and bask in the early
spring eve. I’m down for many more shows here but asking ten bucks a head
is a sure kiss of death, as evidenced by the low attendance numbers. The audience
was, in fact, mostly band members. Too, the near-complete failure (sorry
guys) to promo what could’ve been a lodestone show didn’t help matters much.
BLACK MARIA, REVENGE, ICKY &
the YUCKS
4/18/08 @ Atomic Cantina
See
Show Photos Here
I had no idea what this Moustache Party theme was about even
after I got there. You’d think the people posting it all over the place
online would mention somewhere it was a benefit for some Thailand outcasts
(I’m still unclear on the concept).
When we turned the corner to find a line to get into Atomic and saw the…umm…caliber
of clientele on that line (cut to the chase: lots of dicks) my first thought
was “I pass.” But since it was nigh on a year since I’d heard Black Maria
(where’s that CD, guys?), I paid my dollar : apparently, no moustache, no
free entry -- except for my gf. Fucking door guys are always the same: letting
girls in free, looking the other way when underage chickadees show up with
fakes, same old story.
Icky & the Yucks were down to a few songs when we elbowed
our way to the back room. As I suspected, it was packed with miscreants beating
each other off -- oops -- up. Thanks go to meatheads like Jack Grisham who
changed the focus of ‘80s California punk from challenging & artistic
expression to petty criminal jocks shoving each other around (and anyone
who happened to be in their line of fire: “anyone else” meaning everyone in
the room whether they wanted to participate in a bunch of shirtless dudes’
masturbatory fantasies or not).
Moshers still trot out the old “stay out of the kitchen” line. Sorry,
I don’t buy it and never will. What? I wanna hear the same band you do but
have to take it in stride that some jerkoff will knock me over or punch me
in the face? Naw, if you wanna prove to each other how big your balls are,
be a real man and show respect and self-control.
Speaking of self-control, as in “none”, there was this asshole that grabbed
this girl who was right up front and who didn’t mind being moshed a little
but he intentionally (and roughly) pulled her into the pit. After that, she
relinquished her front & center spot and disappeared into the crowd because
of that one a-hole. Swell job, shithead. I hope you crack your head on the
floor next time.
Me, all I want is to listen and watch without having to worry about being
bowled over by some mook. I know my rant is in vain but I’d sure love to
see a deathmatch-style steel cage erected at shows for these fools. Or if
the bands like it so much, why not invite their moshing fans onstage with
‘em?
Maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree here (not the first time). Maybe moshing
and this music can’t be separated. Maybe one is essential to the other. If
that is the case, I give even less of a shit because the musicality is diminished
and placed in the service of the violence, friendly or not.
I’ve ragged on the Yucks before and lyric-wise, I’ll stand by it. Fat
Chicks? Please. That shit’s juvenile even by dorm room standards. But soundwise,
they’re powerful and have been for many years and it shows. If nothing else,
then for that alone they deserve their due. Too, their fans are rabid.
It was easy even for a non-hardcore fan like me to see that Revenge
(from Phoenix) also kicks ass in their genre with maybe the teeniest bit
of rock and roll which sorta reminded me of Blaine (Nine Pound Hammer) Cartwright
riffs. I’ll never “get” those throat- wrenching vocals though: it brings
to mind someone about to violently vomit, not my idea of a good time.
What eludes me is the allure of a constant barrage (of all bands tonight,
of any ‘heavy’ band): same volume, same intensity, same range, same rage.
Its cool when you’re fourteen years old and beating your
head against a wall sounds like a good idea. But its similar to commercial
rock recording these days: massive compression so there’s no peaks,
no valleys, no crescendos, no lull, just… static. Constant bombardment is
as boring as constant emo.
Black Maria (where’s that CD, guys?) kicked my ass the first
time I heard ‘em but must admit I was subdued at this set after coming straight
from the Third Street Gallery show which was the polar opposite of tonight’s
moustache mania: subtlety and musicianship that gives you credit for the
intelligence to listen rather than a bludgeon over the head. Regard-less,
Black Maria (where’s that CD, guys?) is one of my token fave “hard” bands,
not least of which is because they’re more rock n’ roll than metal-edged.
Maybe that’s why I come down harder on heavy bands: my tolerance is low
therefore I have room for only a few that I find superior. Most of ‘em,
I can’t see much difference. Its been suggested that the reason I don’t
like this stuff much is because I missed that scene as a kid. Naw! I didn’t
miss it. I avoided it.
Tonight however after two sets of rage rock, I had my fill and just quietly
appreciated as Black Maria (where’s that CD, guys?) pulled good rock fuzz
out of thin air, thick as dryer lint. The pit action got even more intense
during Black Maria (where’s that CD, guys?) so there goes my whole “it was
TSOL who fucked up punk rock” theory.
I got jostled some by the moshing but not too badly. I could’ve stayed
further back out of harm’s way but didn’t. Maybe I’m a hopeless romantic
(maybe? ha! you can bet your life savings on it) but I was standing near a
couple of gals who preferred not be thrashed so I tried to be sort of a (little)
human shield. To me at least that seems more manly than slamming them around.
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The HOPEFULS
[demo CD-R , 2001+]
I’ve been waiting for this one for years.
I recall post-Naomi (Ben Hathorne/Jason Daniello) Ben telling me he was
working up a new band, one that featured girls who’d never played before
backing him up. It was no half-baked gimmick but a full-on success with Cara
& Melissa (Roxieharts) bringing a freshness that you rarely get with
seasoned musicians.
The Hopefuls release proper (Prypee) on Soceryermom records was a beautiful
mix of soaring tunes of ache and yearning with crunchy guitars. Hathorne
was backed by a passel of Naomi friends and family who delivered the sleeper
hit of 1999 that few people seemed to have heard of.
This disc of demos--abandoned recordings as Ben calls ‘em-- serves up
the same but with Cara on drums, Melissa on bass, Amy Clinkscales on sweet
Neil Young guitar, Ann (sorry, don’t know her name) on trilling keyboards
plus Jason Daniello on vox on the cut When Is Now and a fella named Jeff
R. on drums for Why.
Scared (the sole offering from Prypee) is amped up more than you’d think
of a song about being “the one always scared that they’ll leave you”: in
a relationship with someone who needs you less than you need them. Innocent
touches similar themes while Let’s Touch Tongues showcases the crazy, scary,
needy and cold power of new love. Despite You and In A Trance balance the
others with a halting, heavy bottom end.
This CD takes my breath away in the power of tunes that could easily be
underserved by a quiet rendering but are here rightly executed with understated
muscle. Even the most mellow one, Today, has a dignity that couples Spanish-style
guitar with vocals and melody reminiscent of Bookends-era Simon & Garfunkel
and that’s no dis.
Songs solid in both melody and lyrics soar to the stratosphere and float
back to earth as majestically as a Mercury space capsule deploying parachutes
over the greenest of seas.
Thanks, Ben. It was worth the wait.
YA YA BOOM: Isn’t Pretty
[self-release CD, 2008] www.yayaboom.com
Formerly the Ya-Ya Boom Project this outfit has come miles in the last
couple of years. To be honest, they never grabbed me before but seeing them
a few nights ago (review next issue) I was astounded with the transformation.
While the stylistic base is much the same --funk timing, persistent beats,
vocals like Kate Smith loosened up after a tall scotch--it’s a lesson in
just how a unique structure can be built with the same materials, the difference
between a master builder/architect and some home improvement guy.
Their sound is built on a rock-solid rhythm section with layers of jazzy
inflection underpinned by jangly guitar that makes me think of punk before
it was mistakenly defined as a stupid and narrow genre with a limited approach.
No musical comparison here but think of the time when Pere Ubu and Talking
Heads were considered part of the punk wave, an alternative to overproduction,
blow-dryers and useless metallic riffs.
Fine musicians all (big voiced Marisa, choppy riffed Carlos and the flying
sticks of Jarvis) but special mention is to made of bassgrrl Monica,
who I hear is classically trained. I’d like to see what she’d do with a grand
piano on a number or two.
REBCCA OWEN Rebecca
[self-release CD, 2007] www.rebeccaowen.com
One of the perks of being a self-styled music critic (I prefer ‘journalist’
but either title carries silly self-importance) is random CDs showing up
in my mailbox. One of the non-perks is people from left field who may’ve seen
my “pro” (i.e.paid) reviews in local weeklies but haven’t seen the opinionated
vitriol in this zine.
Rebecca Owen (produced by Leann Rimes’ producer: First red flag!) moved
to Albuquerque from New Orleans and has such credentials under her
belt as the Pecos Flavors Winery Festival in Roswell and the Santa Fe County
Fair. Ok, that’s not so bad, not really Everyone’s got to start someplace
and rodeo-goers are her most likely audience.
The opening track Sidewinder at first shows some promise but it goes on
and on for four minutes and twenty five seconds, obviously an excuse to
showcase her drawing out “sidewiiiindeeerrrr” over and over. That’s the
only hook I can identify and it goes downhill from there.
Compared to what’s on radio stations nationwide -- crass commercial stuff
with cowboy hats, the flag and bluejeans as the sole claim to being country
-- I guess nothing’s really sub-par here but it sure isn’t over par either.
Her voice is like an untrained Emmylou with a Syd Straw breathlessness evened
out with Pro Tools. Lyrics like “you’re a dead man” if you do her wrong portray
a tough backwoods gal attitude but the delicate barefoot photo of her in
halter top doesn’t send the same message.
Maybe Owen will get some airplay on a few country stations if her manager
has any pull but truth to tell, I couldn’t make it through one entire play
on my stereo. This is American Idol material. On the plus side, she doesn’t
thank God in the liner notes.
the RAGGIES Tallapoosa Woman
[self-release CD, 2007] www.myspace.com/theraggies
From Las Cruces, the Raggies are a slow-rockin’ Americana affair. Mid-tempo
toe-tappin’ barroom country music that feels like you’d had a few too many
Sloe Gin fizzes and you’re unsure whether to hurl or eat one of those bar-top
pickled eggs. With a Magic Dick (J. Geils Band) blues harp front there’s
a few okay melodies about wiggers, puking in the backseat of your car and
Robitussin but sorry to say singer Little Kim Foxxxe’s voice is woefully out
of tune, not good given her limited range.
To their credit the production team hasn’t smoothed the vox out in the
studio which has become the industry standard these days. Out-of-tune works
with sloppy punk rock but not a mix like this where the vocals are right
up front and the playing just standard.
The pandering of their frontwoman is shameful: lyrics like “you got me
sweatin’ and suckin’ like a whore” ? A pic of her in a swim suit as their
myspace profile pic? Ugh. Men treating woman like meat is bad enough
but to do it yourself is sad, less so if you’re Courtney Love. Which Foxxxe
isn’t. I expect men to be dicks but prefer women with a little dignity.
Wagon Mound is as good as it gets here, a nice if unoriginal uptempo tune
about that Northeastern NM ranch town but the delivery remains ungood.
I can do without this release.
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