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ALCHEMICAL BURN,
NORTH AMERICA, ROÑOSO
4/3/08 the STOVE
We made it in time once again for perennial opening-band Roñoso
providing reliable grind, remarkably free of sludge and the genre’s too-prevalent
we-badass attitude. Long-time followers of Roñoso progenitor
Fukrot too often use the names interchangeably but they’ve quietly stepped
out of that looming shadow. Roñoso is a “real” band and the best
at what they do: grinding skulls and grey matter into a slippery paste.
I hadn’t seen North America since last year’s Spring Crabwalk
when they produced more noise-- melodious to be sure but more on the
strident end of the spectrum. Tonight I was pleased to witness their other
side (how many are there I wonder) showcasing less drone but deft song
structures, like a minimalist Prids. Drum-machine percussion with soul,
no easy feat. Very nice. On our way out the door (previous engagements
an’ all) we heard the solo Alchemical Burn commence with searing
noise, sharp as red hot razorblades.
UNIT 7 DRAIN, YA YA BOOM
4/3/08 Burt’s
See Show Photos here
The problem I have with seeing Unit 7 Drain is that I’m
so in the moment of enjoying them I can’t think of much to say afterwards.
But I do know this: from minute one, their timing, taste and arrangements
were top notch covering the gamut of musical ability with original takes
on what could be an otherwise familiar song style. They rock although
in an understated way. I’m all over the subtlety angle which makes you
want to listen rather than merely bang your Pavlovian head.
Ya Ya Boom (formerly the Ya Ya Boom project) too
works in territory much-overlooked these days, namely smart challenging
work that puts aside empty flash for well-played musicality. Jazz underpinnings
with a funky Voidoids bassline and soaring vocals accentuated by sweet guitar
jangle. Like U7D, the Ya Ya’s don’t need to batter their audience with
obvious and overplayed convention. Layers of different styles meld into
a thoughtful whole. Visually the band sported artfully scorched and burnt
clothes as if the phone rang in the middle of doing the ironing. Let’s hear
it for intelligence and originality in music, which judging from which
shows sell out in town, is in woeful short supply.
STEEL TIGERS of DEATH, the FOXX,
MEI LONG
5/28/08 Atomic Cantina
See Show Photos here
Mei Long opened tonight’s fun and games with sweet
and rockin’ psych-tinged melodies. It was another good set from a dependable
band that mixes things up each time, including personnel, arrangements
and attack. Sometimes I think frontman Mark gets bored easily and creates
new challenges for himself. Or else he’s got so many ideas rumbling around
in his brain that they spill out when the mood strikes. Or maybe both.
The Foxx remain in good form after not too long
ago taking on another guitar player and drummer. Their style is not
a good fit for just any axe-slinger but Tim is more comfortable each
time and Jill commands the drummer’s stool with ease.
They started with Jukeboxx Button, an interesting choice as its
one of their more operatic glam numbers, not particularly a crowd-grabber.
Unless you’re into that kinda thing, which I am. Likewise Lila starts
slow with a lilting intro but --grab that crowd!-- rips into a pure
pop and roll hip shake affair defending love in all its sticky situation
glory. I can never say enough good about this band that does what no one
else wants or dares to. Its like Kate Bush as Bowie doing English Music
Hall in 1975 with an inaudible classical symphony orchestra behind dancey
rock and roll.
Back in the old Albuquerque days when Scared of Chaka and
the Drags ruled the trashy rock roost they overshadowed tons of other
great bands who filled out the local dance card with all manner of music,
notably the teenage heartbreak pop of high schoolers the Rondelles, the
retro-future goofball sci-fi themed Luxo Champ and the light to heavy and
back again Anchorman.
Luxo Champ was the brainchild of one Jet Jaguar, aka Brad Beshaw
owner of exploito-vid trash culture shop Wavy Brain here once upon
a time. Before Sonic Steve Shelley lured them away from home, the tender
teen Rondelles became Jaguar’s backing band when the rest of his crew
blasted off for parts unknown. Juliet Swango of the Rondelles is now
the Foxx frontwoman and Mei Long mastermind Mark Campagna was one of the
Anchormen.
So it was a reunion of sorts when Bradley’s latest outfit Steel
Tigers of Death blew into town from Seattle tonight. Alas not on
stage but a reunion nonetheless of some of ‘burque’s finest following
the punk “revival” of the mid ‘90s. I’ve never been one for joke-y novelty
bands because after you see ‘em once, the novelty’s gone, worn thin like
the jokes your uncle told every family Thanksgiving. Luxo Champ was my
sole exception because of their rippin’ execution and rocket-fueled
fun.
Steel Tigers of Death isn’t quite in that category but have some
goofy fun complete with a punk/ metal mélange of driving beats,
costume changes and some silly antics besides Brad’s obvious musical
influences. By influence I mean I can pick out a Beshaw tune (noticeably
un- metal with a delightful sense of stray timing), my eyes closed: not
only from his distinctive voice but an indefinable quality recognized
from spinning the old ‘Champ stuff for years.
Tonight the costumes were subdued: matching tee’s and red gym
shorts like preppy tennis players rocking out, drunk on Schlitz Malt
Liquor and even drunker on the power of their own sound. Even though I
was hoping (in vain I know) for a Luxo Champ cover, I had a blast reliving
memories from when I was rocking out with people only fifteen years younger
than rather than twenty-five or thirty. Eep!
X, DETROIT COBRAS
6/6/08 Santa Fe Brewing Co.
See Show Photos here
The announcement of this show caught a bunch
of us by surprise, an unexpected double play out of left field! The
Detroit Cobras haven’t played here since they supported the incredibly
overrated Reverend Horton Heat at the Sunshine in 2004 with a speedy
opening set. And although Exene hit town in the past decade with both
Auntie Christ and Original Sinners (both sub par I’m sorry to say), L.A.
punk vets X haven’t set foot in New Mexico in who knows how long.
But Satan Fe? I had my doubts about the Brewing Company -- visions
of rubbing elbows with people chomping brisket sandwiches while I tried
to rock -- but my fears were allayed by a decent outdoor patio set-up
and a minimum of locals who openly disdained “outsiders”. Luckily, there
was a separate building and bar for them, drowning their arty Disneyland
miseries apart from the rest of us rabble. The bands had comments as well,
notably Cobra frontwoman Rachel Nagy who also thought it unsettling to
start their set outdoors in broad daylight and barely drunk. Later when
X was up, John Doe said it was like playing the biggest backyard pool party
barbeque ever. Agreed. All that was missing was strings of faux Chinese
lanterns.
Lucky for me no one really knows who the Cobras are (or much
cares, to their loss) so I got to stand right up front and dance my
ass off, trying my best not to sing along. I wasn’t entirely successful
at either endeavor. There’s no secret of my disregard for cover bands,
the exception being the Detroit Cobras at the top of my all-time favorite
heap. Except for the lone original by the band called Hot Dog (the
bottom of the Cobra barrel sorry to say) and Bad Girl (neé Bad
Man) penned by Reigning Sound master lyricist & melody maker Greg
Cartwright, all their songs are covers. But! unless you’ve got a monster
collection of 50s/60s soul and R & B singles like the band, you’ve never
heard their repertoire. The Cobras make the songs completely their own changing
tempo, words and even song titles (much to the consternation of fanatics like
me who want to track down the originals) and --heresy!--sometimes improving
upon the golden originals.
Vocalist Nagy and rhythm guitarist Mary Ramirez (she’ll always
be Maribel Restropo to me, friendly but no-nonsense) are the Detroit
Cobras, jettisoning side players like emptied whiskey bottles.
The line-up tonight was both old and part new. Touring Cobra Gina Rodriguez
handled her bass admirably while Dave Von kept the beats tight &
clean as stalwart lead guitar Joey Mazzola held onto his familiar short
but great riffs.
A local (?) kid named Gavin was invited onstage to vocalize with
Rachel, not for his vocal prowess but for what I’m guessing is his
super-fan status. See? “Old” music isn’t only for old people like me.
Too, there was the dancing girl next to me who couldn’t have been more
than sixteen and knew each song as well as I. These two inspired me
much more than any number of teens picking up guitars to emulate Thom
Yorke.
While the lion’s share of the crowd was in
attendance for X, I could’ve left before their set a happy, happy man.
Good thing I didn’t since it was outstanding to see these venerable punks
in full effect. Make no mistake: X was punk long before it became a home
for reprobate buffoons who think punk is merely a genre.
The band was having a great time, grinning like lemurs and even
lightening up as evidenced by playing Johnny Hit And Run Pauline, the
song Doe once vowed never to play again when the hardcore “punks” of ‘79
L.A. were too thick to realize it’s an anti-rape song.
Doe and Cervenka looked a little older (don’t we all) but Chuck
Berry aficionado and heir Billy Zoom looked as young and satisfied as
he did a decade ago while D.J. Bonebrake drummed like he was a young man
of …umm… thirty again.
Taking only a few extended breaks since they began, X has never
called it quits so this or any other tour is not a hyped reunion show
but a continuation of a long and highly regarded legacy.
Our night was capped by a stay at the well-preserved 1935 “Pueblo
revival” El Rey Inn and a slacker breakfast at the Horseman’s Haven
with a few Santa Fe denizens.
Bubble bursting note: the Haven is renowned as serving the hottest
chile in the city. That’s as may be but sorry, it ain’t the real thing.
I’ve grown enough peppers and been around enough farmers for twenty
years to know that kind of heat is too consistent to merely be the variety
of chile they claim to serve. I allege they spike it with capsaicin extract,
a practice not unknown among commercial hot pepper processors to deliver
a reliable product that’s quite different from a naturally variable
chile harvest.
SPELLCASTER
6/21/08 Center for Peace & Justice
Between one thing and another, we made it to this show quite
late, barely in time for the last act Spellcaster (from Denver) who
played for maybe ten minutes. A lone guy, a guitar and a baker’s dozen
of f/x pedals packed into an attaché case like an experimental/noise
secret agent.
I dunno, it was kinda cool but in that brief
set, I didn’t hear anything I haven’t heard similar noise guitar guys
do. Of course, I don’t really get the point of it all, not really. I don’t
know enough of music theory and all that to understand exactly what boundaries
are being pushed by tweak/wonk and feedback. Still, I noticed local avant
maestro Raven
Chacon bobbing his head to a beat I couldn’t grok. Kinda like
frequencies that only bats can hear.
The P&J cutoff is 12am and so we railed over to the grocery
store for a couple of six packs just before the alcohol cage clanged
shut behind us. From there it was off to DCat’s apartment for conversation,
music and a vid loop of local noise weirdos parading up & down Central
Avenue last weekend. Can’t remember the last time I went to an after-party.
It was laid back and a notably un-hipster event. Cool.
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BETTER LATE THAN NEVER DEPT.
Too late for WWB# 82 (the all Scared of Chaka reunion issue) my
old pal ex-‘burqueño Betty Co-ed made the journey from her digs
in Califas to see the boys in full on retardo punk action. -- ed.
SCARED OF CHAKA,
the GAIN, the SPITS
3/28 the Underground, Reno NV
by Betty Co-ed
See Show Photos here
After '06
and '07 brought Pilot to Bombardier and Rondelles reunions, I joked to
myself that Scared of Chaka would be next. Come late February the rumor
had circulated and we were all desperate for information. I wracked my
brain to think of who in LA would be cool enough to come with. Weeks
later my friend in SF bailed and like always, Betty would fly solo to
the rock show.
Having already made reservations, I ended up in Reno on Thursday
night thinking I would be drinking alone. But a little forethought allowed
me to check in with Dameon and find out that the band would be flying
in Thursday as well and I was invited to tagalong for what ever shenanigans
might happen. After much confusion I caught up with them in the lobby
of Harrah's and met Ron, Dave, Pete and Colonel Buck for the first time
(this last one seems mindboggling… I’ve certainly seen Buck around for
ages).
Later we all piled into the mommy van and ended up at a little
watering hole called Chapel. Ex-bandmate Zac, of my ex-boyfriend toddball
was there, making the world a little smaller and I drank mediocre margaritas
with gusto. Next stop was another little watering hole, where I shared
another margarita with a very drunken Dameon, met Avel and marveled at
a room full of punkers. Bedtime came around 3:30, as I clocked in a nearly
21-hour day.
Next morning, I ate crepes with Dameon and then we sifted through
some very mediocre thrift stores. Only good find was an old trucker
hat that cost 25c. Yeah, that's right a single quarter. I amused
myself with some discount shopping and ended up doing dinner by myself.
Felt awkward crashing the sound check and was too antsy to wait and meet
Cap’n and Jamie at eight. Finally, it was time to go to the show!
Waiting outside in the line that took For-ever was Noelan, Gena
and Michelle…they made it mostly unscathed driving straight from the
Dirt City! We finally entered the club, which wasn't much to look at, but
was quite spacious with high ceilings and a large main room and smaller
back room, each with stages. I tried really hard to pay attention to the
opening bands but my excitement was full throttle and I just couldn't
focus. I watched a few songs by the Spits but they were playing with Reagan
masks on which made watching them VERY boring. Where's the silly
faces and mugging? And don't tell me your vocals weren't muffled by them.
I just ordered somewhat pricey drinks and wandered back and forth, mingling
with old friends and new…I watched the short secret set by the Gain, but
again, I was too excited and anxious to be fully engaged.
Finally Zac got up onstage to announce that the moment was finally
here…as the crowd finally realized that bearded man was in fact, our
beloved Dameon, I closed my eyes and prepared myself for greatness. I
started out with a camera but found it too bothersome, I put it down and
figured I'd rip off everyone else's pix later. I tried really hard to sing
along but I cant make out most of the words so its more mumbling on the beat
than anything…
Dave added some great fucking harmonies at the end of Wanna Make
it Happen. The energy of the crowd during Horshack was what I expected
during the whole show but c’est la vie- we're not all in college anymore.
For the first time in years, I landed on my ass during I Don't Wanna and
before I could feel the full impact of the blow I was hoisted back up,
proving that Chaka fans got mad love. I never saw them play when Dameon
was the rubber man, but he is a great musician and any way he wants to
perform is fine with me.
The real star of the show for me was Dave. His onstage banter
and show antics are wasted in that 'other band'. He makes great
faces, his guitar playing is so natural and the crowd 'float' he did
(crowd surfing is for poseurs and the two that tried landed on their heads.
I hope) at the end was pure magic. Dave is a true performer and a dreamboat.
Ooops! Did I just reveal my schoolgirl crush? Yep. I know he's married but
fuck it. And may I say that I tried to read Dave's lips during Wanna
Make it Happen and if he's not saying "shake a tit" than he's speaking fucking
Norwegian.
I felt tired and out of breath and like those 30-35 people at
the front with me are now much closer friends. There aren't many occasions
when being smothered in other peoples' sweat is a good thing, let alone
tolerable-but that night it was merely an osmosis of joy. There was
a bit of a backlash the week or so afterwards and the during the several
shows I've attended since then. For those brief, blissful hours I forgot
that the world isn't like that; isn't filled with people like that. People
with great taste in music, with personal style, no poseurs, no annoying
kids getting wasted at their first show. I just want to live in that world
all the time; a world where everyone is friendly without being fake, where
everyone is a friend of a friend, where dance parties last ‘til 4am. A
world where you're so happy and in the moment you feel like nothing bad
could happen to you. I’m sure it sounds cheesy and I cant truly express
the way that show made me feel, but I want to go back and live there.
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the DIRTBOMBS, DAN
SARTAIN
5/22/08 Larimer Lounge, Denver, CO
See Show Photos here
The long-running Dirtbombs are far from a household name but maybe
because of a rabid fanbase, frontman Mick Collins has yet to disband
what started as a side project almost a decade ago. Last year in Tucson
during a chance meeting with the ‘bombs over afternoon Red Stripe beers,
he told us that that was to be the last tour. So this year we figured
we were living on borrowed Dirtbombs time and Denver isn’t all that far
to witness their solid garage fuzz rock and roll.
While getting to Denver is simple, getting in Denver is somewhat
of a pain in the ass due to miles and miles of over-development and condo
mania before one gets to the city limits. I can’t recall visiting any major
city with a major freeway running through it where motels are hard to find.
We first scouted out the venue location, always a good thing to do in broad
daylight rather than trying to find street signs under cover of darkness.
It all seemed so simple on the map but the endless one-ways were a challenge
in what looked like the edge of a past industrial zone. No accommodations
in evidence here so we drove around in ever-expanding loops until we were
back in no-man’s land around the freeway.
Classic ‘50s-60s motels have always been our quarry but we found
none. And you’d think with an amusement park over-looking the highway--
attracting anyone with kids in the backseat-- there might be a Motel 8,
6 or even 12, who cares at this point. We needed to eat, shower and lay
around before the night’s festivities. Although it didn’t look especially
promising, we found our way across I-25 to the Hotel VQ, its height rivaling
its neighbor, the Mile High Stadium. We soon took to calling it the Hotel
Vigarol for dubious reasons…
The Larimer Lounge has a rep for booking good rock and roll but was
a bit more of a dive than I anticipated. Not that that’s a bad thing mind
you. Three rooms included front bar, rear bar and the show room with splintered
plywood stage, exposed rafters and cinderblock, looking like your band’s
basement practice space.
We arrived in time for Dan Sartain accompanied by another
axeman, both on hollowbodies playing ‘50-60’s white-trash fuzz rockn’roll
with a bit of Spanish, surf, jump and rock-o-billy flourishes. Enjoyable
for sure but I was amped for the top-drawer barely-in-control Dirtbombs.
The stage was about a foot and a half off the floor and I held my
ground front & center, not always the best place for sound but I had
a great view of the entire outfit. This was the third time I’d seen them
and they haven’t let me down yet. It was great, a blur of smokin’ Boyce
& Hart meets Holland, Dozier & Holland earfuzz and foot-tapping
rockin’ roll.
Speaking of foot tapping, bassist Ko Melina (of the one-off Lesley
Gore pop rockers Ko & the Knockouts, still lamented for producing
only one release) had it down pat in an unusual hip-to-toe move balanced
on her insole. That’s worth mentioning not for its uniqueness but as part
of her entire distinctive take on the musical bottom end.
It looked as if she’d moved to guitar except it didn’t deliver that
sound but a deeper frequency under Collins’ broken-tooth buzzsaw riffs.
I later heard from someone in the know that it was a six string bass (an
additional high and low string) and used more commonly in jazz & Latin
genres.
Ko is innovative as hell, totally focused on her instrument even
while keeping her ears wide open to where the band and melody is going.
Ordinarily used more by guitar players than bassists, she was running
an imposing array of pedals and boxes that she tweaked and snapped constantly
in ways I’ve never heard the “lowly” bass used before.
Lots of musicians haunt used record stores while on tour but those
few years ago in Tucson Ko’s extra-curricular mission was to find another
bass to add to her formidable collection. She scored at the venerable
Chicago Music Store, reportedly packed to the rafters with rare and vintage
instruments. When we ran into the band on the Hotel Congress patio, she
was beaming like a kid at Christmas noon sitting among the xmas loot and
scads of crumpled wrapping paper.
Tonight, she and the rest of the Dirtbombs pulled out the stops --and
stomps --at show’s end with a song that began with the slow bomp opening
riff of the Tempts’ Papa Was A Rolling Stone, Soon it veered into a noise
free for all. It was musical chairs without the chairs, personnel trading
instruments and skreeches & skronks, at one point having three
people drumming. No tuneless hippie jam circle, it was quite elegant in
its own chaotic way and a great blow-out ending to another killer Dirtbombs
set. No wonder Mick has such a hard time letting the band go.
SWERVEDRIVER, THE LIFE & TIMES
5/23/08 Marquis Theater, Denver CO
See Show Photos here
At lunch after the triumphant
Dirtbombs set at the Larimer my date spotted a notice in a local weekly
that Oxford’s legendary Swervedriver were playing tonight. With nothing
on the evening itinerary but a good steak-house (found in the classy 1940s
décor Sullivan’s), calls were made and the Marquis Theater box office
hunted down, tickets accomplished.
I’d never really listened to Swervedriver since my faves of the unjustly-panned
shoegaze scene are the swirlier outfits like the atmospheric but untimely-ended
Lush, the overlapping Slowdive/Mojave 3 and the quintessential Ride.
This before the English music press pulled its usual 180 reversal and
bitterly slammed “the scene that celebrates itself” and moved on
to champion and (in turn) trash next-big-thing Britpop. Bleedin’ wankers,
the lot of ‘em! Excluding the late John Peel of course. I think the New
Music Express and Melody Maker are still disappointed that the U.K. hasn’t
yet produced the next Beatles. Oasis? Blur? Naw!
Opening-- from Kansas City MO-- was the shoegaze influenced The
Life and Times: pulsating reverb echo, smooth vocals and deep bass
that rumbled the wooden floor. Good but overshadowed by Swervedriver
anticipation as evidenced by the three teenie girls zealously guarding
their front and center spots before the stage. It was an anthropological
study to see them texting and snapping phone pics to send to their friends
as the band played: immediate communication is the order the day, a concept
lost on oldsters like me. But I’m ahead of the story.
The band launched right into a loud and biting set. Frontman
Adam Franklin sang powerfully but his well worn Fender with a whammy bar
outdid his voice. Swervedriver say they were influenced heavily by the
Stooges and it shows in their hard-edged attack but no way in actual song
structure. Its not like you’d hear them and say “Ah! Iggy and the Asheton
Brothers! ” but it was harsher --in a good way--than I’d expected. No one
was looking at their shoes in other words. While the songs were not
necessarily alike neither were they all that different-- unless I suppose
one knows their repertoire intimately. Loud and full of repeating
reverb like a CD crashed and stuck in your player, it was well worth attending.
It didn’t make me wanna rush right out and pick up their entire back catalogue
though. No, it wasn’t long after our return home that I dug out my old Lush
CDs.
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