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CHAPEL of THIEVES, the FIRE SEASON
5/7/09 @ Atomic
From LA, Chapel of Thieves left me conflicted. There’s some nice
things with simple yet menacing organ blips and bleeps and Elysia Moon’s
understated vocals (which remind me of the Action Design’s Emily Whitehurst
but in a lower range).
So what’s the “but…” ? For one thing the punkrock leads intrude on
the Gothic mood they’re obviously aiming for. Guitar riffage is the last
thing I wanna hear if I’m contemplating the horror of human emotions. Too,
that batwings n’ graveyard aesthetic was played out a week and a half after
the Misfits’ first show and detracts from any passion a band wants to project.
How seriously can you be taken with coffins and sinister jack o’lantern graphics
on your merch? There can’t be anyone left except Glenn Beck who thinks such
images are a sign of our country’s moral decay. Me, I’d like to see Moon
fronting a more innovative and less “punk ” band. In sum though I liked ‘em
more than I didn’t.
The Fire Season is full of it. What I mean is the band is full
of people I love & respect musically: Rachel (Pan!c) Lujan, Dandee (Lousy
Robot) Fleming and Noelan (pick any ‘burque band at random) Ramirez. They’re
not playing the style that grabs my garage rockn’roll heart but I hear bits
and pieces that please my snobbish ears. I missed most of this set and need
to catch a few more shows to see where the music is coming from. And going
to.
Note: as we go to press its five months later and I’ve managed
to miss every Fire Season set, usually by about 20 minutes, thanks to the
non-established band catching mostly opening slots when people like me still
think 10 pm is too early to leave the house. At this rate, seeing the Season
is gonna be my New Year’s resolution.
VENUS BOGARDUS, HOLY ROLLING EMPIRE
5/23/09 @ Burt’s
From Tucson, Holy Rolling Empire seem to have taken everything
musically from the last twenty-five years and distilled it into a Big Pop
--not Powerpop--sound. Built on muscle-y beats with a kick drum large enough
to stuff a body in and an undulating bass, I must’ve missed the memo ‘cause
I didn’t quite see the value here. Unfortunately the guitars lay somewhere
north of the worst of the Allman Brothers’ most mellow stuff and the best
of late 90s jangle pop. Too bad for me they seem to have Thom Yorke looking
over their shoulders.
To my delight though Venus Bogardus have Richard Hell and the Fall’s
Mark Smith looking over theirs. I think both would share my glee. VB inspires
me out of my skull. All I need to do now is figure out something to do with
that inspiration. Even if I don’t figure, I’m thankful just the same.
LOGICAL NONSENSE
5/30/09 @ Burt’s
Although legendary locals Logical Nonsense are one of the top hardcore
bands around these parts, I don’t have a whole lot to say here ‘cause I was
in attendance for Lauren and Leo’s reception. Congrats you two! About time
you sinners made it legal.
For me it was a night of schmoozing with other attendees from far &
wide: old friends and acquaintances plus complete strangers who waited in
line fifty people long for the doors to open to the uninvited public. But
mostly I just had to catch the set to see special guest Leo onstage singing
Logical’s sentida love song. The rest was gravy. Rockin’ gravy.
FAST HEART MART, KATE MANN, E CHRISTINA HERR
& the WILD FRONTIER
6/5/09 @ Peace & Justice Center
Wild Frontier’s stylin’ guitar slinger Martin Rowell suffered
setback and shocks from bad grounding while gearing up. I dreaded a spectacular
Rock Star death onstage but lucky for us, Americana Stars typically kill
themselves more slowly with whiskey and regret.
It turned out well (for us listeners anyway--we weren’t the ones
getting shocked) since his playing had extra voltage tonight. Don’t let
the Deadhead sticker on his axe fool ya. Martin knows what he’s doing in
a modest way without a trace of showboating. Its fashionable to slag on the
Dead these days but Garcia’s playing was a hell of a lot better than he gets
credit for.
Mr Rowell kicked off one of their numbers with something like the
B52s Planet Claire opening guitar line but beefed up with that classic
007 riff that never really gets old. He was amped through a compact refurbished
vintage Fender Deluxe cabinet with dovetailed wood construction and some
pretty caning on the front. I know I know, I have a vintage gear fetish but
it had a pleasing sound in a low-key show like this.
The technical difficulties threw a spanner in the works and things were
a little rough at first, kind of like a live sound check. After a few numbers
the Frontier hit their stride, remarkable since this was the first time tonight’s
lineup played together and in fact the first face-to-face meeting of a couple
of members.
Christina’s vocal vibrato is sweet and her well-worn acoustic is huge
and rings like a bell although that’s not always apparent when played through
an amp. Bassist Sam Miller had a beautiful hollowbody while Melody Mock added
savory accents on violin. Although the entire outfit was amplified, drummer
Carlos Cortez had to keep things on the down low since the sound was small
but fit the nature of the Center (the place also hosts plenty of grindcore
and wailing noise shows which amuse me no end considering the placid demeanor
of the daytime P&J folks ).
With the stage only about this high and recessed into the wall, the
scene reminded of antiquated animatronic tableaux at old natural history
museums. All that was missing was the poorly recorded voiceover pointing
out an approaching mastodon that Cro Magnon man was ready to jab with a spear.
Given the fluorescent lighting, linoleum flooring, sedate seating
and vegan potluck action, next act Kate Mann said it felt like playing
a church basement. Amen, sister.
Hometown expatriate Mann returns a few times a year to play brilliant shows
that never fail to take my breath away. With her strong vocals and strong
words vying for attention, nothing ever seems off in Kate’s performance.
The lyrics are powerful while lamenting powerlessness in love. Her presentation
is professional but never rigid, loose with no rough edges, and heartbreaking
from melody alone but add affecting lyrics and your soul is torn in two.
Every band with any country bent covers Ring of Fire at some point.
And they all emphasize a misplaced honky tonk facet that has little to do
with the subject matter. Even though Mann called for audience help on the
chorus I was astounded by the melodic aspect her voice brought out. It’s
a great song of course but never one I thought of as melodically beautiful
until tonight. In deference to the singalong, Kate stepped back from the
mike for the choruses as I secretly wished her to step closer. Can’t wait
to hear Kate do this one again with no voice but her own.
I was sated from pre-show carne adovada and an asspocket of whiskey but
the clinking of spoon on dish was heard throughout the night from partakers
of the potluck fare. During one of Kate’s numbers, the clinking was right
in time to the music. I should’ve guessed it was -- aha!-- Eva Ave who just
can’t help but make music with anything in arm’s length. In fact Ms Ave hopped,
skipped and jumped over to the corner piano to provide an interlude while
Fast Heart Mart set up. It sounded like one of those off-kilter player pianos
from the 1880s that automatically play via perforated rolls and pneumatic
valves.
Fast Heart Mart is one of the most engaging, entertaining and
intelligent acts around town. Despite last year’s cold-hearted pilfering
of Herman --Martin’s beloved dual neck show guitar -- he found a wonderful
replacement on the cheap in the northwest.
Anyone that strums an acoustic with a harmonica slung around their neck
and delivers dry observation will get compared to Greenwich Village era Dylan
but Martin Stamper takes it further than that. Replete with flying saucers,
corporate vampires and deplorable lawns as far as the eye can see with nothing
to eat in sight, Martin’s lyrics are an admonishment to our selfish and wasteful
ways, asking for change but content to wait it out while the system falls
apart. While most of us will wander around electrical cord in hand looking
for a place to plug in our superfluous gadgets I can see Mart and delightful
bassist Robblyn giggling with glee and saying I told you so after human-induced
armageddon.
Tonight was a loose laugh riot with the duo like a combo peace-punk/hippie
George Burns & Gracie Allen, backed by stripped down drummer Seth (Man
About a Horse) Scott on snare, high hat and tambourine. Like the lyrics, the
music is deceptively simple meaning it ain’t so simple on close inspection.
Rigorously tuning beforehand, we were also treated to a baroque instrumental
as well as the rare solo Stamper tune. It was more like sitting around an
impromptu living room set with a pile of friends than like a capital-S show.
Which is just how FHM likes it. And me too.
JASPER BROWN / the DIRTY AMERICANS,
the TATTERSAINTS, KATE MANN, JOHN SIMMONS
6/6/09 @ Little Kiss Records
Click here for Jasper
Brown show photos
A backyard bonanza Little Kiss Records showcase and then some with plenty
food & cold beer in honor of Jasper Brown’s latest release. The roster
was full to busting. By early afternoon there was bocce ball in the driveway
and music in the back. From time to time passersby peered over the alley fence
to see just what was taking place and occasionally wandered in to witness
the talent firsthand.
I didn’t hear every act (missed Dirt City Radio and Cole
Mitchell) but enough of ‘em to make me a happy boy. Master of Ceremonies
Jasper jumped up between performers to toss a few down-so-long-looks-like-up-to-me
numbers our way. He’d planned a few selected covers like Dire Straits or
something but decided instead to cover himself, a great concept!
A solo strummer named John Simmons singtalked his way through
songs chock full of pop culture observations from google to dollar
movies. He had a few nice gotcha’s but I would’ve liked it better backed
up with jangle pop band.
From Oregon by way of New Mexico, the peerless Kate Mann encored
her sweet set from last night’s show at the Peace & Justice Center, a
mere guitar pick’s throw across the alley. Being invited to play a recording
studio (for which James has contributed half of his modest home. A true
champion he!), I’m not sure Kate knew what to expect but I’ll bet a gritty
backyard wasn’t it.
Mann’s voice mesmerizes but I was extra delighted today to have her mother
whisper asides to me while her talented daughter entertained one and all.
My favorite story was the one about little Katie humming Bach perfectly in
pitch after Mom played it once on the organ. Three cheers for moms who encourage
their young’un’s musical ability!
As the shadows edged their way across the yard, the unsung and less heard
(what a crime!) Tattersaints tore up a rocking set of sweet
and oblique curiosity.
Dark now with a lone light to shine on the performers, Jasper Brown
& the Dirty Americans plated a few covers of their younger selves,
the hard rawk Agnostic. From the ‘saints, Freddie Raygun and Testy Kool Dauberman
came aboard to fill out the three-piece Americans. Things wrapped up quickly
since it wasn’t quite noise-curfew time but late enough to possibly stir agitation
among the sedate neighbors. A few of us hung around to ensure no beer was
unconquered while trading tall tales. It wasn’t quite heroic but we gave
our best shot.
the OKTOBER PEOPLE, FOMA, the GIRANIMALS
6/20/09 @ Burt’s
Seeing Javier Romero onstage with the Giranimals confused a
few folks. Someone was overheard to remark that it was the Cherry Tempo.
Have to admit it threw me off for a minute. I knew there was a new Giranimals
lineup which I hadn’t yet seen but since I wasn’t paying attention (nothing
new there) I didn’t know Mr Romero was one of them.
Visuals aside, it was a duh match in retrospect: Jav in the Giranimals?
Like peanut butter & chocolate or to be more elegant (which it certainly
is) he fits the band like a pair of finely tooled Italian kidskin gloves.
His pop sensibilities combine perfectly with Connie’s discerning own, plus
the kick of his jangly guitar punches up the joint giving Maury a chance
to slam his kit in ways that would previously have overpowered the band’s
soft side. The addition of Chris Frain on keyboard/notebook meshed nicely
with Connie’s keys, sometimes giving me a run for my money to see just who
was playing what at any given moment. The sound system was a little muddy
but the band blended perfectly.
Its been a few years since Ed moved to San Fran and took Foma with
him. Not literally since the rest of the band remained here but I mean took
Foma’s charming and studied compositions along. His first time back on an
Albuquerque stage, Ed brought his new Foma crew who ably filled the bill.
Recorded, Foma is a fairly quiet outfit but live the intensity is turned
up a few notches. The cello and violin backbone is solid but flexible like
a wizened sahdu yogi. The keyboard wasn’t audible tonight but Ed’s soft vocals
command attention. The jangly guitar enhances the solid rhythm section, driving
the whole forward, soaring to tall heights before winding down to sweet lows
that never falter. Ok so this all sounds a mite lofty but the band rocks in
its own calm way to mighty applause. Rock doesn’t only mean grinding guitars.
Capping the night in wild crescendo was the Oktober People who run
about thirty pedals between two guitarists. They start with the ol’ soft-loud-soft-loud
approach but even the quiet parts are none too soft. The energy generated
is enough to power a small city grid. When the Oktobers are in full effect
they become their own city, bustling with beehive activity, screeching subway
cars, corner hot dog vendors and everything sacred & profane teeming
with a lust of life for its own sake.
BUD MELVIN, POST HONEYMOON
6/27/09 Atomic
In a way, Post Honeymoon live up to their name. A husband and wife
team they expose the post-coital melancholy we’ve all felt one time or another,
waking up next to someone for the umpteenth time and wondering how did I
get here? Or perhaps its an allusion to previous bands. Or whatever
you want it to be.
I’m not casting aspersions on their own marital status however as
Rachel Shindelman (vox & Roland keys) and Nick Kraska (bass, drums, vocals)
seem a fine match, musically and intellectually. Their songs are built from
a marching beat or slide-y melodic bass and unadorned keyboard, fleshed out
to hulking behemoths with vocals ranging from dirge to barely contained shouting.
Stripped down musically? Yes. Lacking? Not at all. Its certainly not toe tapping
, especially recorded, but live I was gripped from start to finish.
Gear geek report: Kraska’s drums had the appearance of being wood
although it was too dim to get a good look. They sort of had that sound or
maybe I just convinced myself of it. I can’t tell you what difference it
made but his aluminum bass was way cool looking. From Chicago, this pair
also spent time in Bang! Bang! and New Black, two more Chi-town bands that
featured ex-Albuquereños Jack Sparacino and Liam Kimball, who
were 2/3 of my dynamic old favorites Fever Hot!, a full (yikes!) ten years
ago.
Tonight’s opener is also from Chicago but lucky for us he lives here now.
Bud Melvin brought his droll standup comedy/musical routines
to the stage featuring a banjo with little shiny boxes digitally attached.
I suppose some people may not care for his post western civilization folk
songs (I haven’t met any yet though) but you can’t help but enjoy
his quietly hilarious observations which hit closer to home (your home)
than first meets the ear.
VENUS BOGARDUS, ANGOLA FARMS
7/10/09 @ Aztec Café, Satan Fe
Santa Fe is so close I rarely spend the night even if the evening
is spent until three am. May as well just head home. Tonight was different
since I was attending a two-day Union training (yes I’m a commie)
and I saw no percentage in going home Friday just to turn around Saturday
morning.
Couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried. Training was over by five-thirty,
the motel had a kitchen staff from Jalisco making killer fish tacos and I
even got an hour disco nap before venturing out for Venus Bogardus. The most
rockin’ my work/roommate gets is old Pat Benatar CDs so I locked her in, fast
asleep. She at least would get a decent night’s repose before the six am
wakeup call and hours of classes for dealing with idiot Management and backstabbing
coworkers.
My first time at the Aztec, my heart sank to see that coffee was the main
draw here. I’m jittery enough without that vile bean. But waiting in line
I noticed that locally brewed pints were to had. Saved!
The gig room was shall we say economic. I have nothing against tiny venues.
In fact some of the best shows I’ve seen were crammed into places where the
line between band and audience is mighty fluid. Despite the nice wooden floors
and hallowed abode walls (the building must date back to nineteen-o-something
at least) it was difficult to get comfy since everyone was sitting down.
The other listeners being of a uh more mature nature than typical attendees
of cramped basement shows, I got the impression they wouldn’t get the normally-accepted
procedure of someone standing in front of them to be close to the aural action.
When there’s chairs about, folks get a little testy if you block their view.
I deferred to etiquette and ducked into a back corner to watch from between
the leaves of a giant potted plant. I felt like a pith-helmeted explorer searching
out the breeding ground of rare and exotic orchids. What I saw was just as
beautiful. Merely seeing James and Hannah in a room makes me happy but put
noise-amplifying machines in their hands and drum genius Luke behind a shiny
kit and I’m all atwitter (some may say I’m a twit as well. I won’t argue).
Musically, punk is not the word that springs to mind while listening to Venus
Bogardus but intelligence, creativity and giving a shit does and those are
my true measure of punk. Make of it what you will.
First was Angola Farms: local duo Ben Ziegler riffing and Tommy
Archuleta hammering out the beats while laying on the deep vocals. Apparently
Tommy’s been part of the local punk scene up there since time immemorial.
I was glad to hear that. Down here in Dirt City people think nothing’s happened
artistically in Santa Fe since Will Shuster set up his easel on the Plaza
in 1921. I’ve heard of three people in Duke City who claim to have put out
New Mexico’s first punk record but little about the City Different’s scene.
Except that the Ramones played there someplace and maybe trashed the La Fonda.
I gotta ask Tommy a few questions...
Angola Farms take a Minutemen style framework and pile on bluesy licks and
brawny rolls & fills until the result is a bubbling pot of greasy mutton
posole & crawfish gumbo. Its a good sound and although the riffs are a
little too riffy for my taste I’d go back for more helpings.
I liked seeing Venus Bogardus on their tierra. Not having to drive
to Albuquerque to get paid a half-tank of gas must be a relief. With all
those hippie-slash-salsa bands lurking around every adobe banco up there,
I’ve a hunch some Santa Feños are happy to hear loud guitars for a
change. One couple danced for half the set. Seeing me scribble notes all
night they asked if I was a poet. Not if can help it!
Perhaps relieved from not having to navigate I-25 at three in the morning,
VB offered a loose and tight set. Loose as in relaxed but tight as in the
band is fucking tight! I kept thinking of Wire and the Fall locked in a steel
cage death match with James Honeyman-Scott as referee. I don’t get the impression
that Wire or the Fall would give a fuck about referees and Honeyman-Scott
wouldn’t give a toss either. A win-win situation I’d say.
BUD MELVIN
7/26/09 @ Ed’s Pub inside Leisure Bowl
Click here for show photos of Bud
Melvin. Videos here.
If I didn’t already know him, Bud Melvin would be one of these “people I’d
like to meet” on my MyFace profile. Not only is he a talented musician, a
salty dog humorist, an evil genius in subverting electronic boxes to his irascible
will and the best right-handed lefty bowler ever, who else would think to
hold his CD release show in a karaoke bar inside a bowling alley?
The karaoke mistress and alley owners were as nice as can be, as they
always are to our collection of assorted weirdoes who hit their lanes every
month or three. Why do they like us? Damned if I know. Its not like we drop
the big bucks. We don’t drink all that much. We’ve delayed their closing
more than once by fucking around well after the lanes ought to be shut. We
never fail to cause confusion when eight or ten or fifteen people approach
the cashier since we can never figure out who owes how much. Maybe its Mr
Melvin’s charm that wins them over. It certainly did tonight.
He’s an outlaw chiptunes rustler and wields his banjo tweaked with Gameboy
programs like he’s twirling a smoking six-shooter and -- can you imagine how
long this took to make?--presented actual karaoke sing-along slides for each
song. His songwriting and storytelling mesh but at something like a 43 degree
angle and a perfect fit at that.
Bud’s lyrics and between tune patter are sidesplitting, slyly delivered
like a liquored up Will Rogers from the fourth dimension. I love his baritone
voice although it may best be described as Leo Kottke once described his
own: “geese farts on a muggy day”.
This was the must-see social event of the season which just happened to
coincide with a Burt’s Tiki Lounge employee field trip. A few of the older
karaoke regulars (who do a fantastic job on standards and vintage country
& western) were a bit put out that their weekly outing was pre-empted
by Melvin the Kid & his rowdy posse but it only lasted a couple hours
and we more than made up in drinks for all the free popcorn we ate.
PAT BENATAR, BLONDIE
7/29/09 @ Isleta Lakes
The worst organized concert since Woodstock. Traffic was horrendous
and confusing mostly because no one was told that the box office --where
one picks up tickets purchased online --is in the Casino, a mile from the
actual venue: Isleta Lakes campground, across the freeway and the railroad
tracks. Lines of cars two & three lanes wide were moving so slow they
almost went backward. Finally getting to the entrance, people who didn’t
have tickets in hand were sent to the casino. Miserable logistics.
For some reason I received a call from the box office a couple of
days ahead practically pleading with me to pick up my pair of ducats early
since someone was sharp enough to finally realize the whole deal was gonna
turn into uh Hell Is For Children. No, they said, we can’t mail them.
So I drove the thirty mile roundtrip to avoid the box office melee. I felt
pretty smart hollering to neighboring cars to get to the box office if they
didn’t have their tickets. If I was really smart I would’ve gone for the
option of parking at the casino so we could’ve grabbed the marginally faster
shuttle instead of burning gas in immobile cars with all the other suckers.
The only good thing about the hour wait was we managed to miss the Donnas
entirely. That band was at its best when playing teenage Ramones style songs
while actually being teenagers. These days, their over-21 “jailbait” image
and third- rate Runaways clitrock has worn as thin as Dee Dee Ramone’s hair.
I was expecting to be frisked so as we walked the five minutes to the gate
from our parking spot, me & Miss Mercury took turns draining my chrome
flask of Jameson and ditched it next to some irrigation pipes. As it turned
out the “gate” was a rope that you could easily step over with no one checking.
I wondered if I’d ever see my prematurely ditched flask ever again.
Sweet & kind, a couple of Merc’s pals saved us seats about twenty-five
rows back. Since the stage was empty we headed for the beer line which took
another hour and by that time, Blondie was a quarter of the way into the set.
I suppose to make up for the hassle the booze merchants weren’t enforcing
any minimum: you could buy as much as you could carry. With precariously balanced
cardboard drink carriers stacked like houses of cards, some guzzlers
looked ready to hunker down for an extended siege.
Blondie was as good as my expectations--which weren’t set at
what you’d call a high bar. Why should they play any of their oldest stuff?
I sure didn’t expect it. I knew it was gonna be all the hits since c’mon,
how many people at the concert --notice: concert, not show--actually have
even one Blondie CD? Snob that I am, I’m willing to bet that between me and
Zac (who ditched after Blondie) we own more records and CDs than 86
% of the audience put together.
Debbie Harry’s voice was in pretty good shape for a sixty-three year old.
Although never one of my favorites, Rapture was the high point of the set
since (excepting the Stooges reunion) no one really rocks like they
used to thirty years after the fact. Blondie catches a lot of shit for the
bogus reputation of releasing the first rap record. Of course they didn’t
and never claimed so but Rapture was certainly the first massmarket
“hip hop” song to enter the charts. Sure they stole the form but what the
hell is post-1958 rock n’ roll besides rhythm and blues played by honkies?
For better or worse, stealing black art forms is old hat but in the interest
of equal time it should be noted that a lot of hip hop attire and attitude
was early on lifted from urban Latino culture.
Fifty-six year old Pat Benatar’s mezzo-soprano vocals have also lost
a little luster but she’s still got it. Unlike Harry, Benatar’s strength
is her voice not her material or bandmates or um street cred. Besides opera,
Judy Garland & Liza Minelli were influences and I’m down with that. Her
guitar wanking husband Neil Giraldo is another matter altogether although
to his credit he helped Pat take her career under control in ’82 when she
finally cut out that “you better make sure you put me in my place”
crap.
Getting out of venue was as bad getting in. Got to my truck at about eleven
o’clock and after dropping Miss Mercury off it was twelve-thirty when I got
home. Can’t see any reason to ever go back to Isleta for music again. I did
however manage to find my empty flask after only about two minutes of fumbling
around in the dark.
BLACK MARIA, ROXIEHEARTS, COKE IS BETTER
WITH BOURBON
Launchpad 8/8/09
Click here for show photos of: Black
Maria, Roxieharts,
and Coke
Is Better with Bourbon
Can’t recall who but someone commented to me
that Coke Is Better With Bourbon is the best kind of punk: dangerous.
That took awhile to sink in. Punk has been anything but dangerous for years.
That was apparent a long time ago, well before corporate schmucks like Mountain
Dew used stressed logos & chickies with piercings in their commercials
(they’ve thankfully since moved on to ripping off hip hop).
I mean, compared to Warped Tour bands, the Modern Lovers were razor toting
thugs. Come to think of it, the Lovers’ attitude was as dangerous as Osama
Bin laden to the Twin Towers of the music industry. They never saw it coming.
In a way I thank god for play-it-safe industry hacks who spurn every early
clue to the new direction since if “moving units” is not on their minds, musicians
have room to innovate instead. They may not eat much though.
Coke’s set was nothing new but they do incite the danger of hurting themselves
in the process: vocal chords, brain cells, various bruises and lacerations.
I’m not talkin’ GG Allin crap here. As far as I can see he was just a damaged
asswipe that found a following who were pretty much waiting for him to die
onstage. I’ve never understood it but watching somebody get injured has always
been a crowd-pleaser. This goes back to the Christians vs the Lions or the
Gaels tossing enemies off coastal cliffs.
If there was prozac back then, Allin instead would’ve been quietly anxious
at home in a darkened living room. Neither would we’ve had any Iggys,
Dee Dees or Rottens. I hate that today’s teens are sedated for merely being
post-pube. You’re a teenager for godsakes, you’re supposed to feel like a
misunderstood wallflower loser. Prescription drugs that flatline your emotions
or Guitar Hero-ing to dinosaur bands for hours on end doesn’t encourage creativity.
Where the fuck’s all the passion & rage in music and art supposed to come
from?
The verdict: I liked this Coke Is Better with Bourbon set more than
any in a long time. I still dunno about the dangerous part but it was dirty
punk rock with a sure bet the guys were nursing a few wounds next morning.
Ok time to stop intellectualizing and let the noise penetrate my cerebral
cortex. Which is just what I do with the always howling Black Maria.
Don’t let the black tee shirts, hair-whippin’ and metal-flavored riffs fool
ya. These boys are rock and roll --emphasis on the and--disguised as heavy
rawk. Obligatory comment: where’s that CD, guys? If I’m lucky there’ll
be enough time to hear it on my deathbed at least once. Hell, I may even
die of a heart attack at the surprise alone.
There was no surprise though that my favorite set of the night was the reunion/farewell
of my beloved Roxiehearts. Midnight Penny is moving to Califas to
further her studies and rack up another brace of doctorates. Marmoream
se relinquere, quam latericiam accepisset.
From the very first notes I heard back in their old TNA days at the Fat
Chance, I was smitten. California’s the Red Aunts had just broken up and
as much I like the ol’ Riot Grrrl/ Kathleen Hanna genre, it wasn’t progressing
much. Sleater-Kinney weren’t yet embraced by the masses and besides the Bangs
and Cold Cold Hearts were lots better.
Not much was happening in the way of punk girls with guitars. There were
basically two types of fem-fronted bands at the time: loud an’ sloppy many-bad-tattoo
gurls like the Smears or Squat who felt it de rigueur to reference their ‘ginas
in the band name, and outfits like N.Y. Loose that thought putting a hot
blonde in front of a slew of clichéd punk songs was their key to eMTpyV
fame & fortune. I was thankful for heavy thrash Japanese women like the
Gaia despite their singing like all those cookie-monster vocal dudes.
Penny and Amy X-Rated don’t take no shit and slapped the flaccid weenies
of fan boys who thought “You’re pretty good for a girl” was a terrific
pick-up line. Back then, Coke’s Lori Law slung the bass while Cisco or Mikey
drummed, honorary girls all and that’s high praise indeed. After local musical
treasure Ben Hathorne disbanded the Hopefuls (ouch! that still hurts) Penny
and Amy had enough smarts to snap up ex-Hopes Melissa S. and Cara T. for the
rhythm section. To top it off, there was a brilliant name change to the Roxiehearts
in honor of the 1920s “jazz killer” Roxie Hart, immortalized in the Broadway
hit Chicago. The rest is ‘burque rock history.
Tonight’s set was epic and (how can I put this nicely) please shut
up Penny, Amy, Cara and Melissa; we don’t want apologies for mistakes. Perfection
was never what the Roxies were about except for being perfect in every godamn
way from Attitude to Zeitgeist. No one in the club wanted them to leave the
stage. When cries of encore were met with “We don’t have any more
songs!” lots of us suggested they play the set over. That would’ve
been punk as fuck. It was too much fun to be teary-eyed but knowing this
was the end was pretty gloomy. After I got home I was almost as sad as the
night of the Mindy Set’s last gig. That show, we were just about weeping
from note one.
Thank you, Roxies! I love the fuck outta you all. Now if you’ll excuse me,
I think I’ve got something in my eye…
QUINTRON & MISS PUSSYCAT, the FOXX
Launchpad 8/9/09
Somehow I missed the puppet show that Quintron and Miss Pussycat
are renowned for. I wasn’t heartbroken or anything though. The place was
packed to the gills as it always is for bands with a gimmick. The gimmick
I really wanted to see but decided not to fight the crowd over was Quintron’s
Drum Buddy, a self-made rotating photoelectric (huh?) drum machine. I love
people that make their own music but people who make their own stuff to make
their own music? Solid!
The music was overshadowed by the large & looming puppet presence. It
was sorta snakey garage psych and a trifle askew as might be expected but
I’m not gonna run out and buy their CDs or anything.
What got me out of the house was one of the final Foxx-as-we-know-them
shows before bassist Zed Stardust & partner DJ Eve load up his records
in a rented eighteen wheeler and head for Chicago just in time for icy blasts
of winter. I’m certain though that the pair will keep themselves warm with
bellyfuls of fine dining and finer bottles of whiskey & wine.
Usually I say that everyone sounds better at the Launchpad given the size
of the room and caliber of sound equipment but from my standpoint at stage
right I was overpowered by Tim’s relentless riffs, a bit so much so that Juliet’s
delicate melodies and oblique-angled changes were mostly snuffed out. Still
I savored every song since its unclear as to what will happen without the
Z-man. Usually bands can replace bass players like last night’s broken guitar
string but most of you haven’t been paying attention: Zac’s style is integral
to the Foxx sound. Plus he owns the van. Or did.
Anyway we’ll just wait and see where things go. People said founding guitar
guy Isaac couldn’t be replaced. Well, he wasn’t really since he penned half
the early songs but the glam machine rolled on without him and actually got
glammier than before with Abba-ims creeping in over Zed’s metaphorical dead
body. Speaking of Isaac, he was in town to time to witness this show. Since
his material was retired from the band, it wasn’t a Pete Best situation or
anything. One last comment about guitars and I’ll drop the subject. I miss
seeing Juliet pull hers out for at least a song or three each set. Hint.
Since Jill the human drum machine has yet to seriously threaten moving
we’re safe for now although she has threatened to hang up her sticks more
than once. That would be tragic indeed.
VENUS BOGARDUS, ANGOLA FARMS
8/21/09 @ Burt’s
See 7/10/09, above, but louder and maybe drunker. I was, at any rate.
SHOULDER VOICES, VENUS BOGARDUS
8/28/09 @ Burt’s
With the Foxx status in limbo, it would appear that Venus Bogardus
is taking their place as the band I’ve covered the most (I’ve never counted
but Psychodrama/Eyeliners run a close second if not first). Wanna make
somethin’ of it? With one more appearance this issue to go (see 9/24/09
below) I’ll merely say I like them and so should you. A lot.
Shoulder Voices pulled out a set that was as close to metal
as they’ll ever get which isn’t all that close but enough to make me gasp.
It was a heavy rock outing, Holland/Dozier/Holland writing for Steppenwolf
in outer space and all are suffering from oxygen deprivation. And the supply
of Tang is running seriously low. Disclaimer : No animals were harmed in
the making of this show.
WEEN
@ Sunshine Theater 9/5/09
Meh.
PAN!C, DYNAMITE KEGS
9/19/09 @ Burt’s
Click here for Pan!c
show photos and here for
Dynamite Kegs photos
Power-chord tough-strut garage hair-rock distortion-fuzz. Fierce bass,
rippin’ leads (not too short, not too long) and thumping drums but an unfortunately
inaudible keyboard. That barely sums up the Dynamite Kegs, one of
the best outfits out of Las Cruces in years, probably since Mr Bill Bunting’s
last band. Within minutes Dynamite Bill almost pulled the Tiki Lounge’s lighting
rig down on our heads as he threatened to swing from the ceiling. Understatement
is not his strong point: headstands, couchpillow fights, rolling headfirst
over the stage wall onto the disgusting floor, passing a tom drum into the
audience. Some bands do such antics and look like wieners trying too hard
but the Dynamite Kegs live up to their name naturally with a dangerously short
fuse. Light it and there’s no time for run for cover.
Pan!c were a bit more low key (who wouldn’t look that way after
the Kegs?) and as relaxed as I’ve seen them as evidenced by their plentiful
and toothsome smiles throughout. It was nice to hear the new songs which
have almost all the kinky --oops -- kinks worked out of ‘em. I don’t know
the new stuff as well as I do the old which I’ve played a zillion times because
there’s no new CD yet. I hope that’s remedied. Soon.
FREDDY RAYGUN
9/23/09 Blackbird Buvette
Click here for show
photos
The mercurial (in the best sense of the word) Freddy Raygun
plays the best in piano bar music for the disenfranchised, framed in wry
commentary and illustrated with biting lyrics. But the bite is like that
of the Argentine vampire bat that lulls its bovine victims into serenity
with slowly beating wings so that by the time the deed is done, no one but
the bat is the wiser. In Raygun’s case however the audience comes away smarter
with only a flesh wound.
His themes are ambiguous empathy not readily apparent, like those between
West Texas, Santa Claus, hippies and Dentyne gum but work so good it makes
me ache.
Toward the end of the too short set, Mr Raygun turned to some nicely done
covers such as flash-in-the-pan Gerry Rafferty’s once ubiquitous Baker
Street which in Freddie’s talented hands was lovelier than I’d ever imagined.
The Freebird/Helpless/Blinded By the Light medley fit in a way that
had me silently exclaiming “Of course! Why didn’t anyone think of that
before!? ”
To my disappointment Freddy had to make way for the DJ slot at 10 pm. Perhaps
it was for the best since with one more whiskey I would’ve been leaning on
his piano, cigarette smoldering in an ashtray nearby and sloppily requesting
lounge standards like Melancholy Baby over and over.
NM ROCKS PINUP 2010 CALENDAR PREMIER
@ Launchpad 9/24/09
Either there’s not enough grrrl scenester bands left to attract scenesters
of either gender or the novelty of the annual Pinup calendar has worn off
or maybe both but attendance this year was way down. In these days of digital
everything, “supporting the scene” doesn’t have the same cachet it once held
when you had to leave the house to see & hear bands, buy merch and catch
up with other local music geeks. The scene long ago splintered into this or
that camp of punk, metalheads here, indie nerds there and Americana fans some
place off to the side. The local exception to this divergence is as always,
the underground/avant/noise all-ages houseshow folks (exemplified by the
Sicksicksick distro contingent) who never fail to support their own. No,
I’m talking the downtown club thing here. Then again maybe its just my geezer
status mouthing off. The kids who introduced me to Albuquerque’s music mélange
a decade ago are pushing thirty, birthin’ babies or busy making a living
since playing in the band just don’t cut it anymore.
Perhaps if I pulled my head out I’d find the new crowd of kids making their
scene happen. Kudos to them but most of it escapes me. Not that they need
my withered presence at their shows but growing up with Sublime or Matchbox
20 is quite different than growing up with Pavement, Husker Du or even Screeching
Weasel because whether you’re cognizant of it or not, your favorite bands’
influences are your influences. Hip Hop and dance music weaned lots of kids
off guitars. And most kids that do still like guitars yearn for the glory
days of Slayer while to my dismay rock and roll (as opposed to “rock”)
recedes further into the dim past. Fair enough I suppose. My parents had
to stand by helplessly while pretty English boys in Spanish heel boots make
a racket loud enough to drown out Perry Como and Artie Shaw.
Enough of this Alzheimer’s reverie! Back to tonight: My latest favorite
Venus Bogardus was setting up when I strolled in and rewarded
me with their new stuff including a magnum opus eighteen minute song whittled
to ten in the interest of expediency. It had the feel of winding down a long
night at four am when you’re done rocking out but content to stretch your
musical horizons a bit before sunup. I was hoping for the other eight but
maybe next time, yes? Pinup Hannah Levbarg sported the right attitude with
warpaint steaks down her face.
Solo beatbox gal Ashley Moyer aka SayWut?! brought along her
rabid following who packed the place as full as it got all night and then
they headed back to Maloney’s or wherever they hang out. Like I say,
splintered scene etc but it was good to see her fans throw down in support.
Not knowing the genre i.e. no knowledge on which to base a halfass opinion,
I’d venture she did pretty good. Some of it sounded like African click languages
but as a whole this isn’t a style that holds my interest for long. I’d say
that I’d prefer some backup musicians or loops but I suppose that would just
further showcase my ignorance of beatboxing. Moyer did pull out a harmonica
for a few numbers which I thought was a nice risk well-played.
Next was my first time for Mechanism of Eve who turned out some decent
metal/rock and to me decent means not much sludge. I liked them better than
I would’ve thought but I doubt they’d coax me out to see ‘em again. No, the
siren call of metal continues to elude me. Anomaly alert: I thought
you had to be born with black hair to play this music but except for brunette
bassist / pinup Lindsay Panagakos, the rest of the crew looked like bleached
blondes in comparison. With short hair no less. Visually, it was as jarring
as seeing Mel Torme throw down gangsta rap.
Every time I see Vertigo Venus, I wonder why I don’t catch them more
often. Someone kick me please. VV were right up my alley as always. Synthy
poppy new-er wave goodness and the ultimate dance cover of this night or
any other : Cyndi Lauper’s 1984 She Bop, which makes me think of Gene
Vincent with a spikey kool-aid red D.A. (I was gonna let that reference
slide but in interest of spreading useless trivia, those initials stand for
Duck’s Ass, that greased hair style that wowed the kids in the early 50s).
Pinup gal Jess Crockett kept the keyboards tasty and sweet.
The last band of the night was Scarless who sounded and looked like
a thrashaerobics team, everyone hopping around in unison. Guitar gal Karie
and keyboard/screamer Hannah made sure the energy was amped but I heard little
melody under the band’s aural assault and that’s always a deal killer for
a pop weenie like me.
So in the end I was as guilty as anyone in liking only the bands I already
knew but handed over a few bucks anyway to benefit Warehouse 508, the city-sponsored
throw-them-a-bone all-ages center for “the kids”, conveniently located under
the overpass on First Street in as sketchy a hood as you can find. I’m guessing
Mayor “Scenekiller” Chavez wouldn’t stand for having the kids any closer to
the downtown gin mills but a former strip club on a dimly lit road perfect
for dealing meth and/or illicit sex? That’s forward thinking there, Marty!
I IS FOR IDA
@Launchpad 10/2/09
Click here for show
photos
I figured some good music and good whiskey would ward off the flu
I’ve been trying to get for weeks. It took awhile to plod out the door but
I finally made it to the ‘pad, sadly missing everyone on the bill except
for the shimmering return of I is for Ida. They made the feverish
trek worthwhile. Led by Prue Fell on omnibow/electric cello & accordion,
Quintin Mire and Christian Newman traded off on drums and keys while Victor
Lye manned a second keyboard. Bassist Hector Dunn anchored stage left, next
to Miss Fell.
Ida’s orchestral gothic fever dreams always knocked me out but an extended
leave from the stage brought a freshened performance. Musically it was a bit
less ethereal than previous but still made you feel as if you’re floating
on a fluffy black-bottomed cloud threatening dire storms below while sunlight
bathes from above. Prue’s bow work is always lovely but besides her quietly
captivating voice, the accordion numbers stole the show for me. Love to see
the accordion get the respect it deserves, not as jaunty indierock oddity
but natural as breathing.
They closed with a Cure cover. I can’t tell you which one though and was
taken to task for not knowing by a certain Cure fanatic in the crowd. I better
do my homework and not further risk her Smith-like wrath
…..
I was right. Its next day and I’m on the road to recovery. Instead
of guzzling Theraflu, I’ve been taking the new I Is For Ida CD Storybook
in liberal doses as needed. I’m up to play number five and its only four
pm. Two or three more times today ought to have me good as new.
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WEEN @ Sunshine Theater 9/5/09
submitted by Black Cat Danger
“Derelict as fuck,” is how my man tonight describes the teeming
fans lined up for Ween: More than a few chicks in dreg spumoni colors, plenty
men wearing t-shirts for the eleventh consecutive day. And my boy, himself
in tatters and natural ermine musk, seeming to me like their King.
King takes me out for a beer and offers me a fat cap and stem from some
crushed tinfoil. I’ve never really thought of myself as a tripper, but I
always seem to be taking a space walk in these write-ups, que no?
At the Tap Room, converse with a pretty, medium-young couple down
from Chimayo--he’s the newspaper editor for a town around there. These kids
are dressed in patterns to split your eardrums. King shares his riches
with them, too--he’s the generous kind-- and we all choke back our
spores with $5 beers. No opening band, we depart to the Sunshine presently.
And tripping pretty fucking hard moments after that.
Was excited to see Ween, but I must admit, friends, the last time I was
paying attention was circa Chocolate and Cheese--which was the soundtrack
to more than one night wasted off Mickey’s and the afterburn of last night’s
ecstasy, rolling down Decatur St. in N.O.L.A. So, um, that was way
back in the day.
Hard to say what I was expecting--but not a rock show such as this.
“Deaner has a guitar that’ll saw you in fucking half,” says King,
and he is so right. Yeah, I guess kind of cool to hear HIV, What Deaner
Was Talking About, etc. etc. But, formal songs just confinement for such
a master as Dean Ween. Only useful for refracting his talent into 1001 genres--country,
metal, helium-electro, etc., etc. Their performance of Buckingham Green
leaving an impression. And With My Own Bare Hands.
About halfway through the show, finally return close enough to this planet
earth to move to the stage. All is mellow, but vortices of dance seizure break
out without warning. Hard to get a line on these Ween fans.
From behind me, I hear my man screaming his request: “Diarrhea!
Albuquerque loves Diarrhea!” And I look at him and think--“Oh
my G-d. I’m in love with this man.” Which is true, I have been realizing.
G-d help me.
A thrilling three hour show trails off into some boring sludge and then
annoying Phish-sounding shit. I go upstairs, and there’s a ten year old girl
bravely enduring the fawning attentions of all the chicks tripping balls
in line for the bathroom.
“What’s your favorite Ween song?” the woman standing
behind her wants to know. The little girl fastens her eyes on her feet. The
woman asks a few more times, kindly, but intensely, the way trippers do.
With no answer, she finally dials it down. But then the little girl looks
up with a shy smile and whispers her answer in the tripping chick’s ear.
Chick beams back approvingly “Right on! Yeah, I love that one!”
After the show we find Ween at the Atomic. I was like, “That was killer,”
and Dean was kind of a dick. But, whatever, it’s cool. That show worth
$30 and then some. And then, you know, got to go home with my man, King of
G-d Knows. But definitely a leader, a ruler, a friend to his subjects; feeling
quite high to count myself among them.
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SHONEN
KNIFE, JITTERIN’ JINN 7/12/09 @ Club Quattro, Osaka, Japan
submitted by Dee Snarl
I found myself in Osaka, Japan, leading some high school kids around for
a couple of weeks this summer. I was staying with a few different host families,
and I almost completely deferred to them as far as tourist attractions, and
how I spent my days and nights. There was one thing I wanted to make
sure to catch, though, while I was over there: a rock concert of some kind.
Researching beforehand, I saw two obvious options: Simon and Garfunkel at
the Enormodome, or Shonen Knife at Club Quattro.
I spent the first week or so staying with Kazu and his family; Kazu and
I were already buds, as I had recently hosted him during his stay in the
U.S. Now Kazu isn’t a giant music fan (tennis is his bag; his youngest
son is named Kohto, after tennis “court”), but his wife was something
of a rocker back in the day. She knew Shonen Knife (who is from Osaka);
few people I talked to knew who Shonen Knife was, and those who did were
shocked to learn that I knew them too, that I had in fact seen them once
before….
That was back in the grunge hangover of 1994, at what I call the “cynical
Lollapalooza” (which I caught at the Gorge at George WA). Headliners
included Smashing Pumpkins and Green Day, but everybody was sick of them,
and I for one was hip enough to know that the B Stage was where the action
would be. Alongside Shudder To Think and the Boo Radleys, Shonen Knife took
the stage to a chorus of cheers and, I’m quite sure, many a knowing wink
and nudge.
For those who don’t know, Shonen Knife was something of a novelty act: three
cute Japanese chicks who played Ramonesy pop-punk and sang mostly about junk
food and cartoons. They were fine, but didn’t leave much of a lasting impression
on me; what I remember, and I don’t know how much of this was related to the
box of wine my party’d smuggled in -- what I remember was feeling like the
crowd had a certain patronizing attitude. I’ve come to call this the
Wesley Willis effect: when an act is laughed at as much as with, and maybe
doesn’t know it…
Fifteen years later and on the other side of the world, Shonen Knife it
was, by consensus. Kazu hooked it up, and after a great day touring Nara,
we hopped on the train into Osaka; Kazu pointed out the high school which
Jitterin’ Jinn’s drummer had attended. (My impression was that Jitterin’
Jinn was almost as popular in Osaka as Shonen Knife.) This was his first
concert, and he was every bit as excited as I was, though he wouldn’t let
it show through his stoic visage.
Speaking in the odd, contractionless dialect common to English speakers
and their non-native cohorts, I asked,
“How many foreigners do you think will be at the concert?”
He laughed. “I think you are the only one.”
I was skeptical. “If that is true, I will be very disappointed
in Osaka’s foreigner community.”
I suggested that there would be at least half a dozen whiteys.
Like me, you’re probably used to seeing shows in bars, in buildings unto
themselves. Club Quattro was on the 8th floor of an office building;
the elevator doors opened onto the front of the club. No cameras in the venue,
to my great chagrin. We presented our tickets, and each received a drink token.
We entered the stage area, which looked like any in the US, if perhaps a
little smaller and a little nicer. We got our free Dixie cups of beer
(portion sizes in Japan are indeed tiny), and found a space on the
floor.
I immediately counted off just about six foreigners scattered about; Kazu
here was something of a tourist in his own country. I instructed him on how
to stand wide, to save my spot while I went for more drinks. On the dot, the
lights went down, and the crowd, already extremely polite and well-behaved,
went silent. Out came Jitterin’ Jinn, to enthusiastic, though still
oddly calm, applause.
The drummer and singer were female, and the guitarist had a big blonde pompadour.
As the singer said a few polite words of hello, we continued to stand patiently
and quietly, and I continued assuming that this would be the mellowest show
ever. Then, like a tidal wave, the music exploded, the crowd erupted into
a moshing maelstrom, and both drinks I was holding flew straight into my face
(don’t judge me). I recovered from the shock and gained a stable footing,
and listened to the music: a hybrid of punk, ska, rockabilly, and an extra
helping of polka; the singer spent just over half the show with an accordion
strapped to her chest.
Between songs, the crowd would instantly stop, stand stock still, and direct
all their attention to the frontwoman, who would usually say a few words of
introduction. You might hear one conversation from the other end of the club,
and even that seemed a tad much. But when the music started, so did the crowd,
as though they’d been storing their energy, revving up for the dance floor.
Now I’m never much of a dancer, generally preferring to stand and scowl,
but here, as something of an honored foreign guest, I was pulled onto the
floor, annexed into circles of dancers, arms around shoulders, stomping and
marauding around the floor. And this was the mosh I remembered from the old
days, without a hint of macho pretense, and neither any commercialized “Everybody
JUMP” manipulation. This was music fans delightedly bouncing and bounding,
bumping and buzzing around in glorious abandon. This was exactly the mosh
I remembered from when alternative rock was fresh and exciting; revolutionary,
even, and which I had assumed was gone forever.
The band was tight and professional, never misstepping, occasionally starting
a song with a hint of that oh-so-Asian balladeering, but never more than a
moment away from high energy, positive, dance music. As Jitterin’ Jinn’s set
drew to a close, I approached Kazu, permagrin stupidly frozen on my face.
He had been holding down the fort outside the pit, but was obviously loving
the spectacle of it all, seeing a side of his city hitherto hidden to him.
Shonen Knife has gone through a couple of lineup changes since
their heyday, but they still look like a trio of superheroines, Powerpuff
Girls for Gen X. They came out in matching orange-and-white striped go-go
dresses and launched into their set of sweet crunchy goodness. Shonen Knife
is nothing if not happy and upbeat, and the evening’s positivity continued
unabated. Tonight, the crowd eagerly lapped up what Shonen Knife had on offer,
without a trace of irony. And rightly not, for if Shonen Knife was ever a
little hesitant, a little amateurish (which was, of course, part of their
charm), tonight they were consummate professionals, bashing through nugget
after nugget of punk-pop perfection.
They didn’t sing anything in English, but that didn’t matter. It was all
about the energy, and by the end of the show, I found myself hanging onto
the barrier in front of the stage, hollering “One more, more! ”
There was one and then out we filed, politely and quietly, toward the elevator,
glowing with shared bliss, with the love of the buzz of simple, joyful rock
‘n’ roll, that has no interest in cultural barriers. It wasn’t yet even
9:00, and Kazu and I left that office building and headed out into downtown
Osaka, to see what else the night had in store for us….
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