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Issue # 23 March 2001 thewigwambam.com |
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| Ignoring Objectivity Since 1998
WIG WAM BAM “Albuquerque zine of music & nepotism” 
Memorial
of the Month:
Twenty-eight years ago this month, March 5, country & western singer Patsy Cline died in a plane crash near Sandy Point, Tennessee. |
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LOCAL
SHOWS NM bands from here or there |
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| Pilot to Bombardier, Knuckle Duster,
Unit 7 Drain, Cymbeline, The Donnas, TNA, Lust, The Warm Up Band, The Shins,
Icelandic, Scenester, Rebilt, Lush Rustler, The LadyKillers |
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LOCAL
RELEASES
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| Scenester Spoon-fed Corporate Rock [CD, 2001] |
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| LOCAL ZINES |
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| Randoms #14 Will You Swim With Me? #2 Vol. 1 Winter 2000/1 |
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| THE SACRED
COD April 2001, No. 1 Vol II Albuquerque Zine of Boston |
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| New Pornographers, Paula Kelley, 71 Sunbeam,
The White Stripes, Knoxville Girls, the Decals, Downbeat 5, Kenne Highland
Band, Pretty Cool Chair, Division Street, Random Road Mother, The Blue, The
Rosebud |
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| LOCAL
SHOWS |
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Pilot To Bombardier, Knuckle Duster, Unit 7 Drain, Cymbeline 2/4/01 @ Insurgo The first thing I noticed when I pulled up (just pulled up, mind you, before even making it inside) to this Insurgo gig was the lack of hardcore punks-- you know, no dreads, chains, or black clothes with logos of aborted fetuses or whatever. I think they’re terrified of emo, the same as grindcore scares away everyone else. Actually, only one band truly qualified as emo but more on that later. This was Cymbeline’s first show and besides the lead singer looking sorta embarrassed, it went pretty well. She (sorry, don’t know your name) did just fine, and traded vocals on a few numbers with Aubrey, who I’ve seen around here like, forever. Most recently, she did a short stint in the Hopefuls (at this point, who hasn’t?). She’s also ex-Light In August and, I believe, played for a bit with the Honeys years back when, unless I miss my guess, she was barely (or not at all) legal age to get the into bars never mind gig there. She was also co-editor of Kablooey zine for an issue or three (with the late & much-missed Brian Action) as well as her own rag, Lie Detector). Anyway, they were pretty good, as far as first shows go and I liked the style alot. Finally, a new ‘burque band that doesn’t sound even remotely emo! No, they reminded me of the grrrly soft but jangly melody-core that was coming out of Olympia WA, mid-nineties. The Unit Seven Drain boys don’t hint at emo either but it sure sounds like they practice a fuck of a lot. Comparisons that I heard in the crowd were Gun Club, Flaming Lips and (say what?) John Cougar Mellencamp. I was gonna say REM vs Soul Asylum but that’s not quite accurate either. The always astute Megan the K. offered the opinion that these guys decided on their favorite music back in the early nineties and took it from there, the singer’s Weezer tee-shirt being a dead giveaway. Personally, I don’t care much for any of those bands or the style but don’t get me wrong -- Unit Seven sound good. Whether I like them or not is immaterial. Hell, everything I write here is immaterial. Chicago’s Knuckle Duster are classic emo and, god help us, we have gotten to a point in time where there is a classic emo sound. I mean, c’mon: their 1996 self-titled 7”: is on My Friend Chris records & was recorded “on a sunny day in May.” Yipe! Extra punk points, however, for packing 7”s in color-strip Zip Loc baggies. They fit perfectly. Lead guitar De Leon was very good even though he kept his back to the crowd most of the time. Just by looking at his slicked back jet-black hair and workingman’s blue jeans, I kept thinking (and hoping) he was gonna mix things up and bust out some trashy rock n’ roll (nope). I don’t know where anyone gets the idea that our own Pilot to Bombardier should be classified as “file under : emo” at the record shops. I’d drop them closer to, say, Built to Spill or Archers of Loaf -- y’know, indie rock with intelligence & passion. Miguel had his funk on tonight, happily swinging his bass around like he was dancing with some cutie he couldn’t believe went out on a date with him. Travis is totally elsewhere while singing and the way he crouches over his kit and pounds those skins, it amazing he’s not whacking himself in the head with those sticks. Or is he? Meanwhile, Sean’s guitar work is inspired but a cursory glance at his heroic line-up of pedals & boxes looked like he was down from ten or more to maybe eight. Streamlining the operation? Pawning stuff for gas (beer) money? Hard to say but there was no loss of sound quality. Or maybe I just can’t count. the Donnas 2/25/01 @ Launchpad Due to the general incompetence of the airlines as well as a bit of freezing rain departing Boston, I was too late for my connecting flight and so missed what I was really looking forward to in this show--the opening acts Bratmobile and Tuuli. My return flight was chosen specifically so I could go direct from the airport to the venue. Curses! As it was, I only heard about five songs from the Donnas. I still enjoy them but they’re in a rut. Too bad ‘cause their earliest stuff went from wonderful prepubescent riot-girly to prime Lookout! poppunk to the highly marketable clitrock niche they’ve settled into. It will be quite interesting to see how long the Donnas will milk the jailbait slut image they’ve mined so profitably; especially since they’re all 21 now and, most important, have the talent to do much more. TNA, Lust, the Warm Up Band 3/1/01 @ Insurgo Things looked dire early on for this show. There were maybe seven people at Insurgo by 8 PM and that included the three bandmembers of Lust. However, Nueve & I were quite happy to direct them to the New Chinatown restaurant as they turned out to be large tiki fans. They’d heard about our local and legendary Polynesian lounge act Freddie Baker and were quite excited to check the place out. By the time they returned full of cocktails and Hawaiian slide guitar hits, Dan-Dan & Mike were playing; the Warm Up Band, vocals and guitar (TNA’s new drummer Andrea hopped in for a tune or two—what a kind soul!). Their deranged and indulgent tunes celebrate stuff like periods & body parts and/or functions. Indulgence seemed to be the key word tonight. Lust is all about garage rock. And sex. Things don’t get much more indulgent than that, do they? Even the jokes were indulgent. Vocalists Susanne (guitar) and Barbara Ann (bass) must have referred to themselves as “hookers from Georgia” three or four times. They were loaded on the make-up and dressed in tight Girl Scout uniforms complete with merit badge sashes (including a few decidedly non-meritorious patches). I was looking for some cookies to buy (it is that time of year after all) but had to settle for the regular CD/vinyl merch. And a Lust refrigerator magnet. But somehow, a picture of a dildo on the ‘fridge door doesn’t quite make me want to eat food. Go figure… Shane (drums) was sporting full Boy Scout regalia with short pants of the type worn by the scoutmaster who’s been molesting your nephew since he was eight. Dan-Dan was selected for the “the hot seat” --seated in a folding chair while Susanne lap-danced him even as she played her guitar. He didn’t seem to mind all that much. As much as I enjoyed the entire show, Lust especially endeared themselves to me with a cover of the Buzzcocks’ What Do I Get? from the classic 1977 Singles Going Steady LP as well as some song about “30 miles to go” that happily stole one of my all-time favorite riffs from one of my all-time favorite songs, 1976’s New Rose by the Damned. Lust are good clean cheesy fun in a nice dirty way. TNA are much the same but with more of a fucked-up sound (that’s a good thing). It was a treat to see Andrea drumming her little heart out up there on the dumpster-kit. Bassist Leonard—oops—Lawrence always looks happy as all get-out, thumping out his beats with a smirk. And indulgence? Songs like Drunk Sex fit that bill although I would be shocked if it was from personal experience. I’m certain it’s merely a songwriter’s artistic license. (Or is that licentiousness?) While this wasn’t one of TNA’s most stellar sets, they’ll all always be stars in my book… the Shins, Icelandic 3/9/01 @ Launchpad The Icelandic boys were in fine form, gearing up for the SXSW fest in Austin, TX (that’s the South By Southwest music biz showcase. Yeah, I know, everytime I see that abbreviation I think of straightedge desert kids or something too).It was Dandee’s birthday tonight and either he can hold his liquor well or his pals were remiss in buying him drinks… The Shins were in even better form, buoyed by an enthusiastic crowd, especially their damn fan club right down front. Don’t ask me why, but the Shins even look the part of a SXSW band—maybe their casual threads (no, truly casual, not conscious Buffalo Exchange casual) or being past college-age, old enough to know better. And they do. And it sounds it too. Their sound is radiant and stunning, pop-simple at first listen but diverse beneath the surface. Marty’s keyboards are a lesson in taste & restraint; they’re perfectly placed where they ought to be. More than basic but satisfyingly never overdone. No wonder Sub Pop was knocking on their door (I’m sort of picturing them living like the Beatles in the 1967 flick Help! Four apartment doors next to each other that open into one gigantic room). Here’s hoping that they don’t get overlooked at the industry slushfest in Austin. That’d be a shame and a half. Scenester, Rebilt, Lush Rustler, the LadyKillers 3/10/01 Launchpad The Ladykillers seem to have gotten noisier than the last time I saw them. Approaching the ‘pad from the street, I thought I was hearing the Pistols-punk of Lush Rustler. But it was the ‘Killers. Rather than characterize them as merely a wedding reception band like before, I’ve changed my mind. Judging by the three songs I heard, the wedding party has departed (except for maybe Uncle Jack who’s still in the corner too drunk to move) and the band has had enough furtive drinks throughout the gig to now stay on and rock out for the cleaning staff. Lush Rustler play punk without any prefixes like hardcore, emo, pop or what have you. If the volume was low enough and you heard them in the background at some party, you might think someone had put on a crude and unknown Sex Pistols bootleg. Rebilt’s largest asset is the drummer who’s as fast as he is clean. The tunes (like Lush Rustler’s) are craftsman competent though nothing to write home about. They sound like early skatecore thrash well before it metamorphisized into grind but with a little Clash influence. I think they could stand to practice less and slop things up just a bit. Next: this isn’t your father’s Stretch. Now they’re going by the name Scenester (another Socyermom band name change! Maybe every band on that label ought to have a different name for each show they play. It’s almost that way anyhow). Holy Moley! What did these guys eat for breakfast? I’ve never heard them sound like this before! Leonard turned into a rockstar — no, not a swell-head jerk but one who rips it up on guitar. And not stupid re-tread faux-metal that seems to be the rage these days nor wank-off Voodoo Child licks but amazing spot-on distorto-riffs that had me happy and bopping around even as I finally crawled into bed that night. Len, Luke (drums) and Damian (bass) all seemed pretty amazed by it themselves. Luke especially was smiling and laughing the whole set as if in disbelief of what they were coming up with. I heard everything from the Deltones ( a killer extended surf-flavored tune went on and on and wasn’t indulgent in the least) to Grand Funk Railroad to Nine Pound Hammer to the Dave Clark Five, all rolled into one tasty chimichanga. Pass the sopaipillas and honey, this shit’s hot! |
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| Scenester Spoon-fed Corporate Rock [CD, 2001] Socyermom Records 2300 Central Suite B-111 Albuquerque NM 87106 www.socyermom.com I like this one much better than the 1998 Window Records release it’s a band… dammit! (under the band name Stretch). That one seemed more like bar rock. The new one a lot more going on and sounds like indie (duh). With that killer release party set at the Launchpad (3/10/01) still ringing in my satisfied ears however, this seems quieter than it really is and belies the amount of work that went into it--tracked, mixed and mastered at no less than four different NM studios. As far as I can tell, Socyermom is the only local label still supporting local bands and local shows to any extent. That makes them ever more valuable now that Resin, Science Project, and Discos Yucky Bus are long dusted. |
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| LOCAL ZINES Title & number precede page count, size, print, frequency; price |
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Randoms # 14 22pp, ½ size, photocopy, whenever; free offthecurb@excite.com Its been quite some time since we’ve seen a new issue of Randoms but at number fourteen, it’s one of the longer running local zines (which seems to be a dead community these days). Even if it sucked (which it doesn’t), it would still be worthwhile as one of our local holdouts. As usual, it’s full of unapologetic (yay!) personal takes on whatever bug was up the writer’s ass that week. Six out of ten pieces are by “Randoms” (don’t think you’re hiding-- we know who you are!) which goes to show that although an issue hasn’t surfaced for awhile, Ye Editor hasn’t been merely sitting on his ass (figuratively speaking, that is; of course he was on his ass while writing. Who isn’t?). Will You Swim With Me? #2 ,vol. I winter 2000/1 34pp w/ cardstock cover, ½ size, photocopy, ?; free georgemeyer@yahoo.com A new and welcome addition to the “burque’s incredible shrinking zine scene. Pages of kid-like drawings with cryptica and non-sequiturs by a recurring (auto-bio?) character with a disturbing oversized eye. Lots of fun but better not read in one sitting (although its seeming simplicity begs it). A few profound lines, a few head-scratchers and the question of which came first: the pencils or the words? Ponder, ponder. |
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| THE SACRED COD Supplement April, anno Domini 2001 No. 1 Vol II “Albuquerque zine of Boston” |
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the
Sacred Cod (supplement) with editorial locations in Albuquerque,
N. Mex. and Davis Square, Somerville, Ma. offers mirthful commentary and droll
anecdotes concerning the much-vaunted musical community of the Bofton, Ma..
area. Upon his recent sojourn to said commonweal, Captain America is much
in the debt of one Colonel Aureliano for sharing his guidance, insight, lodging
& larder. Herein follows reportage of a most enjoyable and profitable
tarriance.
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| BOSTON SHOWS |
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Cold mid-February is not the ideal time for a visit to New England but being the true patriot that comes along with the name, Captain America made the best of it with guidance from the intrepid Colonel Aureliano (our Boston area correspondent) and a few Albuquerquenos who suggested activities there. New Pornographers, Paula Kelley, 71 Sunbeam 2/20/01 upstairs @ the Middle East, Cambridge, MA When you talk about shows in the Boston area, the Middle East restaurant/club invariably comes up. Forchristsakes, there’s three separate stages for bands as well as two dining rooms! I was expecting to find a dry goods store in the back somewhere. This show was upstairs. This is good. Downstairs blows (see below) and the dining room stage hosts sucky fusion-jazz with a dinner music slant. There’s two features that characterize the Middle East. The first is found throughout New England as well. Eighteen year-olds are allowed into bar shows but must present the backs of each hand for a large magic-marker “X” so that they can’t drink for fear of exposing these badges of underage shame. Punk folklore suggests this is where the “straightedge” XX comes from. I pondered this as I guzzled my beer from a plastic cup. But not very long. And that’s feature #2 here: upon ordering, your bottle gets emptied briskly into a thin cheapshit cup to accomplish two things: (1) there’s no dangerous empties cluttering up the joint/getting tossed at the band by lunkheads and (2) your beer goes flat almost immediately, lending that “frat party” feel to the proceedings. It’s almost enough to make you actually turn straightedge. I found my way to the club this night on the T Redline (subway) when Colonel Aureliano bailed on me at the last moment (before you hurl any epithets his way, he made up for this later on in the week). Consequently, I missed all but one song by 71 Sunbeam; however, judging by that one tune, perhaps it was a blessing in disguise but I’d really need to hear more to make a fair judgment rather than randomly insulting the band. I had no idea who Paula Kelley was. I was praying she was no solo folkie act (I passed on a show later in the week by Boston-sweetheart Mary Lou Lord ‘cause the openers promised to be even more unrelentingly alt.folk as she. I like her stuff but a whole night of the same would be untenable). I soon (happily) found that Paula Kelley has been in the indie music biz since Caroline Records was still indie. She was part of the early Drop Nineteens (1992) and was later the frontwoman of Boy Wonder and Hot Rod, much of that enjoyable swirly and jangly indie pop. Her stuff is pleasantly catchy with vocals that tonight sort of reminded me of longtime Boston-area girly singer, Kay Hanley (of Letters To Cleo who had a brush with fame during that brief blink called “alternative” and a song featured on a Melrose Place episode). I’d never heard of the New Pornographers but fortunately, the old promoter’s trick of advertising a notable bandmember got me to this show. The name was the fabulous frontwoman who’s lately gotten lots of ink with her band, Neko Case & Her Boyfriends—a quite credible roadhouse-style country band featuring her clear and strong vocal work. She certainly gets around, stylistically speaking. Neko also was the drummer for the three-piece girlypunk outfit Maow. The New Pornographers are not strictly “her” band although she was in the limelight and got plenty vocal-time (too bad the mix sucked – it was tough to hear Case’s hale voice even though I stood directly in front of her). The guitarist handled most of the vocals in a somewhat thin voice. A six-piece (two keyboards!), they have a great crowd-rapport and are clearly having fun. Their style sounded like someone doing covers of someone else doing covers filtered through the three-part harmonies of ‘80s pop-prog Electric Light Orchestra and the pop sensibilities of a cleaner Muffs (which are actually the sensibilities of pre-Rubber Soul Beatles). My biggest complaint about the Pornographers was them asking fifteen bucks for their CD. I always buy shit from the band to help keep gas in the tank an’ all but I’m certainly used to a better deal than that . Of course, I bought it anyway (sucker!) and made it to the redline with minutes to spare on the last outbound train to my Boston HQ. Whew! I was a little concerned because the last run is early for a metro area (12:45 AM +) and it would have been a cold walk all those miles up Mass Ave. the White Stripes, the Knoxville Girls 2/22/01 downstairs, @ the Middle East, Cambridge, MA Downstairs at the Middle East = bad. Its crowded as hell. And that’s just in the goddam line into the place! We stood out in the cold, queued down the block while it took three geniuses to collect money and afix drinking age wristbands or draw sXe X’s on the underagers. Me and the Colonel got to the venue (almost) perfectly on time but with all the dawdling at the door, we utterly missed openers the Gossip (on Kill Rock Stars, one of my fave labels). Yes, these are the hazards of Big City life: too many people packed in to too small of a place makes everything take longer and amps up your irritation factor by 8x. Man, we don’t realize how good we got it here in the ‘burque! You can barely poke through the used CD bins or pick up a loaf of wonderfully crusty Italian bread without some mook and his brothah crowdin’ ya in Bahston. It was shoulder to shoulder throughout the room -- all kinds of hipsters who’d heard some buzz about the White Stripes. Me, I missed all the buzz but merely got a recommendation by e-mail from NM that I dare not miss this show. Since Soni is my brother’s role model, we dutifully attended. If it was a disappointment to miss the Gossip, making it in on time for the Knoxville Girls was enough to make me consider suicide. This punk/indie “supergroup” consisted of four guys (sadly not a bass guitar among ‘em) that are/have been in bands like Boss Hog, Chrome Cranks, Congo Norvell, Sonic Youth, Gun Club, Bad Seeds, Cramps and more. Holy Hell! you’d think this would kick ass, wouldn’t you? Wrong again, Watson! The Knoxvilles were so messy and all the over the map, I couldn’t figure out what on earth they were aiming for. And Kid Congo Powers (vocals, third[!] lead guitar and tambourine or some shit) was an annoying bastard, making these prissy Chuck Berry faces that made you wanna haul off and punch him. This band lost me right from the start. The White Stripes saved the day, if not quite deserving of all the clamor they seem to be receiving. Don’t misunderstand, brother and sister Jack & Meg White (guitar & drums) do a brilliant take on the blues but I wouldn’t break my neck or fight crowds or knowingly dive into the seething Middle East downstairs pit over seeing them. A number of blues aficionados were in attendance (as well they should have been). It seems however that everyone knew You’re Pretty Good Looking (For a Girl) – it has a hook & a half and must’ve gotten monster airplay ‘cause the whole place was singing right along. It’s a song to be played alongside past alterna-hitmakers like Lisa Loeb, Sponge, Soul Asylum and others padding out the two buck CD bins everywhere. Jack White understands blues guitar but tweaks it just enough to not be like the standard ultra-derivative “bluesmen” around this days who suck ably. I couldn’t place his style but knew it wasn’t Chicago or Delta or Kansas City influence. A day or two later, I found my answer in a zine (zines don’t ever lie, y’know): as a teenager, he was inspired by the legendary Son House out of Detroit (coincidentally, the home of the White siblings). Hell yes! Fuck BB King. Meg took up drumming at her brother’s urging and her lack of experience showed but she kept the beat just fine, albeit basic as all get-out. To sum it up, the White Stripes made the whole downstairs experience bearable. But not by much. the Decals, Downbeat 5, Kenne Highland Band 2/23/01 @ the Abbey Lounge, Somerville, MA There’s nothing like knowing who you are and why. The Abbey is such a place. Their motto: cheap booze and rock & roll says it all (two bucks a bottle for the coldest beer I’ve ever been served—that’s rocknfuckinroll!). It’s a real neighborhood joint; a place where some guy asks you (nicely) to move because you’re on his stool. The place was full of forty/fifty year olds sporting tee shirts featuring the Zeros or Bomp! Records, mostly under worn leather jackets. I found out about this place by chance: we stumbled upon Smash City Records on trendy Newbury Street and a flier caught my eye ‘cause of the 1950s trash paperback novel graphics and the band name The Decals. How on earth can you go wrong with a name like that? So I dragged my grindcore-loving brother out because (a) its more fun when you’re with someone and (b) he had the car and knew where we were going. To his credit, he made it through the entire night (I thought I was gonna lose him early on). The Kenne Highland Band was, as many oldsters in the crowd probably used to say, a trip. The frontman looked like someone out of the Confederacy of Scum scene, only cleaner, with long grey hair and beard, the stars and bars on his cap, bare feet and, to my surprise, an MC5 t-shirt (extra points!). The singer was in her finest Ivy Rorschach regalia—long curly hair (wig), tight leggings and calf high boots but instead of Ivy’s signature guitarwork, just maracas and tambourine. The 2nd guitarist was a full-on mulletboy updated only by the buzzcut over his ears. No shoes for him either but he played in his socks. From my vantage, I couldn’t get a bead on the drummer. Not that I minded or anything… Just as we walked in they pulled out their cover of the Stooges’ 1970 TV Eye (more extra points!). I can’t say I cared as much for the rest of their southern-rock flavored set. They knew their chops even if it was the kind of shit that would make Iggy roll in his grave--if he was dead which he isn’t In any case, I felt a modicum of respect for the band because these guys were no hip scenesters recreating some romantic notion of garage rock. Its obvious they were into this from day one and I hoist a beer to them for that-- but hopefully not from that close a proximity next time. Their penultimate number was At the Rat (freely adapted from the peppy doo-wop standard At the Hop [Danny & the Juniors) talking ‘bout the glory days of that legendary Boston punk club but especially as a birthday tribute to a guy in the crowd named JJ who looked like a happier Chuck Norris and was, I was soon to learn, the axeman in the next band. At the end of the night I gladhanded him to wish a “happy fuckin’ birthday, man!” and found that he was ex-DMZ and ex-Queers. The rest of the Downbeat 5 were easily half JJ Rassler’s age but all had a good rapport with one another, especially his wife and singer/rhythm guitarist who had the make-up and hair of the Runaways’ Cherie Currie as well as the gum-snappin’ attitude. Considering all the drinks that were being foisted on him by various well-wishers, JJ’s guitar work was sharp and clean as a whistle, if a little too much so for punk rock. Then again, the sound did have more in common with the Runaways than the Ramones. By now, the place was packed with local rocknroll kids who edged most of the geezers out to the right-hand room where the actual bar was situated. And lest you think me insulting anyone by name-calling, don’t forget I’m closer to geeze-age than college-age. But I made damn sure I was right up front; nobody’s edging me out. I can be pretty tenacious for a little shit. The Decals seemed a bit unsure of themselves for a song or two but soon fell right into place. True to their age-demographic and punk-aesthetic, there was less flashy lead guitar just more straight-forward tunes which was just fine with me. Dual frontwomen Michelle Paulhus (bass, vox) and Nicole Johnson (rhythm/ second vocal) looked as if they’d be equally at home with Throwing Muses material but luckily for us, like garagerock. If I hadn’t picked up their 7” a few days before (on local Cambridge-based Fan Attic Records), I’d have done so tonight. Its only shortcoming is that there’s no Decals decal to go along with it. The Abbey is a good home to the local rocknroll kids. As for the old school regulars, I’m not sure how they feel about being crowded outta their home joint by all them young whippersnappers but you don’t make it to any venerable age without rolling with a few punches. As for me, you snot-nose kids can dance on my grave anytime as long as you rock. Pretty Cool Chair, Division ST. 2/24/01 @ Lilli’s, Somerville, MA Lilli’s is the kind of place that would be loathe to call itself a bar; club would be preferred. The layout is nice and roomy with a big stage. Too bad they couldn’t get someone else to fill it. Division St. was horrid—contemporary bar rock for contemporary people whose idea of alternative is Matthew Sweet. I’ll bet my best clothes don’t look as good as what this crowd wears to paint the living room. Pretty Cool Chair (what a name! it makes emo band names look badass) were actually not too bad if one could judge from the one song I heard; musically competent acousti-flavored alt.rock akin to Toad the Wet Sprocket. Random Road Mother 2/24/01 @ O’Brien’s, Allston, MA Ah! That’s more like it! We bailed to the pit that was O’Brien’s from the banality that was Lilli’s. The crowd here wouldn’t be caught dead there although a few smelled like they already were. Random Road Mother aren’t the most imaginative punx around but were a breath of fresh air (figuratively speaking, mind you) this night; high-octane blend somewhere in the no-man’s land between poppunk and old-school hardcore that fuels your feet to pogo and bounce around like a maniac as if you had too many Rolling Rocks. Which I had. The stage was a filthy corner, its rug patched with uncountable duct tape swatches. Spilt beer, spit and cigarette ash probably held it together just as much. O’Brien’s is about as far as you can get from the Ivy League Irish pubs and man, was I ever relieved to be there! Fuck, I sure wish I knew about this place sooner than my last night in Boston. The Blue 2/24/01 Boston, MA No trip to a major metro area is complete without a stop in Chinatown. Well, this was actually just on the outskirts but we were man-size hungry after closing O’Brien’s and this was the first open eatery we ran into. No live music here but pounding dance synth beats, lots of gold chain and Gucci threads and more Euro-trash patrons than you can wag an ethnic slur at. We waited in line a half hour to sit at the counter of the shitty little glassed-in diner they had going up front. It looked as if the interior designer began by going for the retro roadside eatery look and then ran out of money or imagination (most likely both were in short supply to begin with). Either that, or the guy really was from Europe and this was what he thought diners really looked like, much as Italian westerns manage to out-western even some of director John Ford’s finest. The food was as unpalatable as the décor (of course we ate it anyway). How the kitchen/wait crew dealt with the utter chaos behind the counter was unfathomable. But most unbelievable was the back room, the place where other patrons decked to the nines were fighting to get into, waiting in some cases for two hours, shoulder-to-shoulder. It was with some trepidation that I headed toward this Beautiful People’s Mecca to reach the bathroom. I had prepped myself for the ultimate in techno-ritz, laser-equipped mirror balls and silk-suited Iraqi ex-pats snorting lines of blow off the wonder-bra’ed breasts of symmetric Afro-Euro supermodels. It was a dive! A crummy little dive catering to the well-dressed and better-heeled; a piece-of-shit cramped ugly room serving juice spritzers to those who wanted to see and be seen. It was well worth the wait and stomach-churning Turkey-Melt sandwich to witness this deluded travesty of grandeur. And I thought the glitteratti of Santa Fe were poseurs! Small town chiselers & hacks they are, compared to this heady façade that all the Blue’s clientele bought into, have to buy into to add some excitement and importance to their miserable little lives. Now it was with hilarity that we headed back into the night to catch a few hours of sleep before my flight back to New Mexico. And to my own miserable little life. But at least mine don’t cost so much in dry-cleaning bills… The Rosebud Davis Square, Somerville MA 
Hey, who out there likes diners? Y’know, the ones with photos of Marilyn Monroe on the wall and oldies on the jukebox? Then get the fuck out of here and leave us alone. The Rosebud is the real deal. It’s a small place (forty patrons at one time would probably provoke the wrath of the fire marshals) but you’d gladly wait in line out of doors in ten degree wind chill just to slid into one of the cozy booths or sit at the counter, the best seats in the house. Diners date back in New England when horse-drawn units were pulled to various sites near factories or offices to cook for their city clientele. No, the Rosebud isn’t as old as that but its sleek streamlined design places it in the early 1940s (named from the Orson Welles classic Citizen Kane). Except for the mute television at the of end of the counter, the inside looks contemporary to the forties as well, in matchless décor. It’s spotless, well-lit and quality throughout. There’s real wood paneling and just a hint of neon. Forget retro cheeseburgers and banana splits, daddio. That’s for lesser establishments. Besides workingman’s breakfasts, the Rosebud serves up fine platters like baked ziti or roast lamb and double-decker sandwiches the size of your head. You’ll find some Tabasco-like sauce on the counter but if you ask real nice, Helen will slide you the home-made bottle marked with the big red X. That makes a New Mexico boy feel right at home. A full bar rounds out the sizable menu. Due to my brother’s loyal patronage there (the staff has yanked him right off his counter stool to wash dishes on more than one busy night), I was given the royal treatment by Billy, whose family owns the joint.All you garage-band aficionados will appreciate that on occasion Billy hung with the legendary Barbarians back in the day. Major cred! In fact, everyone in the place – from the maitre-de to the quality counter staff to the stellar kitchen crew—made me feel like I was family. And for a few days, I was. |
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Wig Wam Bam (by Captain America PO BX 4865 Albq NM 87196 captainamerica1941@hotmail.com) |
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| Wig Wam Bam is written by Captain America |
po box 4865 | albuquerque, nm 87196 |
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