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Issue # 40 Aug 2002 thewigwambam.com |
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| Ignoring Objectivity Since 1998
WIG WAM BAM “Albuquerque zine of music & nepotism” |
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| The Warlocks, Rasputina, Pilot to Bombardier,
The Pine, June Kilz, Second in Command, The Phase, Brave New World, Original
Sinners, Wayne Kramer, Mother Superior, X-It, Black Eagle Singers |
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7/16/02 @ Launchpad submitted by Lester the Molester Cedell Davis, Tuatara, the Minus Five 7/20/02 @ the Launchpad submitted by Dee Snarl Original Sinners 7/21/02 @ Launchpad submitted by Dee Snarl Wayne Kramer, Mother Superior 7/22/02 @ Launchpad contributed by Dee Snarl |
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| LOCAL
SHOWS |
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| the Warlocks 7/2/02 @ the Paramount, Santa Fe Whoever booked this show ought to be shot. The Warlocks are masters of the psyche-rock revival while Santa Fe’s D-list (or D-members or D-something, I can’t remember) are tepid white-boy jam-funk, more like a D-minus I’d say. We rolled into the Paramount by 9/ 9:30 since in my experience, shows there start & end early. Wrong again, Watson! The D-guys (whatever) went on at 10-10:30 and didn’t relent until almost midnight. It was excruciating, enough to drive a man to drink--which we did. Even worse the hometown fans encouraged the band by “dancing”, flailing around in that slow-motion Deadhead-without-a cause way. The guitarist even echoed Jerry Garcia’s early 80s whump-whump-whump half-hearted funk effects. In retrospect, however, that was the period when Garcia had just slipped into being a full-on junkie. Good thing Jerry wasn’t around tonight ‘cause I would’ve asked him to hit me up with some “H” to escape the never-ending D-boys. And strangely enough there’s a link here because the name “the Warlocks” was the Grateful Dead’s previous name (good thing the current Warlocks didn’t go one more name back in Dead history to Mother Macree’s Uptown Jug Champions!). But it doesn’t stop there; the present Warlocks are from San Francisco too (Shades of the Haight! ) and their music is actually the best of that scene. That is, when garage rock had already turned past the innocent joss-stick psychedelia towards the first inklings of godamn the pusher man heaviness, when flower children began trading their hash pipes for syringes (the only outstanding difference in hippies being junkies was that their clothing was alot more colorful than the addicted brothers down in Watts). With three guitars, a bassist and (once again like the Dead) two drummers the Warlocks filled the place up with some great noise that vanquished the opening act’s good-vibes horseshit. This is a terrific band, one of the best I’ve seen in ages, certainly the best rock to hit Satan Fe in years. They’re so good you don’t even notice that some songs top fifteen minutes. But it wasn’t senseless noodling: there was a framework of melody to hang the heavy guitar variations on. It put me in the mind of the MC5--oops--I mean the DC5: that’s right, the Dave Clark Five looking for an uncollapsed vein for another shot of morphine. Rasputina 7/4/02 @ the Pulse I guess I’m naïve because (1) although I’ve been following Rasputina since their 1996 debut Thanks For the Ether, it never occurred to me to call them “goth” and (2) I had no idea so many people knew who they are! The Pulse is a bummer for grown-ups (ahem) at all-ages shows: floor-to-ceiling chain link separating the youngsters in black lipstick, wet-look rubber corsets and stab-me-baby stiletto heels from the awful influence of us tippling adults. I was pleasantly surprised by the stiffest bourbon & soda I’ve ever been served. Downing it quickly, I felt just fine, no need for another as I moved into the all-age cage and squirmed my way towards the stage. The entire place was packed with goth-kids, industrialists, rock n’ rollers, and people of all kinds who appreciate wonderful and peculiar music. The best label for Rasputina I’ve heard to date: industrial romanticism. It’s full of disparate elements being rockin’, danceable, brilliantly original and light-hearted even amidst all the dark themes and runny-mascara eyed babes and boys. Although they play fully (and skillfully) as a band (three cellists and a drummer), there’s no doubt it’s Melora Creager’s baby. Like Chrissie Hynde and her Pretenders, the name stays with Creager no matter the current line-up. Tonight there were only two cello-playing women in Victorian underwear on stage, Melora and latest member Kris Coperthwaite (no word on what became of Nana Bornant, second chair since 1998). Although the lyrics have always been a bit dark (eighteenth-century sweatshop workers trapped in a factory fire, the cannibalistic Donner party, orphans, gingerbread coffins, or [most horrible of all!] supermodel Kate Moss), Creager has a playful and disarmingly humorous stage presence. Good thing because most of the deathly-pallor’ed crowd took things too seriously. Just minutes before they were all dancing like crazy for the pre-show DJ tunes. Not unlike your mohawk-punker who looks average as hell at their day-job, I couldn’t help but think that most of this crowd is, during daylit hours, about as dark as the latest issue of Details. Rasputina covered all stages of their repertoire and tossed in covers from the likes of Led Zeppelin (Been A Long Time), Twisted Sister (We’re Not Gonna Take It), Pat Benatar (Fire & Ice) and maybe one or two more I didn’t recognize. The sounds they create are rare and marvelous, more powerful and present live than anything they’ve yet captured on CD. According to Creager, a cello really can’t produce a chord unless two or three cellists play together. So, playing chord-based guitar rock (without the guitar) is no simple task but they pull it off effortlessly and with grace, befitting their status as elegant and well-disposed members of the Ladies Cello Society. Rasputina played an exceptional if too short set, easily one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. Pilot to Bombardier, The Pine, June Kilz 7/12/02 @ the Launchpad The two piece (guitar & drum) June Kilz is-- to put it charitably --in need of more practice. The timing was off and things were out of tune but not in that purposeful punk out-of-tune way. Wavering betwixt Kurt Cobain and Lou Barlow it was hard to tell what was being aimed at. To his credit, I’ve seen Jeremy June all around the scene here since the Pleistocene era when Scared of Chaka roamed the earth. Speaking of Barlow, the Pine played an admirable set which was the very best of indie (without being new-indie discordant emotive madness) kind of post-REM, pre-Sebadoh. It was pretty impressive for the most part. Pilot to Bombardier have added a second guitar, Miguel having passed his bass duties on. They’re still the best at what they do but the danger in going from a trio to a quartet is that it threatens their crisp sound that has always stood out from the burgeoning crowd of bands that have a similar aesthetic (Oh Ranger, Crash Kills Four, Mistletoe, Jet Black Summer…). This newest wave of indie rock seems to be going for heavier songs, soaring & crashing every which way that just gets me lost. That said, plenty people must have their map and compass ‘cause they seem to follow it just fine. What can I say, I’m old & stupid and like repetition in my rock n’ roll so I can dance without throwing my back out trying to follow the many-angled tunes. Second in Command, the Phase, Brave New World 7/19/02 @ Launchpad It was family night at the ‘pad where it I think you weren’t allowed in the door without a relative of some kind, there being brothers, sisters, cousins and even a mom in attendance all immediately or peripherally connected to the Phase who, in honor, pulled out the stops tonight. Zed Bolan was breakin’ mikes much to the consternation of the sound crew. I’ve never seen guitar-player Ice move around so much either! Then again it could’ve been the various objects that a visiting Andrea was tossing in her direction throughout the set, in that old Dave Hernandez spirit of yore. Elton won the James Beard Award of Excellence tonight for pulling double culinary shifts before his drumming duties while Felice was cookin’ just as well on the bass. There’s a new tune that pays homage to --well, -- outright steals a riff from the Damned’s 1976 classic single New Rose. That’s our Ice! Steal from the best I always say… Second In Command are a combo of emo & thrash and Brave New World were tight and metally but appeared nothing new to me. Its obvious Brave New World practices a lot--they knew just what they were doing which was heavy riffage. But as together as both of these bands are, neither really do anything for my rocknroll heart. I mean, the Boston Pops Symphony is tight but that don’t mean I gotta like it. Original Sinners 7/21/02 @ Launchpad The entire chapter of the local Exene Cervenka Appreciation Society turned out for this show especially because the buzz was to expect much more from the Original Sinners than her previous group Auntie Christ (who were horribly disappoint-ing with their Spirit of ’77 ditties, a few years late for the early 90s Punk Revival Tent Show). Good thing we were all there because the crowd, not as big as we’d hoped, was as small as we’d expected. No one really knows or cares who she is these days now that Jawbreaker is considered old school… Right from note one it was apparent that the Sinners took their cues from X without being outright derivative; it seemed she was merely writing songs in her old style, minus the partnership of John Doe. The twangier-flavored tunes sort of fell flat as these were always more successfully Doe’s territory than Exene’s. Sam Soto’s leads were in the vein of Billy (X) Zoom but again not so much ripped off as just from the same school of trying to be more rock n’ roll than rock n’ roll actually ever was. Ex-Distillers’ bassist Kim Chi was solid throughout but more notable I guess for being an ex-member than trying to be an X member if you know what I mean. All in all, it was a fun-filled if not overlong set. Not entirely uneXpected, the Sinners pulled out an X cover for the encore, the not-quite-classic Because I Do (opening tune of side two of 1982’s Under the Big Black Sun LP). An X cover to placate the crowd who were clamoring for more..? Starting pretty late, maybe a half-hour after the opening act, the Original Sinners played a short-ass set, seemingly much less material than their 13-track CD (on Nitro Records, thank christ all that Offspring money is going for at least one worthwhile artist !). Being not much younger than Exene I can relate to maybe being tired by that time of night and wanting to wrap up but that is her job after all. Or maybe when you have the rep, it doesn’t matter how long you play as much as the fact that you do at all. Wayne Kramer, Mother Superior 7/22/02 @ Launchpad In contrast to Exene, Our Lady of Los Angeles, Wayne Kramer didn’t attempt to appease this even smaller crowd with much in the style of his band of thirty years ago, the semi-political MC5 (you can almost hear the kids saying “MC who? What clubs does he scratch at?”). Actually it was disappointing that Kramer played the 5’s most well-known anthem Kick Out the Jams; I mean, how obvious can you get? Still, he had a good sense of humor and relaxed stage presence even while looking like the chair of your local school board. The set was uneven to say the least; starting out with some sing-songy Neil Young-y stuff (what the fuck?!). Soon enough, there was a decent amount of good Detroit-style rock but interspersed with some music-backed spoken-word story stuff that lost me. It lost most of the crowd too: every time I turned around, it was smaller than before. But the old Detroit spirit got my hips shaking, my personal yardstick for rockn’roll from back when dancing was the point; not some intellectual appreciation but an excuse to meet that cutie from seventh period without the horror of having to conversate too much right off the bat. Rock and roll back then was new enough to have multiple influences, everything from Tin Pan Alley and Jazz to Soul and even Rosemary Clooney, not rock as it is nowadays when the sole influence is other rock like Slayer or (god help us) Kiss. As per her usual, Kamille pulled everyone in the immediate vicinity into being her dance partner for a song or three. Hardly ever (ahem) one to be shy, she was soon up on stage go-go-girl’ing to Kramer’s obvious delight. That’s our Kamille, the one-woman Rock And Roll Welcome Wagon! Don’t expect any intelligent or informed commentary from me on Mother Superior who sounded like an un-blues-based Led Zeppelin with--I’m not sure which--either more or less integrity (not that I think Zep had any to begin with). Muscle-y drums, funk-lite bass and buzzrock leads, the word is Mother Superior back Henry Rollins too (no fucking comment there from me which is I guess a comment in itself). Someone in the crowd pointed out some early Aerosmith comparisons which didn’t sweeten the deal for me by any means. To their (wank) guitar player’s credit, he played his own full set and then jumped up for rhythm duty with Wayne, exhibiting remarkable restraint by holding back in deference to Kramer who, if not a true master, then someone who could kick dude’s leather-loving ass with a Fender behind his back. All in all, though, I was happy to hear Kramer’s legend live, the guy on the only record I own with a marijuana leaf on the cover (Kick Out the Jams) that I don’t hide deep in my stacks. X-It, Black Eagle Singers 7/27/02 @ Civic Plaza, Summerfest Indian Night on the Civic Plaza and the place was full of ‘skins, most of them old enough to remember firsthand the rez-rock of X-It. Not to take anything away from the band’s success (they were ground-breaking in their day, the first all- Native-American band to play with modern rock sounds –that is, 1978 bar-room rock which isn’t saying much), tonight they sounded just as horrid and boring as they did back then, mainstream rock with hide-drums and eagle-bone whistles; the trite and true formula for every Indian rock band since-- and more to come I’m sure. When the first line of the first song of first set name-drops Christopher Columbus, you know just what you’re in for. C’mon, that’s such an easy target, like Hitler denounced by the American Council of Rabbis. Not that it isn’t vital to Native America (their memories are far longer than us white-eyes) but to paraphrase the old adage, what’s been done to you lately? Which brings up why I even showed here in the first place, to hear the word-from-the-street, the hip-hop of Natay and TNT, True Native Thugz. Contemporary (as in kidz) Indian voices, the real shit, dawg. Of course, showing how important those voices are to anyone, they were stuck a block and a half away on some side stage and the bastard announcers on the main stage didn’t have the decency to announce what was going on there or that the second stage even existed. Its true: Hip-hop is the modern version of punk rock. Who cares what these kids have to say (and how they say it)? Maybe they’ll grow up and get over it… So I walked around the plaza during X-It’s uneventful set wondering what was up until I ran into TNT rapper Da Roze who clued me that I missed their set. At that point, there was nothing left for me to stick around for…except the hipster brunette who recognized my Bikini Kill T-shirt. |
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| LOCAL
CONTRIBUTORS |
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| Even during World War II, Captain America
couldn’t go it alone, he had his swingin’ sidekick Bucky. And here in Wig
Wam Bam we are proud to present a swingin’ section featuring…. Robert Randolph and the Family Band 7/16/02 @ the Launchpad submitted by Lester the Molester Having never heard Robert Randolph and the Family Band nor having any clue as to what type of music he plays, my expectations for this show involved hanging out and drinking with some friends at the Launchpad. Seeing as how there was no opening band, hanging out and drinking was pretty much what everyone was doing because there was no live music happening. On my way into the show I saw the flyer of the band (a picture of an African American dude sitting down in front of his band playing some kind of stringed instrument on his lap) and that in combination with all the long haired, patchouli smelling motha’s in the crowd, the comparison to Ben Harper was inevitable in my head, as least by appearance alone. Finally the music started and I promise that Robert Randolph plays some mean gospel 13 string pedal steel guitar (do they all have 13 strings?). His family band includes organ and a great rhythm section of bass and drums, one that would easily rival Mr. Harper’s pounding backing band. The music was great and I had already had a few too many so I was having a wonderful head-bobbing time, as was the rest of the crowd. The two hour set was full of long instrumental jams with few lyrics (some by Robert but most by his soul singing bass man, Danyel Morgan) and all of it was up beat and groovin’, which sent those long-haired patchouli-wearing bad-asses into what some might call a drug induced dancing frenzy, which was also one of the low points of the show. On a song called The March, Robert Randolph went a little overboard with a simple “macarena-esque” dance, like the crowd really needed the extra cattle prodding to dance. But the dancing aside, the music was fantastic, in fact I vaguely remember a twenty minute jam beginning as a Robert Randolph original but somewhere in the middle mutating into Jimi Hendrix, then Black Sabbath, and back into Hendrix before ending in the original style. The music was so good I was inspired to actually buy a CD at the show, which I haven’t done since, huh, um, I saw, ugh, U2 in Seattle last year (the CD at that show was of the sexy opening beast, P.J. Harvey.) A word of advice: Don’t ever ask a Robert Randolph fan if there is the slightest comparison to Ben Harper, they might kick your innocent question-asking ass...even if the driving rhythm sections and long drawn out jams involving mutated classic rock songs are a little similar. But in the end, boy-howdy, was that was some good mother fucking, foot stomping, gospel shit, it almost makes me want to rejoice. Cedell Davis, Tuatara, the Minus Five 7/20/02 @ the Launchpad submitted by Dee Snarl Okay, let’s get a couple things out of the way right now. I’m sure many of you are way too punk to care about any rock stars whatsoever (except for possibly the “stars” of whatever sub-genre you swear undying allegiance to). And that probably goes double for a member of R.E.M. That’s cool – I’m not going to try to change your mind; in fact, I definitely respect that, and share it to a large degree (though I do find it problematic). So, disclaimer: This review concerns people who have released “product” on major labels, appeared on MTV, slept in hotels, ate food, you name it. There may even be some fawning and/or name-dropping. If that offends you, you may wish to skip to the next review, or even do something real punk to this page of this zine right now, like maybe poop on it. Oh, and as you follow my career, you may notice that I’m full of hypocritical bullshit as I bash on someone else (say, the Shins [hey! it’s a good album, but I didn’t go to high school with those guys or whatever; I’ll tell it like it is – anyway, did you read what they said about the Abq scene in Big Takeover? Not flattering…]) for being corporate weasels. My clear and well-reasoned response to that is… what, I’m on trial here?! Fuhgedaboutit!! Still with me? Great. This whole package, I believe, was organized largely by Barrett Martin, formerly drummer for the Screaming Trees. There seemed to be about 15 people who took the stage in various permutations throughout the night, including Barrett, Scott McCaughey (best known as leader of Young Fresh Fellows), and Peter Buck, guitarist for R.E.M. I missed Wayward Shamans, theoretically Barrett Martin and some percussionist from Cuba, though I understand that, too, was played as a band. I caught just a couple songs from the Minus Five, led by Scott McCaughey – power-pop a bit reminiscent of the Replacements (who I compare about a million bands to, when I can’t peg them). Sounded like a particular stripe of generic (not in a bad way) early-mid Nineties Northwest indie-alternative (hint: Minus Five often includes ex-Posies). Rock star moment: There were like 10 audience members at that point, and as the set ended, Peter Buck climbed down and shook hands with three of us and thanked us for being up front. At this, I immediately grew sympathetic wood for my wife. See, I like R.E.M. a lot, but she is a total freak. She couldn’t make the show, because she’s pregnant, and of course pregnant women may never leave the house. Also, that was, I believe, my biggest celebrity moment (one time I met Scotty from Star Trek!) Further note: Peter Buck is R.E.M.’s resident rocker, as evidenced by: (sometimes) long(ish) hair, plays guitar (occasionally, ahem, mandolin), generally looks like he’d kind of rather be playing with, say, Aerosmith, and especially, recently drank 15 glasses of wine on a flight to England and got arrested for getting way, way out of line. Rock ‘n’ Roll!! I chatted up Barrett Martin for a few (not my forte, but I had spent a couple years of childhood in hick town Ellensburg, Washington, where his unsung-heroes-of-grunge Screaming Trees hail from, and met my wife when we were going to a Trees show with mutual friends, but skipped it in order to hook up instead, so I had something to say besides, “Uh, I like your music.”) Far from a grunge refugee, Barrett looked (& acted) like the first chair drummer for a university’s Jazz Band I: closely trimmed beard, shirt tucked in, etc. (he was very nice). That serious and professional vibe continued into Tuatara’s set. Not really rock at all, they (all) played a kind of free jazz/world/lounge (there were vibes) hybrid. Imageless, it reminded me (again) of the world’s most kick-ass Music School combo after a round of margaritas. Awesome musicianship all around. I recall a peak of maybe 30 people in the crowd. No star turns, everyone was (ulp) groovin’ to the innovative and energetic music offered. The guy next to me pointed out that the bari sax player was none other than R.E.M.’s Mike Mills! Well, it wasn’t; it was a woman, but hey! they share a certain androgynous look, and the atmosphere was getting heady. We were told repeatedly from the stage to stick around for the real treat: Cedell Davis. I’d never heard of him either, but he’s an ancient bluesman who has worked with Fat Possum. He’s in his 70s, in a wheelchair, and his right arm was crippled by polio when he was ten, so he plays guitar left-handed, gripping a butter knife Bob Dole-style, which he uses to play a sort of slide. After the lushness of Tuatara, it was different to see a set of stripped-down blues, if you can call a stage containing up to ten people stripped down. Really, though, the sound was very traditional, except that Cedell’s guitar solos were discordant and dissonant; far be it from me to suggest that was due as much to lack of range-of-motion as to artiness. Cedell was definitely a full-on old man, and was convinced, for example, that he was in Santa Fe (that didn’t faze me, as I cut my teeth watching Lionel Hampton, who is about 154). Still, he was treated with great respect all around, even as the already sparse audience trickled out the door. In fact, despite the star power in the room and all that shit, that was my lasting impression of the evening: As the show ended, and I may have been the very last actual audience member in attendance, I stood watching as one member of the entourage squatted next to Cedell, with his arm around him, just talking and listening with the old weathered bluesman. It could have been the final frames of a Bergman film, and as the credits rolled, R.E.M., the Young Fresh Fellows, and the lot of them faded from prominence, and what was left was the real and important impression of working musicians supporting one of their own as he drifted from near-obscurity down the long and well-traveled road to oblivion. Original Sinners 7/21/02 @ Launchpad submitted by Dee Snarl I missed None of the Above, so ended up sitting around for what seemed hours listening to some “old-schoolers” regaling us youngsters with tales of “back in the day.” When the Original Sinners came on, it was to a not-quite-embarrassingly-small crowd (maybe 50?). They include Exene Cervenka, ex-Distillers Kim Chi (bass) and Mat Young (drums), and a couple other guys. Their sound was really not dissimilar to X: cowpunk, rockabilly thing going on, even sometimes the trademark male/female vox. The music was cool and the band was personable, until about a half hour into it. After some usual banter/fine-tuning with the soundman, Exene snapped at him, “Stop fucking with the monitors! ” or something. A small thing, perhaps, but it made me lose my boner. One of the guys, off-mike, said, “He had it coming,” perhaps to excuse her outburst, and maybe he did, but can we not yell at each other, please? (said in Adam Sandler voice). Really, though, let’s keep it light; I’m sure we’re all doing the best we can. And I wouldn’t even mention it, except… then they quit! Thirty minutes! Uh, this isn’t CBGB’s, and you’re neither the Ramones nor hardcore. I mean, I don’t expect Springsteen, but I did pay eight bucks here. Was this because they were pissed at the soundguy? Then, to add insult to injury, the band hovered at the back door while some roadie implored us to go nuts and stuff, for one more. I know you gotta do what you gotta do, especially with a crowd way too small to maintain an encore-worthy ovation, but I respect the dignity of bands that skip that silly game one way or another. Anyway, they came on and played an X song whose name escapes me. To sum up: good show, too short, don’t cheese out. Wayne Kramer, Mother Superior 7/22/02 @ Launchpad contributed by Dee Snarl Mother Superior. Mother mother mother mother… Superior. You know, these guys pretty much suck. And I don’t come to that conclusion lightly. But let me back up. I first saw these guys about a year and a half ago. They opened for Rollins Band at the Sunshine, and then they were Rollins Band; Henry used them as his backing band. They’re from like Sunset Strip, and it shows: big glammy hesher influence. The vocalist/guitarist/leader Jim Wilson wears a black leather cap with chain, a la Rob Halford. He also plays wanky, wah-wah laden guitar solos while making a face that says, “Ah yeah, shit yeah, baby! ” I thought they sucked then, but they were surprisingly inoffensive as Rollins Band; they fit in Henry’s vibe much better than I’d feared. Fast forward to now. Same cap, same goofy faces, same ‘70s shit-boogie. Which is where I hit a snag. I like (old) Aerosmith, I like Guns’N’Roses. Really, I do. So why are these guys different? I just don’t know. Is it because they don’t have an established pedigree? Is it because I see them in venues and with acts I associate with punk rock? Maybe. All I know is I kept on laughing as I watched them, and I wasn’t laughing with them, I was laughing at them. Which made me think: Is this performance art? Is there some kind of irony here so thick, I’m missing it (think Makers, loyal readers)? No. These guys just fully wanna rock in the most cheesy, sub-Black Crowes way possible. Then the thought hit me that they would be Wayne’s band, as per Hank, and I was petrified. But I was only half right: Leader Jim played backing guitar there, and that was it. And, again, he was entirely competent. I suspect these guys have great futures as L.A. session players. I subscribe to the old ‘80s metal axiom: “I respect anyone with the balls (sic) to get on stage…” etc. but I sure the hell wouldn’t pay to see Mother Superior again. Now, Wayne Kramer. He looks like your dad, if your dad wasn’t so fat and looked more like Bruce Willis. And he’s obviously very proud of his tenure with the MC5, and retains much of their radical and populist politics. The music’s way different, though: He did bust out a few of the old gems, even leading the (about 15 strong) crowd (y’know, it’s gotta be frustrating to be a promoter in Albuquerque, bring in three such kick-ass acts for three nights in a row [count ‘em!], and have the total audience not even approach the amount of people I saw in line on the 20th [Tuatara-night, for those keeping score] at the El Rey for, er, the Felonious Groove Foundation) in the most complex and ambitious singalong I’ve ever seen at a show (he divided us into three halves! not two, three! ), even if he did spend about five times as long giving us directions and rehearsing us as actually “performing” our little set piece. The new(er) stuff, though: Some was almost Sprinsteenesque, some was angular like Wire, and some was pretty-pure pop. A few were a kind of spoken word thing, lyrically post-Beat, and sonically reminiscent of MC 900 Ft. Jesus, or some Nomeansno. Great show – too bad more didn’t make it out to represent! |
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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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