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Issue # 45 Jan 2003 thewigwambam.com |
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| Ignoring Objectivity Since 1998
WIG WAM BAM “Albuquerque zine of music & nepotism” |
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| No Doubt, Garbage, the Distillers, the
Eyeliners, 12-Step Rebels, the Groovie Ghoulies, the Dirty Novels, Klouse,
Oktober People, the Mindy Set, the Telephones, Unit 7 Drain, the Dirty Novels,
Calvin Johnson, Little Wing, Black Maria, the Dirty Novels, Icky & the
Yuks, Electric Eel Shock, the Telephones, The Trashbrats, the Epoxies, the
Sweatband, Klouse, Defy, Summer’s End, the Black Grass, the Long Goners,
Hazeldine |
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Sing Along Songs [CD-R 2002] Defy [CD-R 2002] |
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2215 Lead SE |
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| LOCAL
SHOWS |
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No Doubt, Garbage, the Distillers 11/20/02 @ Tingley Coliseum The closest I’ve ever come to the Distillers before was when two members joined Exene’s Original Sinners at the Launch-pad earlier this year. Come to think of it, although tonight it was the full group I was even further away, at the opposite end of the cavernous Coliseum. Couldn’t recognize any of ‘em on stage, like looking through the wrong end of the binoculars. They were fully audible though and came across as a less-melodic Nirvana which is better than it sounds. Garbage were spot-on from start to finish, having at last turned into a real rock band that doesn’t try to emulate their techno/electro album sound onstage unlike their show at this same venue in support of the Smashing Pumpkins back about 1997 (it never really worked live). Although the blips, bleeps and beats--apart from Shirley Manson’s voice-- are what distinguishes Garbage, its not easily or advisedly duplicated in a live setting unless you settle for pre-fab lip-sync ala Titney Spears. There were no new tunes but I knew each one well which is imperative in arena shows with fuzzy and echo-filled acoustics. In gigs of this size, if you don’t know the songs chances are you may not catch the hooks that make them unique. Garbage kicked ass from the outset and showed that their songs can stand on their own live. Of course they’ve had to ‘sell out’ to a certain degree to ‘make it’ but they don’t and have never pandered. The same cannot be said of No Doubt. Gwen Stefani pimped blatantly enough to be booked on soliciting charges. They started strong with three top-ten hits from each album (their first release when still a bar-band doesn’t count) but just as quickly lost it with mawkish sentiment and forced sing-along crapola. Gwen even held up her own goddamn lighter along with the crowd--shameless! The giant video screen grabbed a little attention with slick production values but soon there was nothing left to hold together. There were moments when Stefani had our undivided attention but then lost it by grabbing for more when her arms were already full. No Doubt are due some props for hanging together for about fifteen years but Stefani was looking like desperate aged diva Norma Desmond right out of the classic Sunset Boulevard, with vicious layers of make-up and here poor little Gwen only thirty-two. There weren’t as many thugz in the crowd as I expected, what with Stefani’s popular video duet with Rough Rider Eve. I think the hip-hop kids figured out early on that she and the boys are a pack of wiggers. Even her Moby-duet fanbase contingent wasn’t in strong force. And in the ethnic slur of the evening, as always, the “Stepin Fetchit” dudes on horns and keys were an embarrassment as dancers with the worst rhythm ever seen from a brother. Even before the encore it was already too late to regain what little excitement ND had managed to muster. Stefani had the crowd on their feet or waving arms when she said so but it was pure Pavlov, not inspired nor sustained by its own momentum. Their “progression” from third-wave ska-pop phenoms to the sophomore oh-shit-I’m turning-thirty-what-do-I-do-now to their overwhelmingly lackluster dub reggae/faux dancehall newest represents this third-rate show as well as anything. My biggest surprise was spotting a gal I’ve seen countless times in town at grindcore shows (Hi, Kim!) who traded in her black tee tonight for powder blue. She’s not the only one who told me she loved the ND set so once again, what the fuck do I know. In any case, no matter how much I defend my presence by Garbage, I gotta admit I was curious to see where No Doubt is these days. I’m certain this observation couldn’t possibly be original, I’d hafta say that musically, they’re fully wracked with doubt. the Eyeliners, 12-Step Rebels 11/23/02 @ Launchpad The 12-Step Rebels get better ever time but still have lots more promise. Stand-up bass and hollowbody electric are a great team in front of that slapping drum backbeat. An old split CD is soon being re-pressed but I’m hoping for some new shit too. They’re not quite smokin’ yet but like a caveman rubbing two sticks together, 12 Step might soon ignite. A sub-par mix did little to hurt the Eyeliners tonight who tore out the most enjoyable set of theirs here in ages. This is the first gig I’ve seen with Laura off the stool and only on the mike. She was an able pogo-frontwoman. I’m not certain who pulled drum duty. All I could hear was his floor tom and a steady tap-tap-tap that sounded like a click track; not sure what was up with that. Los hermanas Bacas seemed happy to be back again. While I can do without the “Are you ready to rock, Albuquerque!” shtick, I was glad they were back too. It was more a show and less like an act, reminding me of the old days: hangin’ out at Circle T Burger, cruisin’ Sosimo Padilla Boulevard--no wait! they grew up in Belen, not me. Anyway, I spotted a few familiar old faces from their shows since the beginning: everyone’s favorite bouncer Leonard, some leather jacket pogo punks, a couple of the requisite dirty old men, etc. Even though its not a bad tune at all, I was hoping we could get away without that “yeah, yeah, yeah” song for once but they pulled it out for the encore. Just before that however was Too Good to Be True, one of their best, their most literate, and just about my favorite. the Groovie Ghoulies, the Dirty Novels, Klouse 11/26/02 @ Launchpad The thing about dirty novels is that you usually wanna skip forward to “the good parts”. In the case of the Dirty Novels debut, its all good parts, no filler and with a prudent editor to boot. All that’s missing is a sleazy picture on the cover. If I had to do an oral book report in front of the class, I’d say, “This is my favorite book that I read all year. I would like to read it again. The end”. It would be too easy to lump the Novels into the Nuggets garage/mod thing. Although that’s where this music begins, they have more taste, discretion and restraint than some neighborhood guys in1966 piling up cheap amps next to dad’s Impala playing Kingsmen covers. Only a dozen full practices in for this local band, the Dirty Novels are tighter than you’d have a right to expect. This style of music never sounded so new. The Groovie Ghoulies are the best at what they do, that is, Lookout!-style pop punk (as well as the goofball Famous Monsters of Filmland thing) and I always love seeing ‘em but this time it took me half a set to tune in after the excellence of the Dirty Novels (who clearly took Best of Show tonight). But Kepi, Roach and Scampi (vocals/bass, guitar and drums) are so happy and loveable that I of course got swept up into their bouncy pogo tunes. This wasn’t their best set (all-ages gigs are where they shine) but they’re reliable and you really have to work at it to not to have a good time at Ghoulie shows. Openers Klouse sort of started from the same vantage, old school punk but with more yelling than shiny happy pop. Un-like the Ghoulies, their songs weren’t well contained; some could’ve been cut by half. Too, anyone would pale in comparison to what followed. Oktober People, the Mindy Set, the Telephones 11/27/02 @ Golden West With the new black draperies in the Golden West’s windows (winterizing or noise ordinance compliance?) its sad you can’t see who’s on stage from the street anymore. I almost didn’t go in because of the smooth commercial soulfunk wafting into the street. Turns out it was an early show by some group whose name I never caught. Not that I wanted to. The bass player had some good Alphonso Johnson funk going on but too bad he was backing the type of MOR music that Stevie Wonder was making on his slow & painful decline into mediocrity (Secret Life of Plants anyone?). They certainly had the “pro” angle down; it took about a half-hour for them to load out, taking a good portion of the PA with them. Some gal who I guess was their manager made the rounds with a mailing list. Not sure what possessed me but I joined, maybe to keep a little eye on what stuff the Golden’s management would prefer to book. Mindy Jill looked sorry for me when I told her I signed up but hey, that’s the role of a crusading rock journalist! I signed so you won’t have to. Just like those guys in the old WWII movies that throw themselves on a live grenade to save their platoon. A regular war hero, that’s what I am… After dicking around for awhile (a good while), the Telephones kicked things up about eighteen notches. They were formerly known as somebody-or-another (oh yeah, like that’s gonna help you, dear reader) but this was their first set with everyone’s party-bud Darryl behind the drums. That bastard! how come I never knew he was one of those middle-school kids who locked himself in his room and practiced his beats while Mom helplessly pounded on the door, pleading him to cut out that racket? It was a raucous set, some noisy old punk coupled with the best of nu-rocknroll; y’know, that vein currently being mined to death by the White Strokes and the International Hives Conspiracy. In the Telephones’ case, that’s not a bad thing mind you; there’s plenty of us out here who are damn glad to have a little rocknroll back in our rocknroll. They cleared out the ghost of the bad soulpop that preceded them. The Telephones. Pick it up: its for you… If the Mindy Set get any better I’m gonna freak out. I mean it! They started with the song they usually close with. A high bar was set right there but they cleared it effortlessly. This was all the more interesting as both Jill and Matt told me they couldn’t hear jackshit on stage. If they can play this good without hearing what’s going on, think of what will happen when they can. I’m not sure I’ll be able to take it! The Mindy Set are one of the only bands around that understand how to play a song over three minutes without it turning into a wank fest. Tonight was also Alarm Clock Isaac’s animated debut on the keys; too bad he was the one I could hardly hear from my front & center vantage point. Damn! The last (and first) time I saw Oktober People at the NM Showcase two months ago, I was impressed with their stripped-down “unplugged” emo approach. Not so tonight ‘cause it was full-on loudass emo rock. The biggest disappointment was that Zac didn’t come out of the crowd and hang himself from the heating unit in front of the stage as he threatened to do if he heard another emo set. I dunno, but it would’ve been a class end, being his birthday and all… Unit 7 Drain, the Dirty Novels 11/29/02 @ Launchpad There were about eight billion other bands playing the Annual Socyermom Turkey Purge but being the social butterfly I am (probably more like crawly larva), I only caught two acts between talking shit to the front room full of drunken scenesters. The Dirty Novels only got three songs which weren’t quite as tight as a few nights ago but the set was still more than worthwhile. Ernie and Paul’s vocals didn’t come through in the mix very well; my usual spot front & center for bands that I prefer is not the best location for good sound but its hard to toss shit at your friends onstage when you’re in back of the room. Unit 7 Drain hammered out a frenzied set towards the end of the night which was happily in the style they do best: indie thrash without the emo muck. Harry was rolling around on the stage floor, not the most savory of places but a tasty touch all the same. Other than that, I caught about thirty seconds of Foma’s last number. That bummed me out because I haven’t heard them for weeks, not since Rage Against Ray’s first couple of sets drumming with the band. The overhead video play-by-play sports announcer (Sausage Hang?) dealie-o with the Launchpad News Team was a fun idea. It lost a little in the translation for me since I hate fuckin’ team sports. But it was well done, adding to the festive atmosphere. A cold turkey sandwich with mustard would’ve hit the spot. Calvin Johnson, Little Wing 12/2/02 @ mecca Calvin Johnson’s long-standing K Records indie-cred notwithstanding, it’s a thin line between punks and hippies up there in the northwest. Black Maria, the Dirty Novels, Icky & the Yuks 12/6/02 @ Burt’s Contrary to popular belief this wasn’t the “official” re-opening of Burt’s Tiki Lounge but an extended surprise birthday party for bass-heroine Melissa (feliz cumpleanos!). How the news of the party was kept secret from her was just as much of a surprise. A couple days after I was handed an invite, I was getting e-mails from Alibi staffers and the other usual suspects about “the word” that Burt’s was open for business tonight. I guess it was a pre-opening rather than a re-opening. No matter. It was a great party with LJ’s hors d’oeuvres, b-day cake and hipsters so thick you could cut ‘em with a knife. That is, if you cared to. Told it would start earlier, I should’ve known better that the musical portion of the programme was gonna be delayed for as long as possible. Finally the Yucks took the stage and woke me up (unaccustomed as I am to starting my drinking before 10PM) with their signature smut rock, destroying any shred of decency in their path. Not a pretty sight, to be sure. The Dirty Novels played and looked sharp in a crowd-pleaser set. To the untrained eye, it would appear that the Novels are another in the recent spate of bands that even has such journalistic swill as Spin proclaiming the return of rockn’roll. Rubbish. Paul el jefe has had the finest in rockn’roll taste for far longer than I’ve known him. I don’t still proudly wear my Chinese Love Beads patch for nothing. I keep hearing it said that the Novels sound like the Rolling Stones. This is half-apt, and only good as far as Stones LPs before they played into Their Satanic Majesties hype. But lucky for us all, its more a Keith sound we’re hearing from the Novels than Mick. Wherever you think its coming from, the Dirty Novels have what can only be called a familiarly fresh sound of a band that wants you to dance and jump around happily. They’re one of two groups that are tied for my Best New Band In Town award. Strange as it may seem coming from Captain America, your editor who can’t tell Slayer from Ratt, the doom-heavy rock of Black Maria blows every similar band out of the water. Solid and tight with a singleness of purpose which is to tear your still-beating heart out and smack you over the head with it and damned if you don’t like it too. Outstanding. The only problem Black Maria had is the damn tail-gate of their truck wouldn’t go down when they were loading out the gear. Ever try to pick a full size cabinet up to shoulder level and over the gate into a pickup with a camper shell and not destroy it? I’m certain it was more fun to watch than actually load it. Which I did. Watch, I mean. Never let it be said that I didn’t do the least I could do… Electric Eel Shock, the Telephones 12/9/02 @ Launchpad The Telephones were much tighter this time, after maybe a month as a band with only a double handful of practices. Observations I’ve heard range from the Strokes to the Stooges which covers a lot of territory indeed. Either I just missed it last time or they just figured out to introduce themselves as “We’re the Telephones” with a happy “hello, hello!”. No offense to them but the real reason I came out tonight was –“moshi, moshi!” -- for Electric Eel Shock. I had no idea what they sounded like and it seemed no one else in the house did either but as Zed said “ When was the last time you saw a Japanese band that sucked? ” Uh…like, never? I was expecting some garage-y Ramones stomp, nothing to get too excited about. Wrong! It was full-on power-riff cock rock, notably in light of the fact that drummer Tomoharu was naked except for his…ummm…unagi in a sock --how the sock stayed put, I can’t say and I’d rather I didn’t find out. He hammered deep and doom-y rather than fast and light. Bassist Kazuto did more than keep the beat but played all over the neck thumpa-thump-thump. But it was Akihito on guitar that thrashed metal and hard rock riffs while purposefully striding and gesticulating like in a classic Noh stage drama…as well as leading the crowd in cries of “Sex, drugs, and e-mail!”. The rather small crowd was well rewarded for coming out on a Monday night. The Trashbrats, the Epoxies, the Sweatband, Klouse 12/10/02 @ Launchpad Klouse appears to me nothing so much as extended- jam skater rock. There’s nothing particularly wrong with what they do (except a few overlong songs) but not much that grabbed me either. The Sweatband were bleak because of horrid sound that was the fault of the oddly matched and under-powered motley of amps that had. The disappointment came from the fact that they actually have a good garage/ lo-fi barrel-of-monkeys-fun pedigree that was just impossible to hear tonight. From the Alarm Clocks, Isaac on guitar and vox. From the Phase, moving to bass from the keyboards Zed Stardust. And it took me a week to figure out who 2nd guitar & vox was, Albq ex-pat Juliette. Was it the candystripe ensemble she was wearing that threw me off? No, it was that I just plain didn’t recognize what an ex-Rondelle looks like these days-- I mean, the last time I spotted Oakley he was sporting a fro up to here. I’m not sure I’ve ever met the guy named Ryan (drums) anywhere before but I’ve seen keyboard dude Jesse Blue at more alcohol-soaked get-togethers than you can shake a swizzle stick at. Like I say, the sound was bad, not the band. I must’ve heard only about .01% of the keyboards, a dull approximation of the drumbeats, maybe a third of what Juliette was doing (what came through of her vocal turns however were especially nice) while the bass came through like a fat rubberband stretched across an old shoe box. But Isaac’s guitar was loud and fucking clear, boy, and with the style and frenzy of just what we’ve all come to know and expect from the guy. Happily, the closing tune Chinese Stare ripped and transcended sound quality, redeeming all the rest. I’m looking forward to a Sweatband set that can be heard so I can consider the songs on their own merits. The band name however can’t be considered on any merit … Getting lots of well-deserved positive ink everywhere they go, the Epoxies were back for their second Launchpad gig. I caught them just a few weeks ago in El Paso and this show was the last leg of that long-ass tour with a solid seven or eight dates left. The road is fraught with peril it seems: flu, tire-crunched cell phones, typical vehicular woes and singer Roxy pulling some back muscles. Honestly though, given the way she moves onstage--like gymnast Oksana Bayul in a pair of Docs on double steroids and straight 10’s and 9.5’s all across the judge’s boards--it’s a wonder she doesn’t tear her sacroiliac every damn show. And a damn good show it was although it’s a bit scary in that we’ve come to expect it each time or maybe its scarier that they indeed deliver each and every. They take the upbeat let’s-dance Brit New Wave attitude and combine it with good ol’ American Armageddon sensibility. If drummer Dr. Grip drives the band, its Moxie Static’s synth that supercharges the Epoxy sound like nitro fuel injection at the drag strip. Viz Spectrum & Shock Diode-- the guitar and bass twins-- fill in every nook & cranny that the rest haven’t yet managed to fill to bursting. Following such crowd-pleasers as the Epoxies can’t be easy. Too bad that most of the crowd failed to stick around for Detroit’s the Trash Brats. There was only time for a short set although I could’ve happily listened to much more of their pop-informed rockin’ roll, especially guitarist Ricky Rat’s refined Johnny Thunders approach. The late Mr Thunders was a great fan of the Shangri-Las and the like but was most of the time too junked up to actualize it musically. I recall the first time I heard the Brats I was disappointed in that their appearance was more glam than their music but its grown on me. And believe it or not they’re nice mascara-ed fellows in spite of the fact that, girls, your mothers would be wholly unsettled if you brought them home to meet her but even more so if you boys did the same. The sad news of the night was Mr Rat telling me that Jeff Dahl (one-time Angry Samoan) was forced to cancel the annual Desert Trashblast in Phoenix this year due to the venue closing unexpectedly. Too bad because it was close-by and a cheapass two nights of trash & glam that in its way is more satisfying than events like the Shakedown that have outgrown its spandex/bondage britches. Defy 12/13/02 @ the Dirt Records Las Cruces NM The end of the week is the Dirt’s in-store night. I was glad to have an excuse to be in Cruces on a Friday night for an evening biz meeting that ended just in time for me to grab a burger and slide into the Dirt just when I needed to. I noticed a couple of indie-rock grrrls in the crowd picking up all kinds of bizarre and obscure vinyl before it was revealed they do the local-music show on KRUX-FM. That piqued my interest right away because my silly little music connection here started by DJ’ing a weekly hour of Dirt City, the local music show on ‘burque’s now-defunct pirate station Rebel Radio. And of course I want to know what’s the local music haps in Cruces since its not easily uncovered from infrequent trips through town. Defy defies description. The singer is full-on thrash-emo style while the band seem more at home with heavier fare: their bass player was wearing a Sepultura tee and the drummer had the double-kick and multi-cymbal array of any number of hardcore bands. The lead guitar was towards more up-the-neck Santana-like work. The singer seems to have been dropped into a band that was heading in another direction entirely. No offense but my favorite number was their instrumental one. The instrumentation is the band’s true strength. Summer’s End 12/15/02 @ Amethyst Luna Knowing better, the Colonel (our ex-Boston Correspondent now back in the ‘burque, whose fault it is I’m here in the first place) and I went to A-L around 8:45 thinking we’d catch a little early hardcore after our daytime trek to the snow up Tres Pistolas trail. It was the promise of Fuerza X of Guatemala that enticed us both although weary and for me a chance to hear a bit more of Karen, a band of which I’d only caught a couple of promising songs. There wasn’t even any equipment on the stage when we rolled in and the quality of what finally made it in did little or no justice to Summer’s End (?) who sorry to say sounded like shit because of said equipment. There appeared to be some melody and song-structure lurking beneath the sonic haze but not enough to cut its way free. Better luck next time. By this point--after the fuckers played about four this-is-our- last-song’s--we were beyond faded and took off, probably little wiser for the experience. the Black Grass, the Long Goners 12/16/02 @ OPM This being the Winter Ball, the social scenester set of the season, everybody who is anybody was there but guess I’m nobody because I didn’t know who anyone was. I hadn’t before had occasion to pass OPM’s doors but once or twice when the place was Beyond Ordinary “back in the day” --some day, whose day I dunno because I was still a mountain hippie then who had no use for that newfangled ee-lectric rocky-roll. Upon entering I could see straight away why I hadn’t before; it was nice décor for the most part but this caliber of joint isn’t my natural habitat. Wicker ottomans instead of barstools? My, what will they think of next! Anyway, I had gotten cleaned up (as much I can be cleaned up--which ain’t saying a lot) and donned the thrift store suit jacket that hangs in the back of the closet for weddings, funerals and lobbying for my taxpayer-funded paycheck at the Satan Fe roundhouse. For the lapel, I selected a matching Applicators white-stars-on-black pin to complete the ensemble and then ventured in. It appeared a good time was being had by all including me in spite of myself. The drinks were stiff and by that I refer to price; the alcohol level seemed same as anywhere. After wandering around and talking to the few familiar faces that would have anything to do with me, I spent a large portion of the time up in the DJ booth with my favorite deej Obenjyosan a.k.a. Bento Beat. He did an admirable job in light of the fact that the two turntables were cartridge-less leaving O-bento to rely on digital tracks of one’s and zero’s instead of grooves in wax. Something about the missing styli reminded me of a clean needle exchange program for druggie DJs, one that even Mayor Marty would support. In the back room the Black Grass (3/4 Starsky) had a devil of a time finding a working mike. Me, I would’ve thought somebody might’ve figured the logistics ahead of time. So the Long Goners jumped from slot number two to one and rock-a-billed out a fine set, inspiring not a few well-dressed cats & kittens to toss each other around the scanty dance floor. And as per my usual, seeing all the gals just dying to swing with the one or two guys who knew their steps made me wish I had indeed taken dance lessons like my sister told me to back in eighth grade. Some people never listen. This was my maiden Long Goners show and quite the impression was made on me by the unflappable guitar player. He did a few good numbers with a lap steel in the style of the great “Shag” Helms of the Drifting Cowboys (who backed Hank Williams) but as good as the steel work was, he particularly shone on his hollowbody licks: tasteful, sleek and stainless. The man knows his stuff. I hear that singer Bernadette had the laryngitis tonight (curses!) but Mr Pat Bova stepped right up and did the band right. This man too knows his stuff as well as the guy slapping on the upright. I enjoyed the Goners more than I would’ve thought. Bravo, gentlemen. The fly in my ointment though was pondering that being a rockabilly cat must be a pain in the neck sometimes. I mean, having the reet look is one thing (pomade is fairly cheap) but ya gotta wear the right shoes, drink the right drinks, drive the right car--a Chevy Nova is out of the question, Jackson --so ya gotta hand it to musicians who go all out in their (life)style, in part to enhance our enjoyment of their riff. Solid! After that peerless set, the Black Grass got things aright and tore open a jagged gaping hole in the collective consciousness that was until then much reserved (see what dressing like that does to ya?). It was actually a little much for me by this point so I retreated to the Bento booth again and thence to the front room just in time to catch some casting lady wandering the room scouting Neve Campbell body-doubles.Really. She said she found about twenty possible Neve-a-likes and so was relieved not to have to hit the strip clubs. I could sympathize with that all over and so decided it was time to roll on into the night. Hazeldine 12/19/02 @ the Paramount, Satan Fe; 12/20/02 @ Burt’s Tiki Lounge “They’re big in Germany” is what everyone’s been saying for years of ex-Albuquerquenos Hazeldine. Hell, they’ve always been big with me here in all their incarnations and line-ups. Tagged with that that insurgent-country label, they were one of my favorites when you used to be able to go from the Dingo to the Golden West to the Time-Out on one cover charge and catch them, Scared of Chaka and the Word Salad all in the same night. I was pretty tired and ready to hit the sack but there was no way I’d miss out on this gig (which happens to be --who cares-- the KBAC-FM birthday party) even if the Paramount (mis-) management is too lame to decently promo any of their events here in the ‘burque. Their web page is perpetually two weeks behind, e-mails for information go unanswered, their telephone information-line isn’t and even hotshots like the Weekly Alibi receive few if any press kits. Fuck you too, Paramount. I wish you didn’t have bands I like about thrice yearly or I’d have nothing to do with you. Oooh, tough threat! Like they give a shit, right? Still, how about a little respect for the musicians who prop up your alcohol sales, if not for the clientele? Aw, go play with your crystals you bastids… Ahem. Right, that’s out of my system. Thanks to Mr. “Weekly” Henningsen for writing a preview in the rag. You’re a prince. For once I timed it right and only had to wait about ¾ of a drink’s worth before the band was up. It was a tight and wonderful set with lots of happy old faces in the crowd glad to see Hazeldine back even if only passing through. Having been about four or five years since last I’d seen them, it was a little odd only knowing one song (Allergic To Love); that I blame on not having the mysterious “lost” 2nd CD (Digging You Up 1998), never widely available in the US but part of some nefarious German plot for musical world dominance. Or something (I’m still looking for that sucker. Let me know if you find a copy OK?). Their style hasn’t changed but you’ll hear no complaints from me: its still gentle sweet n’ sway ya’llternative with the heaven-sent vocal duo of Shawn Barton & Tonya Lamm ably backed by Anne Tkach’s waltzing basslines. Sadly Tonya was a bit under the weather but still trouped on and how the hell did she sing like that with the flu? I hadn’t heard about the second night Burt’s gig until Anne told me just before the Santa Fe set. She even said something about because of the Albuquerque show me not needing to drive all the way up to Santa Fe. Don’t be silly, Anne. Of course I did! Drummer Jon Wurster was right on the money, punching up the languid pace not with speed (you can’t hurry these gals) but with sharp & clean percussive punctuation. Lead guitarist Mike (didn’t catch his last name but he told me he was a friend of Tonya’s picked up for this tour) did some nice but low-slung slide and pickwork. It was apparent he was holding back quite a bit which could’ve been from being unfamiliar with the material (seems doubtful) or out of deference to the group (more likely). To my taste, that did neither himself nor the band any favors. I’ve seen Hazeldine shows that blew me away with a big, big guitar sound that did not detract from the song structures, melodies or harmony. I recollect one particular show at the Launchpad in about ‘97 that left me as wrung-out (but satisfied) as if I’d seen an hour of quality thrashcore. In all though the Paramount set was a champion return to New Mexico. At Burt’s the following night, things were ratcheted down a couple notches, closer to what their recordings sound like rather than the kick-ass-in-a-quiet-way shows. Lamm really needed to be in bed with mugs of hot tea being served to her every half-hour but a pro in every good sense of the word, she even sang a few of her solos; from where she pulled the reserves, I can’t imagine. For the latter half of the set they dove into a bunch of (unrehearsed?) twang numbers recalling the 1998 covers CD Orphans. Here also Shawn had an impromptu duet with Darryl Sparks who stepped ably to the mike. The Rivet Gang, Mr. Sparks band, opened the show but I didn’t hear enough to knowledgably comment except that their slo-(twang)core pace made Hazeldine sound positively manic in comparison . It was fitting in a way that the Albuquerque show was low-key, almost like hanging around and playing for friends. It was surprising not to see a more packed house. I was disappointed in the crowd both nights who were pretty darn feeble on the encore applause. Fuzzy, a rouser from the 1996 debut How Bees Fly, was on the Santa Fe set list as encore but went unplayed as the polite audience gave up too early. Both nights, everyone was too polite, afraid to go near the stage and some even pulling up chairs on Burt’s dance floor! What the fuck?! Maybe its me but I don’t imagine bands feel much feedback when the crowd is acting all rapt and reverent. That’s been the perpetual curse of folk and No Depression shows for decades. I blame Peter, Paul & Mary and the Kingston Trio for convincing people that roots music is something that needs to be studied, revered and placed on the shelf instead of just having a little damn fun. Jump around a little, people! Hazeldine used to play on punk bills here once upon a time. They ain’t fragile. They can take it. |
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RELEASES |
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Rushmore Beekeepers Sing Along Songs [CD-R 2002] Las Cruces NM alltomorrowsrecords@yahoo.com What this immediately brings to mind is Lou Reed, although a teen Lou Reed: quavery and youthful-sounding but not yet heroin-weary, into maybe just cough syrup and seconal so far; tales of waiting for the girl rather than for the Man. Some might even label this emo because of the emotional lyrics but that’s not so. Singing is an emotional in itself whether Ray Charles (soulful), Nirvana (frustration) or Backstreet Boys (indifference). At first I expected one of those in-my-room just a lone guy, his guitar and Pro Tools CDs but upon closer inspection (and listening), I found it was recorded on 4-track analogue so there’s the cred angle all over. Some good stuff is going on here, notable lyrically although I’d prefer it more fleshed-out with a guitar barrage. I met Beekeeper Zach at the Coas bookstore in Las Cruces, trying to find some sort of music scene which I foolishly assumed didn’t exist there. Well, it does, its just not as high-profile as in the ‘burque. Too often us city-slickers think we’re the only shit happenin’ because we ain’t even bother to look around. So anyway Z told me where the Dirt Record shop was. They seem to be the current locus for local Cruceseno punk music. That’s good news for me in my every-few-months biz trips to Cruces that I won’t be forced to drive a further hour to ‘Paso. Although we might think we have few musical resources up here, down south they’re forced to go the full DIY route with a scene even smaller than our miniscule one. Zach handing this CD-R to me while at his job is proof of that. Defy [CD-R 2002] Not much to add to the live review of Defy back a few pages ago. Can’t say this CD-R does much for me although I didn’t have a bad time listening to the band live at the Dirt Records in Las Cruces. It was nice to be handed this recording just because I thanked them for playing. For all the chops these guys have, the music is pretty subdued. I’d love to hear them go all-out and tear shit up like I’ll bet they’re capable of. |
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SHOPS |
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Free Radicals 2215 Lead SE 254-3764 PART 2: In keeping with my long-standing journalistic maxim of never letting the facts get in the way of the story, last month’s report about this shop was written before I’d set foot inside. I peeped through the crowded window and just made up what I couldn’t see. The owners are more punk than expected-- they moved here (yes, here, Albuquerque!) for the sole purpose of opening Free Radicals as an alternative to mallratholes like Hot Topic. I figure if anyone’s gonna corrupt our youth, it may as well as be John & Nan. And make no mistake: they are after our children. Yay! It was an impressive sight to see Nan bent over a sewing machine when I walked through the door. Too bad for us she wasn’t working on stuff to sell but on like the seventh outfit in a series for the Valentine’s Day Fetish Ball. I’m looking forward to seeing her creations adorning bondaged people with funny hair and holes punched in places that piercing guns were never intended to touch. On the walls for sale is a whole bunch of circle-A anarchist sloganeer tee shirts, stickers, bondage pants, fishnets, jewelry and accessories. But that ain’t what makes it punk: this pair work day jobs and then come out at night to keep the shop open until 2 AM. I mean, I’ve heard of bands pulling stuff like this but a clothes shop! And you whine about how tough your life is? Get off it; pop into Free Radicals and drop a few dollars. You know you’re just gonna throw it away anyway so why not toss it at a good cause: local independent business run by folks who do it because they give a shit. Besides, working the hours they do, its not likely Nan & John are gonna make it to any shows anytime soon so how else are you gonna meet these nice people? |
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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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