Issue # 50 June 2003 thewigwambam.com
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Ignoring Objectivity Since 1998 WIG WAM BAM “Albuquerque zine of music & nepotism”
LOCAL SHOWS NM venues, bands from here or there
the SweatBand, the Telephones, Spillway, the Mindy Set, Les Baton Rouge, the Dirty Novels, Mr. Spectacular, Blue Bottle Flies, Simple, the Roxieharts
LOCAL RELEASES Local bands, any label
The Telephones [self release CD Demo 2003]
LOCAL ZINES
One Nation in Denial A Life Among Ruins If We’re Lucky Special Edition. #5
LOCAL SHOPS NM places where a fool and his money are soon parted
Damaged Goods
LOCAL CONTRIBUTORS
Lydia Lunch 4/26/03 @ the Knitting Factory, NYC Submitted by Marvel Girl and Apache Chief
COACHELLA VALLEY MUSIC & ARTS FESTIVAL
4/26 & 27/03 @ Empire Polo Grounds, Indio, California The Stooges, Rapture, The Hives, Hot Hot Heat, Queens of the Stone Age, Ladytron, Blue Man Group, Beastie Boys, Groove Armada, The Libertines, The Soundtrack of Our Lives, The Polyphonic Spree, Mars Volta, Sonic Youth, Perry Farrell, The White Stripes, Interpol, Fischerspooner
LOCAL SHOWS
the Sweatband, the Telephones, Spillway 5/16/03 @ Burt’s Tiki Lounge the Mindy Set 5/16/03 @ Atomic Cantina Two clubs, side-by-side simultaneously offering class local entertainment? Whoa, where am I? As I was so fond of haranguing people about all night, this reminded me of the old days when one could wander back and forth from the Time Out (pre-Launchpad), the Golden West (then the most vital local punk venue in town) and a little further down the street, the Dingo (pre-Burt’s), all for the price of one cover charge. I would imagine that the proprietors/partners of Burt’s were (are?) a little apprehensive at the prospect of another (part-time) venue opening right next door. But as a music fan, its all for the good. Besides, one venue will draw people who might not have otherwise wandered into the other. As I understand, currently the Atomic has plans to host very few touring acts and will be featuring live music maybe two-three nights a week. More than once I’ve wanted to slip out of the Tiki while some horrid (emo) band played until I the band that I actually came out for was up. Now I can do that while being a lazy fuck and a cheap bastard who won’t be forced to walk anywhere or pay another cover for a half-hour respite. All we need now is a credible place for good simple food downtown that’s open when the clubs close. I used to see lots of scenesters at the Frontier after-hours but now its frequented late-night wholly by club-kids and wiggers --and before you take me to task for that last racial epithet, please recall that wiggers come in all colors. Tonight I went there anyway and was buzzed by a hand-held metal detector before I could enter! 9/11 notwithstanding, this says more about the crowd than the homeland security agenda. A downtown late-night sit-down food joint would rock but I’ll take what I can get. What happened to that killer burrito wagon that was open for business outside of the Launchpad every weekend for a short time a year or two back? Speaking of the ‘pad and competition, its size and long-standing reputation makes it the only place in town that can host out-of-town bands that are too big a draw for Burt’s but too small for the Sunshine. But I think it also makes it harder to take chances on the lesser-known bands. It sickens me sometimes to see who’s just played in Denver, Phoenix or Tucson and never comes our way; not big names but good & solid stuff from the rockyroll of the Detroit Cobras to the sweet indie crunch of Sing Sing. I realize running a business is a crapshoot especially where us fickle music fans are involved. not to mention the scenester quotient --or is that “seen-ster”? as in, I wanna be seen here, not there. Me, I go where the bands I wanna hear are; not that I expect a venue to cater to my obscure tastes. Lord knows, I pity any club that had to depend on my trade to stay in the biz: I’m a lightweight drinker barely paying for the overhead to wash the two empty glasses I leave behind each night and I simply don’t go out to go to bars except to see/hear live bands. Anyway, except for watching them coil up their cords and hump out the equipment, I missed the Dirty Novels set at the Atomic but wandered back later and caught the first half of the Mindy Set. The band was much more integrated, with Isaac’s keyboard taking their place alongside the others rather than overpowering them as before. The sound at the Atomic came across pretty decent. Given a pre-opening mini-tour of the joint, I was a bit apprehensive because of the expanse and sparseness of the room; nothing to damp or mellow the sound except bodies, something you’re never assured of in proper quantity (or quality). Actually it was more disconcerting to be inside a brand-new venue that didn’t yet reek of stale beer and cigs, where nothing was busted yet and the seating not full of burn holes. Give ‘em time, just a little time. But I have high hopes for the Atomic as do a lot of folks. And much respect for anyone who decides to launch a new venue in such shaky economic times. Meanwhile at the Tiki, I was quite impressed with the indie jangle rock of Spillway who have come a long way since their first gig at the Nursery in January. Frontman Chuck was “on” , reigning over the set with between-song patter and bad jokes like some has-been Vegas comedian, ba-da-bing! and I always love the sound of a hollowbody electric. Aubrey’s bass galloped along dynamically while Jeffrey is about the smiling-est drummer you’ve ever seen which is somehow unsettling. However it was a good set all around. The crowd was sparse for the Telephones; I imagine lots of folks went next door. The ‘phones are too hard and not hard enough at the same time. What I mean by that is they’re not hard enough for the rest of this town that thrives on wank-metal rubbish but are too hard for the indie/mod rockers who demand more hooks. As before, my favorite Telephones songs are the ones with the pedals and distortion-fx. No one here has jumped on the electroclash bandwagon yet so c’mon, you guys, go for it. I bet you can pull it off. Finally headlining a show was the Swangband--oops I mean -- Sweatband. Excuse the faux pas but its natural after having three different guys tonight tell me they have a crush on Juliet (the response to that is ‘who doesn’t?’) as well as everyone digging her song that’s got Sweatband first hit single written all over it. On the glam front, the Bowie cover was a delectable treat and its always good to see Zed Eno back in boa & shades action. It appears its only a matter of time before we get an All-Isaac All-the-Time show with the Sweats, the Mindies and the Alarm Clocks on the same bill. I don’t know drummer Ryan well-enough to make fun of him yet so I’ll leave it at: he did just what he was supposed to do and maybe a little more. Too bad the sound was a muddier tonight than their last set here barely a month ago. Then, it was as perfect as you’d have a right to expect, just wonderful really. The Tiki is still working on their system but its improving steadily. For such a poor stage design they’re doing wonders. Here’s to this being the first of many nights of stumbling back-and-forth stupors! Les Baton Rouge, the Dirty Novels 5/23/03 I’m afraid the buzz of the night was neither the music or the bands but the weirdo fluke that both Pauli Novels and Les Baton Rouge’s guitar player James Jacket were both wearing the exact same outfit. Whoa, cosmic man. There were a few times (especially when the Novels were loading off and Les Baton Rouge on) that the two were so close together we were dying for a fucking camera to capture this Kodak moment. Me, I kept waiting for one to call the other onstage to guest-vocal in harmony. It would’ve been a gas but neither stepped up to the plate, alas. The Novels set was fine but what can I say about them that I haven’t twenty times already. The starting point of Keith Richards’ finest is great but I’m a little curious to see where it leads to next. Les Baton Rouge surprised me by making me like ‘em. I had heard a couple of MP3s but to no lasting impression except same-as-always-punk rock. Live however, I heard bunches more melody (buried under a buzzsaw growl but melody all the same) leaning towards New Wave and I don’t mean Elvis Costello but that weird inbetween period of Stiff Little Fingers, the Modettes, the Jam etc before punk degenerated into Germs and Black Flag thug-thrash. Singer Suspiria made too big of a show over her tits: pointing them out every time she poured water down her cleavage etc but her voice was a good marriage of Penelope (Avengers) Houston and a Johnny Rotten sneer. And no no no! no matter what the pre-press said, Les Baton Rouge are not Riot Grrrl. I’m sick of every single female-fronted punk band having that comparison foisted upon them. It would be like comparing every punk-boy band to the Pistols or the Ramones (actually the latter comparison is done all the time by lazy-ass writers who don’t know their musical history but copy off press-kits which are invariably the absolute worst descriptor of every band every time).Sure, Les Baton Rouge covered Bikini Kill’s Suck My Left One but with a harder edge and more grit. Finally someone who understands what covers are about: not slavish imitation but giving it your own spin. Cheers to them for that! I even bought their overpriced CD: twelve bucks is alot when most bands ask ten but they are an international act after all so considering the exchange rate of the Portuguese escudo factored with the lagging Deutsche Mark and…well, you get the picture. I buy music from few touring bands any more, I’ve got too big a pile of shit I never listen to accumulated from trying to “help them out”. But this is one I will spin; not lots but enough to pay for itself in all its snarling punk pleasure. Mr Spectacular, Blue Bottle Flies, Simple, the Roxieharts 5/25/03 @ Elliot’s Saturday afternoon, I was minding my own business when Mr Geoff P. knocked at my door, an old friend I hadn’t seen forever, And what does he show up with? An old 1970s Panasonic turntable and a pile of 78s he’s just giving to me. How fucking cool is that? What’s a 78 you say? From the 1920s through the ‘40s, 78RPM records were the standard, not like today when ya have some bloodsucking corporation redesigning the format of recorded music every few years. 78s were the 7”s of their day, one song to each 10” side. In fact “singles” were the only way anyone heard records in their homes up until the invention of the 33-1/3 RPM 12” Long Playing (that’s LP to you) and Extended Play 10” record (EP ditto). It was the late ‘50s before the 78 finally croaked even in extreme rural areas where the populace only had vintage hand-cranked Gramophone record-playing machines. If you wanna go back to the very beginning, Thomas Edison invented records as wax cylinders, like a toilet-paper tube with grooves that the disc won out soon after, by about 1910. Why am I telling you all this? Not because you give a fuck you troglodyte mofo but because I think this shit is cool and I know history matters even though most of you don’t care to remember anything before your last beer. Besides, I’m setting the story here… Anyway we spun a pile of these scratchy slabs of three decades of history (Sonny Stowell & the Western Kings Take These Chains From My Heart, a great Hank Williams cover. Or Brain Wilson’s inspiration for the Beach Boys harmonies: the Four Freshman, here with Tuxedo Junction; Collins & Harlan When Uncle Joe Steps Into France; and who could forget Johnny Marvin singing & yodeling Watermelon Smiling On the Vine? ). After the 78 fest, Geoff pulled me down the block to Mary Bubbles’ birthday party where we hung long enough to watch some guys calling themselves Pretty Girl set up drums and amps just before it started to rain. It was a pretty nice little party an’ all. I kinda wanted to hear the music even though they looked like hippies but Geoff had a previous engagement to attend, as did I having earlier received a call from Ms Peninah D Walpo that her band the Roxyharts (nee TNA) were playing at the Star Tattoo 2nd birthday party. So after driving around & around three strip mall parking lots just this side of Corrales (I had no idea where the tattoo shop is-- I stopped drawing on myself when I was three), I pulled up just in time to hear the Roxies’ raucous rage n’ roll rumpus. Each of the gals said they were nervous but damn if I know why: They don’t suck, Penny & Amy have been doing this since they were groovy high-school chickies and both Cara & Melissa have come a long way since the Hopefuls days. They played lots of their old faves and once again Penny just had to announce that her tune Let It Be is “not the Beatles song”. Hey Penny: anyone who knows the Beatles music sure knows that ain’t it and anyone who doesn’t wouldn’t pick up the Beatles connection anyway. A minor point for me to pick on I guess but it’s a good song and it speaks well for itself (as do all of her tunes). The next band Simple was a new one to me but I was quite impressed. Well, actually Mr Parrish’s vocals are a bit deadly earnest for my taste but his tunes are sweet and leave lots of room for the guitar player (Dan?) to work in some tasteful riffs that complement rather than detract from the songs. This is a rare commodity among guitar players. I appreciated not being overpowered by guitar-crash because for the first time in years I clearly heard Joe Anderson’s bass which tonight was about the melody, a word which is always a plus in my book. The Blue Bottle Flies were kinda rough and slid off into I don’t know what. Better luck next time, guys. Mr Spectacular raged through a set of our local finest cock rock which is scary for me to say ‘cause I normally hate this kinda stuff but this trio is aces. Christian’s power-guitar and Adam’s powerhouse drumming just pound the shit outta your skull. All of this was framed by mildly droll Sausage Hang, the sportcast spoof which looks like fun for the guys and their friends but the appeal quickly is lost one me. I’m not a sports guy: I don’t wanna cast any aspersions but watching a bunch of big sweaty dudes bounce off each other doesn’t exactly light my fire if you catch my drift. By this time--what? its only damn nine o’clock?!--I’d had more drinks than I usually have by midnight meaning it was time to exit before was all over. I sure didn’t want to pull into traffic with all them other drunks from the bar.
LOCAL RELEASES
The Telephones [self release CD Demo 2003] This disc was recorded by some Satan Fe hotshot engineer who  is about two degrees separated from Kevin Bacon or Butch Vig or some damn thing and --naw, just fuckin’ with ya, Lee! Actually the guy worked with Oingo Boingo back in the early ‘80s and yeah you don’t know who they are but you should, a more-stylin’ Devo or something. Anyway I’m going on about this ‘cause this pro-style job is as clean as a whistle, almost a bit too much for the Telephones whose sound is and ought to be recorded pure grit. Rather than hard rockin’, a lot of this comes across punk which is a loaded term these days, at least around me. Still, there’s lots of promise and its always interesting to hear what a tear-em-up song actually sounds like beneath the live performance veneer so some revelations are found here.
LOCAL ZINES
One Nation In Denial; A Life Among Ruins If We’Rre Lucky Special Edition. #5 32pp. 8 _ x 11, plus an 8-page 8 _ x 5 _ pullout, whenever; free Me, I’ve only seen two issues of Monkey Dust zine (now known as Life Among Ruins) but if Mr Derelict Caterwaul claims he’s up to number five, who am I to argue. Further, although I’m not particularly a conspiracy-theory believer (the world is merely run by a-holes), there’s too much information that can’t be argued or denied. Just as no one in their right mind could possibly believe that the New York Times or BBC-News is 100% accurate or impartial, conversely only those with their heads entirely up their asses would claim that NPR, Pacifica News or any leftist reporting is likewise spurious. The truth is always somewhere in the middle; that middle of course depending on just how extreme you stand on either side. Caterwaul has put together a top-notch assemblage of clippings about the sinister (truly) Bush administration and its doings re: Afghanistan, Iraq, Big Brother, Homeland (in)Security and terrorism, (recall please that domestic terrorism is not always perped by “foreigners”; our un-elected leader is scaring the fuck out of me). As always some of the best pieces are the satirical collages especially the one of George W in a Texaco service-station uniform. What I find the most helpful in these sorts of zines are pieces like A Timeline Surrounding 9/11 that state facts and leave you to draw your own conclusions. All this said, my personal belief is that the real story is even deeper and more ominous than what’s presented or implied here. Again, I’m skeptical about total conspiracy because it gives these baboons too much credit for being as smart as they would need to be to pull it all off just as I have no doubt that most world leaders--from George II to the Taliban to Idi Amin—believe(d) on some level that what they do is truly just and beneficial. But there are an awful lot of coincidences and pre-conditions to recent aggressor attacks (by 9/11 bombers and US troops on Iraqi soil alike). Besides the world being run--as I said earlier-- by idiots, many of them are likewise madmen in every sense of the word.
LOCAL SHOPS
Damaged Goods 3104 Central SE Finally Astro-Mike strikes out in a record shop of his own, out from under the masturbation fantasy signage of Snob Hill body jewelry. I hate that damn lowest-common-denominator sign and never wanted to go in the place for that reason but eventually broke down just to see what Mike D was stocking there in the way of obnoxious music. Less and less punk holds much interest for me but it is refreshing to once again have a shop here that caters to your more offensive crowd. I found more items I liked here than in Damaged Goods’ last locale: a single from the ultra-sleaze garagetrash Hot Damn!, a pair of Scared of Chaka 7”s I’d missed in their time, a Slaughter & the Dogs double LP which I’d hoped was old recordings but turned out to be new stuff. I did not fail to notice that no one had yet picked up that lone Dead Boys live LP which made me very disappointed in all of you. One corner of the shop has sports memorabilia which caused me some distress because the only legitimate sports/punk connection I see is oi! and soccer hooligans, not my cup o’ tea, guv, but undeniable all the same. Its gonna be an uphill battle for this shop so I suggest you go throw some money around inside their doors before you complain how shitty this town is again.
LOCAL CONTRIBUTORS
Received one day too late for inclusion last issue (slackers!) here’s the final report from Marvel Girl & Apache Chief’s recent sojourn to The City.--ed. Lydia Lunch 4/26/03 @ the Knitting Factory, NYC Submitted by Marvel Girl and Apache Chief We were called to this show by the words of the late Joey Ramone, who was often elusive regarding his own musical influences or tastes but once insisted that Lydia Lunch was the only person doing anything interesting in music today. Another early show, as we arrived at what would be an appropriate time in Albuquerque, 11:00, missing all openers and only catching Ms. Lunch's last two songs.  Lydia Lunch's recorded works are ethereal and eclectic, using a mix of talented instrumentalists and electronic tricks to compose uniquely poetic sounds accentuated by her deep and throaty voice.  However, in person Ms. Lunch has a tough and weathered NYC veteran demeanor and her performance skills are too weak to hide this unfortunate aspect.  Though her band was extremely talented we left soon. Definitely buy her albums, but don't bother with the live performance. Apache Chief adds: I needed to hear the woman responsible for the memorable howling on sonic youth's Death Valley '69 but the real juice to this performance came from guitarist Nels Cline. A collaborator with many other pioneers such as Sonic Youth, Wayne Kramer, Mike Watt and the Saccharine Trust, he brought something interesting to the table. demonstrating his innovative technique while procuring new sounds, the result was entirely musical. he kept the momentum going when Ms. Lunch was making faces and repeating cliched imagery. Seek out his music. Go forth and thrash.
COACHELLA VALLEY MUSIC & ARTS FESTIVAL
4/26 & 27/03, Empire Polo Grounds, Indio, California Why in god’s name would I sit in a car for 11 hours each way to get to Califuckingfornia, pay over a hundred-fifty bucks for tickets and fight crowds of 30,000 who attended mainly for safe “alternative” rubbish like Red Hot Chili Peppers? The one and only reunion show of Ann Arbor, Michigan’s most kick-ass band ever, the Stooges, that’s why! Friday afternoon, Zed and I motor out right after work. Two fuel-stops and one sandwich-break later, we pull into soul-less Palm Springs at two in the AM directly into killer-bargain rooms set up for us by Lee Telephone and his wife Alison (no, we didn’t call her Mrs Telephone). Being there purely for the music, too bad we had little occasion to use the hot tub, grill or kitchen and it was a damn shame, a damn shame, to spend nights alone in a bed large enough to sleep three or four abreast, so to speak. The festival grounds, fifteen minutes away, held five stages with continuous bands from noon until midnight (over forty each day), plus a giant rave tent, some “extreme” side-show events w/stuff on fire (ho-hum) and worst of all some “interactive installation” of massive junk metal that hippies /ravers beat on unceasingly to some enigmatic rhythm, like those dog whistles, one inaudible to the human ear. We mostly ignored the beer tents until Sunday eve, pre-Stooges, in order to be alert enough to figure out shit like “its 3:30, five minutes to make it to the Mojave Tent for the Von Bondies” Saturday Since the only thing worth hearing before 1PM was the Mooney Suzuki who are good but nothing to froth into a lather over (seen ‘em before), we opted for a late sleep and a phat Mexi-Cali breakfast/lunch instead. We rolled in at a leisurely 2:30 only to end up standing in a line longer than all attending ‘burque’s Spring and Fall Crawl combined. Finally under the direction of General Lee, we abandoned the “nice guy” stance and cut in line right at the entrance. We didn’t care: most everyone else was there to see the Beastie Boys who didn’t go on until 10:45 that night so they had plenty of time to get in. Besides, they wouldn’t appreciate The Rapture anyway. As it turned out we didn’t either. The sound was awful and reduced them to shouts over a nondescript thump-thump-thump. I had hoped to hear some electroclash-like synthesis of rock and dance beats, but found none all weekend, much to my dismay. The Hives gave an entertaining set but showed their true colors as MTV phenoms. Their jackoff frontman talked between each tune longer than the songs themselves. In other words, he was hiding the fact that they didn’t have fuckall for a full set. Bloody Swedes! Hot Hot Heat seemed maybe like they were trying to do the dance/rock thing but it came off like Robert Smith doing ska; there was just no integration of dance & rock. Sorry to be a wiener but brother Sly Stone still holds the distinction of doing that best in the 60s. You’d think someone else would be more than up to the task by now. We listened to a little Blur The Music were trying to do because we abandoned their stage after about three minutes. The sonic mess was just as mfrom the far-off beer garden but it didn’t sound like any Britpop I’d ever heard so we ignored them in favor of watching the crowd, woo-hoo! I can’t tell you what uch the sound guy’s fault as theirs. I stuck with the ultra-dancepop of French duo Stereo Total even after the rest of my party bailed for Queens of the Stone Age (ugh! sorry, guys: stoner rock is merely polite metal. Nothing new there). Although facets of Stereo Total were painfully cute 60s Euro- Franco folkpop, they were fun to bop to. Although a bit blurry, the sound was better than all the poorly-mixed rock I’d heard all day. I ditched before set’s end to catch a good spot for Ladytron and paid for it by standing there for an hour before the sound crew worked out all the glitches of the band’s nine or ten machine line-up. That’s the drawback with electronica: things fuck up and you’re dead in the water. Conversely, the strength of rocknroll: even if your gear is screwed, you take the stage but turn up the fuzz: no one will notice. Or likely even care if they do. By this time, everyone was bored and not a little restless but worst was the poor manners of the sound crew: they offered no announcements, no explanations, no acknowledgment of us die-hard sheep. Hardly anyone was leaving though: we were there for Ladytron dammit! Finally the band jumped into action complete with video backdrop and sped off like riding a crotch-rocket at 70 km per hour on the Autobahn. This was by far the best set of my day, worth the delay. And as a bonus, the wait ensured that I heard not a single note from the horrid Blue Man Group. Those jackanapes ought to be arrested for creating a public nuisance. Next, I heard two songs by The Beastie Boys and all I could think of was, “Yup. ‘sounds like the Beastie Boys. Who gives a shit?” Tired and whipped by the cold wind that had sprung up we retreated to the far end of the stage-tent that held the very unfortunate faux-funk of the awful Groove Armada. They were billed as “Groove Armada (Live)” which at a concert made no sense and did not bode well. Live or not, they just about killed us as we slumped against the back wall trying to avoid the feet of groovesters who kept tripping over us in their lollipop bliss. I wanted to shove their simpleton glow-sticks where a glow-stick was never meant to be but lamed out in favor of just sitting, tired-like. Following Ladytron’s delayed set, the Armada too was an hour late but we were stoic about sticking it out for buzz-band The Libertines. Too bad. The first song made me wonder why I wasn’t tucked into that nice warm king-size bed by now. The second redeemed them with a load of hooks showing not originality but promise nonetheless. Then the singer’s guitar & microphone cut out simultaneously, whereupon he-- fed up with delays and fuck-ups-- slammed the mike stand to the ground. The lights went out , the band stormed off while we precious few wondered what the fuck. One poor soul tossed a plastic bottle at the stage and was promptly bum-rushed by four cops who nearly trampled us as they muscled him outside. Where the fuck did they come from? We’d seen no police since two in the afternoon and even then only outside the festival grounds. Sounds like a set-up to me, the promoters expecting trouble by pulling the plug on a live act. Driving out a half-hour later, the poor guy was still in custody, awaiting the paddy-wagon. I felt sorry for him but not enough to disturb my sleep. See? throwing stuff gets you in trouble, just like mom said it would. Sunday Moving a bit slow this AM, we ate shit at Denny’s for the sake of expediency and rolled through the gate in time to miss The Soundtrack of Our Lives. This turned out to be one of our best moves because they sound like a pop Pearl Jam which is about the most dreadful thing I can imagine. It was also too bad we heard most of The Polyphonic Spree who might as well have been a choral group of mid-period Elton Johns interpreting Queen as played by a born-again-Christian Belle & Sebastian. No foolin’. The Von Bondies got an automatic 10 points just for being from Detroit but to their credit don’t have a soul-type organ. It may’ve fit but would’ve cut down on the rock factor. A gal named Cat did a great job on the hollowbody bass but her one turn at the vocals was weak and things ground to a halt. The other girl-- on rhythm guitar--was flat-out useless. The set however was saved by the drummer and lead guitar/vox who rocked out just like you’d expect Detroit dudes to do. Even with the weak points, they were more than worthwhile. Too bad I got talked into bailing on the Bondies for ex-At The Drive-In The Mars Volta. Good performers but horribly disappointing in their fusion-guitar masturbation. The guitarist served up enough noodles to supply a Pad Thai house for a week. I bet if these guys are still around in a couple years, Carlos Santana will guest-solo on a track or two. The Volta was such that I couldn’t stand to even stick around for the follow-up set by Sonic Youth. Who scheduled these two indulgent acts one after another? Bad, bad timing! Could things get any worse? Sure--the “special surprise guest” of the day--rumored to be Radiohead-- was actually Perry Farrell DJ’ing in a dance tent. Incredibly things became even more dire! In order to get anywhere close to the stage for the set we came all this way to hear (yet an hour and a half away)we resigned ourselves to shoving our way towards the front through people camped out with catheters to get near the loathsome Red Hot Chili Peppers headlining tonight. Even worse, as a consequence we were forced hear at close range The White Stripes as we jostled toward the stage--oh the pain! Would somebody please hand Jack White an acoustic guitar and make him do what he does best, swiping bottleneck blues riffs from the great Son House. Finally after enduring the Stripes’ histrionics, finally after wading through mooks for hours and hours of mediocre bands and mediocre audiences, finally it was time to truly rock at the not-so-tender mercies of the one & only reunion in thirty years of The Stooges, the only motherfuckin’ reason worth coming this far for a dumb rock concert. It was a raucous rejoining of the howling Iggy Pop, Ron Asheton’s ripping guitar and Scott Asheton pounding out the beats. Ig--shirtless as always-- looks more than ever like a vintage piece of leather luggage but with class y’know? Meanwhile the Asheton brothers looked their age but thankchrist didn’t sound it a bit. An hour set seemed like ten minutes as the early barnburning songs were represented: TV Eye, Dirt, 1969, I Wanna Be Your Dog plus more from the self-titled ‘69 debut and the follow-up, 1970’s Fun House. Anyone expecting to hear from ‘73’s Raw Power was disappointed because if you think Ron (who was demoted to bass by Pop and producer David Bowie) would consent to cover the more wankin’ James Williamson’s leads, well, think again bud. Iggy didn’t much interact with the boys on stage, not even with substitute bassist Mike Watt except for where it counted--musically. And there, it was a smashing success. Too soon they were gone--no encores allowed-- their pockets maybe not as fat as the Chili’s or even Jack & Meg “the incest twins” White but worth every buck I spent. The only problem now was just that: now, as in “now what?” What on earth can you follow the Stooges with but more Stooges? Inadequately, between sets that were running late all over, we wandered into the rave tent --needless to say minus Zed “no disco” Stardust-- where I surprised myself by dancing until the next act. Also needless to say, I can see how this would be lots more fun with a fistful of drugs. Late but conquering tech difficulties, Interpol were as tight as their LP but the slow Joy Division-like tempo was a little tough to get into after the Stooges. It was context only that left me wanting more from them. Lastly (and leastly I might add) we followed the hype-train to Fischerspooner who are supposed to be the hot shit for file under: electroclash but you coulda fooled me. Oh, the theatrics were fun an’ all especially if you’d enjoy The Rocky Horror Picture Show at some community-college revival with more production money but the music? It went nowhere, canned and empty. Moreover Fischer (or was it Spooner?) didn’t endear himself to me by saying “guitars are not subversive”. Sure, that’s true enough--rock and roll is over fifty years old after all--but a Broadway Queen with heavy theatrics is? Gimme a break, old man. Fischerspooner is not breaking any ground as far as I can tell except for putting on jaded New Yorkers. Could it be that much of the NY crowd are sheep? Unlikely because I’m certain there’s plenty who aren’t easily impressed, so there may be something I missed. But I don’t think so. And I don’t buy the explanation that put-on is the point. What, I should give you money to watch and applaud you for being a dick enough to point out my lack of taste in the first place? Anyway, it was a hell of a let-down to end on. Now the only show left was watching the idiots (ourselves included) try to maneuver our 10,000 vehicles out into the Indio, California streets all at once-- streets where the citizens ride golf carts amidst normal traffic during daylight hours. Oh yes, they were happy to see us leave their ‘hood, you bet. This mass exodus/debacle lasted as long as a headline set. Feeling pretty blank the next AM, we drove home the eleven hours listening to lots of reserved glam, comforting in its quietness. During the ride Zed & I tried to think of what next year’s reunion hook would be. See, the festival organizers cover their bets by booking a couple of big-name alt.rock groups, some “hot” new acts and, to sucker bastards like us to attend fests among people we despise, a once-in-a-lifetime reunion Last year it was Siouxsie & the Banshees. But unless the Coachella promoters somehow bring Johnny Thunders back from the grave, there’s absolutely nothing that could convince me to return to Coachella.
Wig Wam Bam (by Captain America PO BX 4865 Albq NM 87196 captainamerica1941@hotmail.com) is as old as dirt and not nearly as valu able and may (or not) be found monthly at AstroZombies, the Atomic Cantina, Laun chpad, Burt’s Tiki Lounge, mecca Records & Books, Natural Sound, Free Radicals, Damaged Goods Records, Newsland, University Comics, and the Greater Al buquerque Public Library System. Reading is Fundamental! ©
Wig Wam Bam is written by Captain America  | po box 4865 | albuquerque, nm 87196