The Time Flys, The Ashes, The Nice Boys, The Foxx,  An Angle

3/10/07 @ Launchpad

A glammy powerpop line-up tonight that was pretty good all around, opened by An Angle with an odd but effective mix of the Gin Blossoms, Marc Bolan and Nicky Hopkins. An organ and a piano-- both well played and at the same time --made me happy. They weren’t the type of band to knock your socks off right out of the gate but a pleasing mix that got better as the set progressed.  

As An Angle’s finished up, some idiot fired a drive-by gunshot into the air in front of the club. Of course this caused lots of folks to go outside and see if they too couldn’t get hit by a bullet. No word on their success.  

Some of the Foxx admitted to losing most if not all of last night’s sleep and so weren’t as immediate as they usually are. Too they were unaided by a mix with excess treble. Ms Legend’s keyboards were cranked tonight to good advantage but it was drummerboy Ryan who impressed us with a new trick added to his repertoire: bouncing his tambourine off the tom only to have it rebound off his head. Bravo! Let’s see that at every show, man!  

The Ashes ripped out a set of their signature ode to Chuck-Berry-on-dexatrims riff punk, complete with Joe Martinez leaping all about the stage like an electroshock patient not properly restrained.  

To wrap things up, Oakland’s The Time Flys churned out some rhythm based Slade/Pagans inspired riffs but with pretty much the same upbeat tempo each song that wore a bit thin before set’s end. Fun and rockin’ sure but not too outstanding. 

Best of the night, from Portland, the Nice Boys started on a base of ‘80s lipstick love-ballad tempos and added a veneer of Thin Lizzy, Elvis Costello & Ric Ocasek vocals with a touch of borrowed Andy (Sweet) Scott licks. Great pop anthem stuff.

Something looked familiar about these boys. Zed pointed out that one member was ex-Riffs, a trashrock band that played a packed show in the Silver House almost ten years ago. As it turned out, no less than three Riffs who were now Nice Boys all recalled that basement show.  

A bunch of musical types lived, partied and crashed at the Silver House over the decade including (among many others) the Z Man, Insurgo Renata, a highschool aged Eben Fukrot & his unabashed girl Jackie, Dread Seth, Jud & Terry (Racer X and Betty Crocker Punkrocker of Rebel Radio fame) and most recently Quatro of Q’s Revenge with Rod Shot on the couch.

The first meetings of the Insurgo Collective took place here as did innumerable illegal FM broadcasts and house shows featuring everyone from Roman Candle Choir to Evelyn to raging hardcore.  

One endearing but unsavory memory exemplified the spirit of the place. By the time it became a den of crustcore iniquity (the rocker/Ramones contingent having long since moved on to the Evil House on the Cornell ), Seth was rooming in the basement, the only space safe for shows since the respectable neighbors had quite enough of the noisy rabble that gathered daily. His tiny bedroom was packed, as humid as a junior high boys locker room and twice as rank.  

Some band in uniform black tee shirts was grinding away and Seth was looking none too good due to the plethora of  warm canned beer flowing like tapwater. He sat on the edge of his mattress, head in hands, then grabbed a plastic baggie into which he proceeded to quietly vomit. Without a word, he twisted the bag and held it tight.

“Seth, man” I said, “you alright? ”

He looked up through bleary eyes, flashed the two-finger devil sign and silently went back to being miserable. That was punk as fuck. Nastyass, yes, but punk as fuck.

SuperGiant finally opened with their gravity of Jupiter fuzzrock. Kyle’s deep bass impresses more all the time and in fact I mostly stood on his side of the stage so I could soak in the bottom end goodness. Gary’s low-rider drums pounded out a message of friendly doom, like a happy slave galley beat keeper. Not in much in a doom mood tonight, I strolled next door to the Atomic to find Into the Quick on deck and, as they themselves say, rocking the face off the crowd.  

Notoriously indifferent to the hard stuff, I can’t always say what it is about one rawk outfit that makes me favor ‘em over the other. But let’s start with inventive and challenging and mostly instrumental rather than vocal based (a great change of pace). With hard reverbed rhythms, Joel Sanchez’ short n’ sweet guitar solos lack useless riffs, just the way it oughtta be. Their jazz influenced five-string bassman (and yes Gabe Bass is his real name) is fluid as mercury from a broken thermometer skittering about the floor. Drummer Murdock O’Mooney pounds the skins for keeps while Noah Walters’ keys strike a sweet spot between a Korg and a Farfisa without the cheese. A great power rock set.  

I went back next door to see what was up or in this case, down. It was then I got the word that the Foxx was cut and witnessed out-of-towners Danava take a godawful long time to set up which only exacerbated the ill mood. Miffed over the Foxx bump, I sat out their set in a back booth. The stoney metal boogie left me cold anyway and call me what ya will but when band dudes start by taking off their shirts before a note is played, I cross ‘em off my list.  

To be fair, Medicine Fuck Dream took a long while to set up as well. It was interesting but uneven. Lots of musical chairs going on with some bouncy minimalist oom-pah-pah neo-psych. Mini xylophone, upright bass guitar, a screw driver in the guitar neck beneath the strings effectively becoming a new nut (the nut being that bar at the top of the neck below the peghead that keeps your strings above the frets ). Cool but sometimes weird for weird’s sake. The music? Themes for a past-its-prime carnival that’s still doing good stuff but for an indifferent patronage. Interesting as I say but not much held my attention for long.

Polaroid Pornography kicked things off in fine form with a slo-mo Robert Smith invoking swirl. And no I didn’t say they sound like the Cure, they just channel ‘em a bit like a goth-gypsy séance with upbeat pop overlaid on solid fuzzy bass. In honor of the occasion (the expatriate Gingerbread Patriots’ first show here in a year), Polar Porn covered a P/Wixies’ song. If that means nothing to you, nevermind. It was a great set all around. 

Next was Mei Long. Rather than assembling my usual run-on sentences here, I’ll just transcribe my scribbled-in-the-dark notes: Chiming resonator guitar. Laidback bass. Rolling Rock drums. Mark’s voice in sweet harmony with itself, like Crosby, Stills and Nash sung by one person. Liverpudlian musings. Delightful.  

Tearing everyone a new earhole, the Oktober People lashed their way through ascendant/ incandescent gospel songs from a guitar cathedral. These guys pack enough pedals and f/x boxes to outpower and outnumber the total pieces of equipment in early rock and roll studios used to record, say, Buddy Holly. Its not just pointless knob twisting and random tweaking but calculated to lift you off your feet by your ears. But in a pleasant way.   

Finally, the Brophy family reunion show took place as the Gingerbread Patriots delivered their magic. Its like a pop/rock show played by tattooed scenester Muppets. John and Meghan offer delicate harmony and lullaby melody with a sparkle. Drummer brother Joel seems like one of those rare people just delighted to wake up each day while bass man Jeshua holds down the solemn bottom end. Honorary in-law Nate Oktober took the drummer’s seat for a few numbers, just as he did long ago. 

After that, all adoration broke loose as the Ginger Pats were joined onstage by U7D/Shoulder Voices’ Little Bobby, Crystal from Polaroid Pornography, Mei Long Mark and various other well-wishers culminating in a percussive Santana-like Soul Sacrifice encore chant. The love in the air was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. Umm, not that you’d want to.

I’ve only been to Elliot’s on the West Side a couple of times, for the annual Star Tattoo bash. Not a bad space in itself -- there’s some dance floor plus a few tables at stage height -- its not really my kind of place, what with the bikers, gangbangers and other testosterone-addled patrons. But I’m not their target audience either. Fair enough.  

It was worth the drive out to take a peek at the Zots in their second show in over a decade. I’ll never stop clamoring for more of their outstanding originals but the crowd skewed somewhat older (like, umm, my age) and seemed to be most happy with the covers portion of the show.  

I’ll never get it. Why would anyone prefer to hear songs you can find by turning on your radio in any major city? What that says to me is “Hi. My taste in music ended about twenty, thirty years ago. I have no interest in anything new or challenging”. 

I don’t fault the Zots for that. They know what a given crowd will like and if playing that gets them a gig that pays better than our no-cover-charge scene, good for them. Pay-to-play doesn’t cut it if you started in the biz two decades ago. But when they pull out their original material, my eyes light up, my toes start tapping and the hooks stick in my head like Bazooka bubblegum on hot asphalt. Its sad though to see people who were dancing minutes ago to Moni Moni go back to their seats when the Zots start up their hit, Pretty Car. 

A show at the Moose Lodge all the way on the east side just below that KOA Kampground on the freeway held a promise of just enough trailer trash David Lynch weirdness. The only way you’d have known that it was Saint Patty’s Day was the glossy clover cardboard cut-outs dangling from the ceiling. No one had green plastic derbies, no Fuck Me I’m Irish tee shirts, no shamrock colored ale; these had me giving thanks like a Pilgrim’s holiday. Still, I kinda knew what was in store since the usual Moose Lodge patrons have little interest in original music. There’s two things the Zots know well: their ultra fantastic “Newer” Wave originals and just when to play what to which audience. All I can say is the sparse crowd appreciated an 87% covers set more than me. BUT those prankster Zots surprised me at their next show … 

Caleb Miles & Friends
3/28/07 @ Launchpad 

Somehow I planted the seed for this gig in Mr Miles head,  which is kind of weird considering that although I vaguely knew Caleb a few decades ago (Grateful Dead, lurid painted schoolbus, stir-fry vegetable sales…you don’t wanna know) we never really hung out nor did I do much-- if any-- hanging out with the dozens of old/ex- hippies, yippies and zippies that came out for this reunion event.  

Fucking around on myspace a couple years ago, I took a cue from John (Gingerbread Patriots) Brophy and decided to compile a list of all the bands my addled ol’ brain could recall seeing (pre-Wig Wam Bam of course ; all of that’s covered here, ad nauseum). 

The lines between hippies and punks wasn’t as clear cut as everyone seems to think it was. A few local hybrid outfits like F.O.R., Illegal Aliens and Murder of Crows were on that list, ones that whiz-kid ‘Leb was the axeman for, kicking the ass of guitar slingers five or ten years older than he. 

Now ensconced in Nova Scotia, Caleb last year googled his old bands and found me even though I wasn’t at first recognizable (with hair halfway down my back and a beard to my chest, few who knew me then recognize me now. That’s ok. Statute of Limitations an’ all…). After perfunctory Auld Lang Syne’s, he mailed me a few home-brew CDs, of which the country-ish one was by far my favorite. Miles also mentioned he was soon swinging through the ‘burque for a few days.  

I immediately had conspiratorial thoughts about lining him up with man-for-all-seasons Jeffrey Richards since Jeff admired him as well and together I figured they could twang the hell out of a good-sized audience. I stood back as emails went back and forth about where and how to play. Twangapalooza never came to be but instead a full-on reunion of those aforementioned bands, unrepentant hippies and Shakedown Street refugees.  

Mr Miles opened with Trouble, the stand-out opening track of his Brickyard Road CD. Its not a groundbreaking tune, its not a necessarily new idea musically but its just…perfect. His self-accompaniment on mandolin was missed though. Richards’ pickin’ would have fit the bill perfectly, like just-right baby bear porridge.  

A few more acoustic numbers, then Miles was joined by the Wing and a Prayer band for some easybeat jams and slow boogie: Terry Bluhm on bass (Bonnie & the Boomerangs, Wagogo, Bayou Seco & many more…) and Zoom Crespin on drums (Wagogo, Liquid Gypsy, Splinter Fish, Alpha Blue and ….). Their George Harrison cover Old Brown Shoe turned coolly Zappa-esque.  

From there, it became a full-on incestuous Golden Road To Unlimited Devotion/Caleb Miles patchouli lovefest with more guests hopping on and off stage:

Debra “Debo” Orlofsky on vocals (Splinter Fish, Animal Opera, Manna From Nowhere, Alpha Blue, The Rebbe's Orkestra…). Debo was sans her patented lead pipe percussion this night.

Chuck Hawley on guitar (Saha World Telegraph, Splinter Fish, Manna From Nowhere, Withdrawals, Mucho Buddha….)

Junius Kerr, dirty grunge guitar & matching vox (Murder of Crows, Frankenstein…)

Chris Dracup, growling blues-riffs and vocals (Muttz, Rattle Cats, Chris Dracup Trio).

Sadly, Ted Jurney (F.O.R.) had to leave before Caleb managed to call him up. 

The Crows’ Get Stoned And Write Fuck On the Wall was a crowd-pleaser, then as now and one of the few numbers I recognized since I’ve mostly heard of these bands but rarely heard them. Or maybe I did but my long-abandoned purple reefer haze hasn’t helped matters in the memory department. Besides I was then too busy listening to bluegrass and the Dead as well as chopping firewood during my back-to-the-land phase. 

It was obvious that many songs were performed that hadn’t been heard live in many a year. No, not obvious because they were played middlin’ rough (as a no-practice gig is wont to be) but obvious because much of the crowd was singing and swinging right along. 

A splendid time was had by all since it was as much a friends reunion as rock show. Me, I said a few perfunctory how-ya-doin’s to the people that I could recall perfunctorily knowing but mostly kept my eyes & ears on Mr Miles and his guitar, still damn good on any style ya can throw at him. His between song comments had meaning for those who knew him way back when but I was most amused by his comment about  seeing old landmarks and ummm “cracks in the sidewalk” for the first in a long time.

Jam rock and electric boogie blues long ago lost most of its appeal for me-- and mine for it-- but it was great to see the reunion of a facet of Albuquerque’s music scene. A scene that, one tends to forget, is actually a number of different scenes overlapping and squooshing together. 

Now this is more like it! Lots of Strawberry Zots originals, although (boo- hoo) not the entire gig. One of these days, I hope. Maybe I’ll put “100% originals Zots set” on my Xmas list and try to be a real good boy…  

Every real rock n’ roll band plays a few covers. I’ve got no quibble with that. But for instance if I’d never heard the Zots and happened to wander into their gig in the midst of a five or six cover song run, I’d head off down the street to see what else was going on, convinced there was nothing to stick around for. They hooked me this time though, the sneaks! The first half was mostly killer originals. There makes you feel like the Zots are taking you to a magical and wondrous (in ‘60s jargon) “happening”. Pretty Car couldn’t be any better unless it was sung by Belinda Carlisle. And maybe not even then.  

While Get Me To the World On Time isn’t original (a minor hit by the Electric Prunes in 1967), given the full Zot treatment it sounds more danceable poppy than the Prunes’ dirty fuzz and is the best way to do a cover: make it your own.

Their version of Bowie’s Space Oddity saw the amps turned to ten and a half, rocking out in the vein of  Suffragette City. Fun, sure, but I’d prefer to hear one of Bowie’s zillion other songs that aren’t on my radio. 

Once again however my half-baked theory on covers went out the window as a closing rendition of Dirty Deeds brought down the house. I moved to the back of the room with like-minded folk who never knew what all the AC/DC fuss was about in the first place. We were outnumbered.

In all it turned out a better reception for the Strawberry Zots then I had hoped. Afterwards, I swear I heard some guy cheering for “the Strawberry Sauce”. I think he was serious. 

Tonight’s Zot set was like cheesecake covered with that strawberry goo. Creamy and sweet.  

Tonight was Pan!c’s maiden (ha!) voyage with yet another guitarist, Rachel Goes To Hell who lent a Lookout! Records poppunk sound to the proceedings. It was a family affair with Eva Racecar’s mom Judy, her siblings and siblings-in-law cheering her on. Go, Evey! Plus, Rachel’s papa and Tio Rick also showed. Go, Rach! Just lovely, it was like a wedding reception without the cake, tears or drunken knife-fights.

Opening the night, Mei Long provided soothing melody, harmonic counterpoint, sighing duets, waltzing bass and Mark’s Lennonesque vocals. A nice prelude to what was to follow.  

Damn! I hadn’t heard ‘em since their debut and here it was: a farewell-to-band-personnel show except an altercation with the laws kept Dead Electric from the stage tonight. It was something about transporting underage girls over state lines or maybe counterfeit ten’s and twenty’s, I can’t recall.

But the band’s mouthpiece sprung the mug from stir and packed him on the lam to Tijuana until the heat blows over, see?  

At the last minute, Polaroid Pornography stepped in to save the day and time slot with their vaguely-goth pop goodness. Pretty damn fine it was for a no-rehearsal set which just goes to show what good musicians can pull out of their umm hats at a moment’s notice. 

Raising a rock n’ billy rumpus, next came Sin Serenade like the Rolling Stones’ Bitch with a country heartbreak twang. They covered Wildwood Flower like a dysfunctional Carter Family. A.P. and Sara are spinning in their mossy Virginia graves.  

Frontman Lucky growls like a disgruntled bear prematurely woken from hibernation and Antonia sings like the Little Rascals’ Darla Hood gone wrong in a tawdry world of sex n’ sin. New drummer Maghan Texas doesn’t appear as outwardly depraved as her bandmates but she’s got a name like a dime-store novel cowgirl wrangler which bodes well.

In fact, I would be surprised if there wasn’t a trashy novelette called Sin Serenade on a drugstore bookrack in someplace like Big Springs, Texas. I’d buy that sucker in a New York minute.  

With their first of maybe four or five shows this year, I Is For Ida stepped up to a full house of admirers to showcase their fractured fairy tales and nursery rhymes for homicidal kiddies. Sporting a new bass player and two sets of keyboards (not counting Ella’s accordion), their sound was fuller than ever. Sadly for me, I was pressed in a corner far from anyplace one could hear worth a damn. It was also amped way too loud for a band of their style and so not altogether pleasant.  

Halfway through, I had to bail, something I thought I’d never do on one of my favorite local outfits. Considering the crowd they drew, maybe next time the bigger room and superior sound system of the Launchpad will play host to this unique and haunted outfit.

First of all, thanks go to Mrs Anderson-- a pistol packin’ mama--for birthing Gordy and (in her own words!) “not leaving him at the hospital”. Second, to the lady in his life, the charming Ms Rosa who put this whole shebang together and --rumor has it--flying in some of his old buddies to spend a raucous night at the Hotel Blue downtown, hurling TV sets out the window, pillaging room service and driving Caddies into the swimming pool.    

It was quite some time after I’d originally heard local doom heroes Black Maria that I found out Gordy Anderson -- G. Gordon Lid himself-- has been slinging guitar around these parts for thirty-odd years. Or is that thirty odd years? No matter. His myriad early punk and rock outfits like Jerry’s Kidz, Cracks in the Sidewalk, Hobby Mountain Boys, Young Black Sabbath Teenagers and many more were part of an oft overlooked facet of the local music scene.  

Every once a decade or two, bassist Dorothy Dale dips into her vast photo archive of ‘burque’s Mesozoic punk rock era but despite the rumors of such a slide show tonight, D.D. was M.I.A. C’est dommage!  

Kicking things off was G’s little sis Mary Jo Andersen, all swivel hips and belly dance to mid-east boom box tracks in honor of her bro’s nativity. He was visibly touched by her apparently surprise performance. Not that Gord’s not a little touched already but nevermind.  

Prepared for a night of thrash, mash and mosh, I was more than glad to see Fast Heart Mart on stage. As I suspected, drummer Roblynn donned attire closely akin to her old gutterpunk days but a bit more colorful than black on black. I’m betting she was a tad more comfortable with the evening’s proceedings than her partner Martin who never wore much in the way of dark tee shirts with photos of mutilated fetuses or satanic majesties.  

Besides his acoustic raga rhythms, I hear and recognize some music I love best: the moonshine piney woods Old Rag Mountain keens and laments of Appalachia that are at Virginian Martin’s musical base. That Old Joe Clark tradition is in most ways more true than even the best in rock and roll since it comes direct from the heart of a people not jaded, bored or cynical with modern mores or diluted with adolescent angst. If you’re digging hard rock coal by the time you’re twelve or pregnant at fourteen, there’s no time for indulgent moping. But scratching fiddle and picking guitar of an evening out on the porch makes the times easier. But what else is rock and roll, really, than willfully extended adolescent angst? 

Lest this get too high-handed, it was pointed out to me by my escort that the sound of Kurt Cobain is also quite alive, thank you, in Martin Stamper’s music.  

Tonight, Stamper busted out his new double neck “gig” guitar. He also pulled some manual de-tune action, much like Earl Scruggs’ innovation for the five string banjo, a mechanical de-tuner that either raises a string or lets it slip, effectively changing one note to another.  

Mart’s lyrics admonish that things are fucked up and need to change right now while carrying youth’s astonishment as to why haven’t they yet? At the same time he keeps an outlook that’s mature and conservative (true conservatism, not political posturing). And most of you thought he was only a strumming folkie. Naw! Its vital punk rock on six strings of hollowbody guitar with rat-a-tat snare/cymbal accents and unlike anything else played in this town. 

Next, Anderson and his Black Maria brothers-in-arms took the stage for the finest in local doom n’ roll. It was an all-out battle royale to see who could whip the most hair. Singer Marc and drummer Brent are shorn these days and out of the running but as the paparazzi photo testament of tonight reveals, I don’t think I’m favoring the birthday boy to say he won hands down.  

Reunion shows are a dime a dozen these days but I’d give many rolls of coin to brave the tumult of the raging metalcore local legend Word Salad. These guys were my first intro to the hardcore stuff when I picked up the 1995 Scared of Chaka/Word Salad split 7”. After years of being a mellow (read: stoned) folkie, the sound of Chaka was new and exciting since I had ignored/missed the punk thing all around and had no (and still have little) use for metal altogether.  

For as normal as it sounds to me nowadays, Scared of Chaka seemed pretty out there at the time but I could dig the melodies buried under their aural antics. But if the Chaka boys were a revelation, Word Salad was a neutron bomb I wasn’t ready for. I rarely played the Salad side. That is until I met their bassist Dutch who consistently spun the finest in classic and new hardcore on Rebel Radio each week, from Crass to Grimple, stuff that bewildered me musically but hit me viscerally. And when a song sheet was available for the indecipherable lyrics, I realized the music had more in common with the social justice songs of Woodie Guthrie or Leadbelly than I would ever have thought. Dutch even had the taste to spin that classic LP of historic English protest songs by UK anarchist collective Chumbawamba.   

But fuck all that tonight. Despite being bowled over within seconds of Word Salad’s opening song at their last reunion, I steadfastly stood right up front & center and held on tight to the stage edge and to my date and let the uproar pour over me. Yow! Although I lose track of the musicality of the hard stuff, its easy to see and hear that these guys are tight as fuck and earn all the esteem they get. A final high point was my man Gord stepping up and sitting in to rock out on a thrashing of the Dead Boys’ Sonic Reducer.  

Next up was Sasquatch and Superheavygoatass but I’d had my fill of the heaviness. Besides if I’m gonna have my brains kicked in by music, I’d rather my friends do it. So I wandered around the bar area talking to scads of Gordy’s well wishers.

The rumor of the night was that there might be a Jerry’s Kidz reunion but towards 1:30 am, things didn’t look hopeful and leftover barbeque in my fridge sounded awful good. 

Wig Wam Bam is written by Captain America  | po box 4865 | albuquerque, nm 87196