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HOSPITAL SHIPS, WYE OAK
9/1/08 Launchpad
Being a grumbly old fuck, I’d made up my mind not to go out tonight even
though good things were being said about Wye Oak, not least of which was being
signed by Merge last year-- Merge Records being one of the best labels of
the ‘90s for intelligent indie rock. Luckily the stepkids showed up at my
door and taking no for an answer was not on their agenda. Thanks, you two.
The Merge connection is no fluke. Lately its known for signing Arcade Fire
but the vintage roster is impressive: Butterglory, the Magnetic Fields, Versus,
East River Pipe and of course label founders Mac and Laura’s Superchunk.
From Kansas, openers Hospital Ships showed promise with a load of
people on stage playing all kinds of instruments: guitars, drums, two
keyboards, banjo, trumpet and way too many more to count. It soon turned not
murky but too indistinct with so much going on at once. The lullaby vocals
didn’t do much for me although in some cases I love that style (such as the
Gingerbread Patriots’ wonderful John Brophy).
Close to the stage, we looked at each other wondering if it was a mistake
to come out after all. We were happily proved wrong when Baltimore’s Wye Oak
commanded the stage as you’d not suspect a duo could.
Wye Oak galvanized me with lovely melodies, and swirly
feedback guitar jangle from Jenn Wasner backed by the unassuming but driving
drummer Andy Stack, who also one-hands a keyboard at the same time. They produce
a majestic sweep as if there were more than two people making such beautiful
noise. Wasner’s voice reminds me of a much, much sweeter Rebecca Gates
(the Spinanes ) with the vocal control and range of Carole King.
Their recorded output has an appealing sway that, live, is transformed into
a very loud attack which in spite of the volume remains exquisite and gentle.
Word says the upcoming CD will reflect more of this approach than the milder
first release. I’m already lining up for it.
BLACK TIE, the GRAVE of NOBODY’S DARLING
9/5/08 Burt’s
Grave of Nobody’s Darling continues to impress: a marvelous
country-tinged style that spurns the silly country convention of redneck
lyrics that talk down to its faithful audience like they’re goobers. Tonight
Jess’s vocals reminded me of Eileen Henry of the little-known Irish semi-shoegaze
outfit Chimera, circa 1996.
Hanging out towards the back of the bar, I was a little too far away to
make a fair appraisal of Black Tie but comparisons to Tortoise are
apt. Sadly minus their cellist tonight they delivered a chiming orchestral
guitar sound that assures I’ll pay better attention next time.
LAUNCHPAD 11TH BIRTHDAY
9/6/08
Time flies and our little boy is growing up, soon to be a sullen and rebellious
teenager rather than merely a petulant pre-adolescent. You just wait until
your father gets home, mister!
As much as I love our more intimate venues, every rock band always sounds
better at the Launchpad given its size and now even more with their new post-conflagration
sound system.
The Foxx rocked fuckin’ soxx tonight, stripped down to a trio
giving Ms Legend more room to riff on the ol’ axe instead of her more demure
keyboard work. Zed’s bass stood out like the cars that go boom while Jill
Rocks lived up to her unofficial nickname.
The Grave of Nobody’s Darling was heavenly tonight with Jessica
a beatific vocalist, Bud playing cathedral-symphonic pedal steel and Jill
bathed in a lovely blue glow like Our Lady of Perpetual Timing. Meanwhile
Cliff waltzed sweetly with his bass. If they continue to get any better I
swear I’m gonna freak out.
The Gracchi persisted in slapping us hard across the face like
you would a buddy who needs a harsh wake-up call. My question is will they
be the band at Ash & Laura’s reception? Congratulations you two!
I picture the bride dancing the first dance with her dad, blood running from
her guitar ravaged cuticles down the back of his clean & pressed suit.
America’s Funniest Home Videos, here it comes !
Volume Volume’s latest and greatest band incarnation continued
in their successful bid to amp simple pop punk into punkrock pop. Sweet, dude.
Since I was dumb enough to miss the reunion of ace rockabilly trio
Bovine’s a few days previous, I was redeemed here. But only a
little since a busted bull-fiddle string (who the hell can snap a string
on one of those things thirty seconds in? Yow!) sadly cut their set down
to three numbers. Silver-throated Pat Bova saved the day with some fine a
cappella while bass repairs were dutifully made. With Bovine back in full
effect, I was in swing heaven for those brief minutes. The band shows no sign
of age, like a ’47 Plymouth Coupe restored and polished with loving care
but one that can still blow the doors off on the straightaway.
SMALL FLIGHTLESS BIRDS, DEATH CONVENTION
SINGERS, COBRA//GROUP
9/7/08 Thread:Space
The more the merrier I always say and another all-(r)ages space/gallery
is always to the good. A bizarre arrangement to be sure, its located between
commercial and residential zones: a mini-business complex looking very
‘70s, entered through a courtyard and the type of place where as Raven Chacon
remarked -- I wish I’d said it first!--“I think my dentist used to have his
office here”.
In need of a change of outlook, I was looking forward to seeing the new
place but wasn’t sure what to expect since it was set up by some barely bar-legal
people (who were behind the all ages Space Maybe which I never saw). Since
most of the scenesters I once befriended when they were twenty-one or -two
are now pushing thirty, none of them knew anything of it. And --ha!--now they
know what it’s like to be the old man in the room. That never stopped me
before so I was down to scope Thread:Space in all its opening night glory.
And Death Convention Singers at a place where I was expecting to find Elliot
Smith fans? Cool. Mixed bills with divergent and antagonistic forms of music
is right up my twisted alley. I wasn’t sure who else was slated to play but
had the hunch it was Small Flightless Birds. I was correct, much to my delight.
I never believe the show time any flyer says and figured an hour later was
just right. Even then it was pretty quiet with a few folks wandering around,
checking out the good and bad art all over the walls, eating from a
selection of bagels and pulling on a couple bottles of tequila. I felt
like I was mooching on some touring band’s rider but ten bucks tossed into
the donation box eased my conscience.
Death Convention Singers morphed into a semi-Cobra //Group
affair but what the hell. Those Sicksicksick distro bands get mighty incestuous
most of the time anyway. Semi-orchestrated, it was melodious cacophony, music
from inner and outer space. The set-up made me feel like we were in some arcane
lab experiment, what with the space divided into rooms with huge glass windows.
If there were one-way mirrors, I’d have sworn bald guys in white smocks were
on the other side clicking ball point pens and jotting notes on clipboards
filled with crisp paper watching the moody scene unfold.
Lights off, it was moaning vocals filtered through a gas mask, tweaked keyboards,
ominous clarinet, chiming guitar, picked bass, twisty f/x knobs and Geiger
counter danger clicks while two masked Greek tragedy figures moved across
our view at an agonizingly slow pace. Yeah, the researchers would have
had something to say about that alright. And probably tuck it away neatly
in the locked Confidential files. It was the kind of stuff that drives most
people away…or astray if they stick around for the outcome. Me, I was contented
sipping my mouthwash size cup of tequila in the semi-gloom.
After a short break in the courtyard where beer made its appearance, Small
Flightless Birds set up shop in the next cubicle. I saw them downtown
in July and was mostly impressed enough to want another round. This
time I didn’t hear a thing I didn’t like. Two guitars, five string bass and
two drummers facing each other while sharing the kick drum. Fucking brilliant
drum set-up, that. I’d guess its been done before but I’ve never witnessed
it. The ‘Birds have an improv quality but no jamming and thankyoujesus for
that. SFB is an outfit to keep both eyes and both ears on.
During that set, there were a few folk drifting in and out but not as many
as one would expect for a new hangout. Set over, I headed for the door and
into the night but was taken aback by what I saw: people --and alcohol-- everywhere
about the courtyard and even clambering on and off the roof. True, the rooftop
did look inviting with its repeating pyramidal motif that would serve as
perfect sound baffles to direct the flow of music if a band was to set up
there. As per usual Raven was way ahead of me, already devising malevolent
ways to make the building itself an instrument.
I have no problem with people having a good time but the scene would serve
as a perfect invitation for the Laws to descend en masse squad car tires
screeching sirens wailing to shut down another viral plague on our pure and
virtuous youth.
In a word, it was loose. But since the building belongs to a Thread:spacer’s
mother, it could sorta qualify as a private party. Invitation only, you understand,
Officer. No word from the residential neighbors to the north. The Catholic
Salvation Mission offices to the south were shut for the night. Good thing
because they would’ve called exorcists to dispel the corruption and depravity,
wring their hands and wail “ Oh lamentable day!”. What they don’t know won’t
hurt them. Oh and if any of you happened to leave empties in the parking lot…you
suck.
Thanks to Dara, Mom, and Lauren-with-an-exclamation-point. I think I can
say the inaugural Thread:Space gig was a success. Let’s hope it stays that
way. Watch the public drinking y’all.
the SIC ALPS, THEE OH SEES, TY SEGALL, SMOKE
RINGS
the Stove 9/19/08
The Stove has hosted all kinds of music from experimental & noise to
grindcore & cuddle pop and unspeakable hybrids of all of the above. But
tonight was a San Francisco garage trash n’ roll extravaganza. I’ve lately
been experiencing wicked withdrawals for this shit so I was a happy boy.
Tonight was the mysterioso long awaited debut of Smoke Rings featuring
three ex-Death Valley Days. Ryan plays guitar as well as vocals but these
were buried pretty deep in the mix. Dave Fame thumped out bass while
Nikolai punched keyboards and sang, his voice also barely audible. Nathan
of Small Flightless Birds provided percussion, various f/x and a tiny American
Idol drum kit--you know the type: one of those tinny things designed to give
parents nationwide splitting headaches when they realize too late they never
should have bought the fucking thing for their A.D.D. kid. Smoke Rings
was a combo pack of steady drive neo-psych drone beat, nice for a first show,
setting the stage quietly for the madness to follow.
Next the S.F. contingent began, a towering stonehenge of amps and speakers
teetering behind, quite a metaphor for the overall quality of show: a little
out of kilter but stable… just barely ! One-man band Ty Segall with
a guitar and kick drum & high-hat topped with a tambourine provided more
excitement than some whole bands can manage. Head-waggin’ hip-shakin’ musically
and needle in the red soundwise. Segall had no whammy bar but shook and strangled
his guitar to bend and reverb the notes. He hammered his axe so much it required
tuning between each slammin’ number. The next two bands featured ex-members
of the wildass Coachwhips and if that name means anything to you, you know
what to expect.
The Sic Alps ended the show with a bit less of the garage thrash
action but low and steady strum strum strum by two guitars and two guys,
one of them sitting at the drum stool as well. Psyched for more-- but not
finding much-- garage trash following the amazing Oh Sees, my attention waned
enough to stroll outside, light a cig and review Albuquerque band history
with a couple of new friends. But when I heard some more upbeat riffs, I
went back inside to catch the last few numbers. Some vague underlying rock
n’ roll goodness got a few people dancing but then degenerated into sonic
distorto-feedback noise to end the night. It was ok but I wasn’t all that
in the mood for un-rhythmic static.
No, it was Thee Oh Sees who won my Best of Show tonight. They boasted
a killer quartet membership with six and/or twelve string electric guitars,
boy/girl vox, every tambourine type instrument known to humanity and a drummer
heavy on the tom action.
Don’t be fooled by the more downtempo songs found online. They kicked ass
all over the room, splintered drumsticks and sweat flying in every direction.
A hot drum solo was not out of place even given the disdain that most people
emote when you mention those words. It was hot and to the point, not mindless
jacking off. One tune was intro’ed by a sweet guitar “duet” which reminded
me of the best of Dickie Betts’ and Duane Allman’s twin leads. I didn’t really
dance since I wanted to keep my eye on these crazy rockers but I couldn’t
help bouncing around, tapping my toes and shaking a hip or two. It was no
easy feat keeping up.
FANDO, DJ BRANDON, FUTURE EX-CON
Fixed & Free Bicycle Shop 9/22/08
Never having ridden one, I’m not sure what the appeal is of the fixed-wheel
bike unless it’s the capricious thrill of no brakes. It doesn’t matter except
that new bike shop Fixed and Free jumped in as yet another all-ages venue,
a veritable plethora of them popping up of late. Lisa G, who put on the Stove
show a few nights ago, was behind this one as well.
I arrived fashionably late but not late enough since equipment set-up was
still going on. When I asked the guy at the door who was taking money he said
, “oh wait, I’ll get the lady.” That cracked me up. The lady? Jesus, kid!
I’m old enough to be Lisa’s dad. Hilarious!
The show was supposed to happen out in back but raindrops pushed the electro-kids
inside. Rain might mess with yer guitar and electrocute you but no way mix
guys will take the chance on ruining their sensitive high-end high-tech gear.
Can’t say I blame ‘em. First up was Future Ex-Con (Ben of Polaroid
Pornography) with dreamy solo avant dancey live loops. He toned it down some,
so as to not annoy the neighbors. Little did the neighbors know what was coming.
No, I don’t mean DJ Brandon. Although he amped the groove and BPM
factor considerably, it was under control… just as the man is known
to do and with fine timing. People watched him spin and nodded heads but
few moved. The small crowd was pretty subdued.
Then the Fando boys rolled in like gangstaz from some Disneyland
otherworld: unsafe and unsavory, they won’t kill ya but they might yank your
chain. Big time.
They hustled their gear into the backyard-- fuck that weather, brah--and
slammed the Nob Hill ‘hood over the back of the head with a lead pipe blackjack
of musical terror. Galloping tonalities fly in every direction like slipping
around on an icy lake, flailing arms and legs, trying to avoid falling into
the drink where the ice is thin and melty. Then splooosh! you’re submerged,
too many layers of wet clothing on, in deep cold-as-blue water. Time
slows. Can’t tell up from down. There’s an ice cream headache all over your
body. And you start to hear that galloping guitar beat creeping up again…
Then… fuckin’-A nothing. The cops showed up and cut it short. The noise
permit was prominently displayed so all the coppers could do was make ‘em
move indoors. Fando had broken no law --except every law of god and man --
and since things were running late, it was time to get the touring band up
anyway. Buzzkilled, I watched the cops watch us for awhile then strolled
for bed, still wondering about being trapped under thick lake ice when I
dozed off.
LOUSY ROBOT, the SATELLITE DECODER, the WORLD
ON FYRE
Burt’s 9/26/08
the PORTER DRAW
Launchpad 9/26/08
I failed miserably at hitting each event I’d planned but have no complaints
about how my night ended. First I railed over to the grocery store to pick
up victuals for next morning’s breakfast after the SickSickSick twelve hour
all-night lock-down ambient-avant-noise extravaganza. Dropping off those provisions
at the Stove-- which was still undergoing prep for the show-- I went home
for a hot shower and cold steel dragged across my stubbly face. Slated for
a quick stopover at Burt’s before winging to twangapalooza at Launchpad and
thence back to the Stove for some wee hours skronk, instead some fine music
and finer company held me in thrall for hours.
Approaching Burt’s from across the street I thought I heard Unit 7 Drain
wafting into the night but with a sharper edge. I was 3/5 correct: it was
U7D pregnancy stand-ins, the World On Fyre featuring Chris, Tony
and Harry. Unit 3 Drain if you will. I only heard a song and half but they
sliced and diced like a classic Heian period samurai sword featuring a hard
but brittle edge buttressed by a softer core for a resilient and graceful
weapon. Yeah, I like this: harder stuff with heart.
Satellite Decoder was new to me, or I should say, new to my
ears even though I’d heard the name before. I dug what I heard: lovingly
constructed songs with gentle vocals that can turn a little fierce with each
turn in the arrangement. Well-played with good guitar jangle like the best
of the Smashing Pumpkins. And by the Pumpkins’ best I mean Billy Corgan’s
quieter stuff that kicks the ass of his harsh side. Decoder grabbed me from
the opening notes and held me until set’s end.
With Lousy Robot I sometimes get too caught up in Jim’s words and
melodies that I lose track of the rest of the boys. Not tonight. I stood my
ground near Switchblade Dandee to watch his rockstar mugging. He’s got some
lovely runs that quietly anticipate where the tune is heading. It wasn’t easy
beneath the guitar rattle and drum thump but I tried to focus on the sound
of Miguel’s wooden snare. It seemed to me a little less sharp (like, forget
too many rim shots) but with more sustain: the crack of a rifle heard
across rolling pastures on a muggy day.
Jack’s keyboards are never overstated and perhaps at times too understated
but the man does less with more. What I love about his work is that is serves
as accent and not merely echo. Deft.
With the Robot’s last notes barely faded, I was literally taken by the hand
and led to the Launchpad to catch the last of a multi-band Americana show.
We made it barely in time for the last half of the Porter Draw, a half
trad bluegrassy quartet I’d been meaning to catch for many months. They didn’t
let me down.
Vince was slinging a pretty acoustic bass guitar, the next best thing to
a standup. Ben played some inconspicuous banjo ---somewhere between an old-timey
style and idle pick/strum--- focusing on its little-recognized role in bluegrass
as a time keeper, just as one might expect a hybrid percussion/ stringed instrument
to do. Russell sang leads and alternated between rhythm and pick guitar.
Everyone shared harmonies but I was impressed all around by Josh who houndtooth-clean
flatpicked on a cutaway guitar that I think was a Martin. I didn’t recognize
the model but it looked smaller than the old reliable Dreadnoughts with a
full bell-ring tone. As icing on the cake, he crooned tuneful high lonesome
vocals with spot-on harmonies. Listen to some old bluegrass records from
the ‘50s: the picking grabs your ear but vocal harmony is the real star.
I was in hillbilly heaven. Even the Greenday cover was tolerable in the Porter
Draw’s capable umbrage. I’ll be back for another draught of this Porter soon
as I’m able.
I never did make it back to the Stove for breakfast but was in very good
hands tonight.
DEVIL MUSIC ENSEMBLE
musical accompaniment to RED HEROINE (China, 1929)
9/29/08 ASUNM Southwest Film Center
Four decades before your *ahem* humble narrator was a music freek, I was
a movie nerd poring over volumes of cinematic history and buying 8mm bootleg
copies of Holly-wood classics with allowance money. So the combination
of live music and moving pictures is a match made in my collector geek heaven.
Of late there’s been a number of bands (Alloy Orchestra, Bing Quartet) who
specialize in touring with and providing musical accompaniment to “silent”
films. These were never actually silent: live music was
part and parcel whether a solo piano or organ, a trio or full orchestra for
prestige films. Top-drawer productions had sheet music scores composed and
distributed to the theaters.
Despite a few uneven attempts at synching records to movies (both were invented
within a few years of each other) every movie made was silent until sound-on-film
was invented in the late ‘20s. Even then it took a few years for each theater
to be equipped with the new technology, especially small town picture palaces.
And there were lots of them. Television was two decades away and commercial
radio was in its infancy but over 90 million Americans went to the movies
every week.
Contrast this to China --whose population was many times that and more rural--
a country that had little funds to equip moviehouses with sound equipment,
not to mention studios lacking the technology and capital to make “talkies”.
This was the case when Hong Xia (Red Heroine) was made in 1929 Shanghai.
It is one of the only surviving and complete wuxia (martial arts movies) of
the era.
Sadly the wushu --marital arts-- sequences are very short and lack detail.
Except for a few wonderful shots of transformed heroine Yun Mei flying through
the cosmos, her jian (sword) drawn, the main special effect is people climbing
up and down ropes. Quite disappointing.
Unlike his counterparts in the west, director Wen Yimin’s camera is static,
a throwback to the earliest movies when only a handful of filmmakers realized
that cinema had greater potential than essentially filming plays. But Red
Heroine remains fascinating since western influence in China was young at
the time of its making. Sure, its not classical Yuan or Ming style acting
but early 20th century broad theatrical gestures (keep in mind all movie audiences
then, east or west, were less literate and used to such convention. Too,
silent movies could play anywhere in the world with only the insertion of
translated title cards-- no dubbing needed! -- so the acting had to be visually
comprehensible by any culture). But the costuming, morals and values of Red
Heroine remain thoroughly Chinese. The hell with you gwailo.
Speaking of gwailo (loosely translated as foreign devils or ghosts) Boston’s
Devil Music Ensemble played a superb score, the hands-down best of the
new crop of silent film accompanists: drums, percussion, violin, synth/sequencer
and-- the crowning touch--an erhu, the Chinese two string “fiddle”. Their
music was respectful of the film, something I’ve rarely seen in such accompaniment
where the movie is treated as if in service of the musicians and their “cleverness”
rather than the other way ‘round.
I was pleased to see a few punky faces in the crowd (Lori Law, Jaden, Adam…)
before I was joined by Zed Stardust, the man who could tell you more about
wushu off the top of his head than I could ever manage to cobble off the internets.
Z bailed after the picture was over since he was supposed to be onstage with
the Foxx at that very moment…
But as a special bonus old pal and Corraleseña Megan the K just happened
to be visiting from Brooklyn for a few days. She was down for the movie and
a couple après-cinema Makers On the Rocks. Neither of us had set foot
in the Copper Lounge since the last time we went together when it was still
the old reliable shithole Jack’s. I’m sorry to say it looks like every other
tavern makeover in the last ten years. No style. No character. No finesse.
Anyway we talked shit about Subpop, the food service biz, stupid boys, silly
girls and human foibles until her baby bro arrived before midnight to whisk
Meg back to Corrales.
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BILLY MILES BROOKE
All Dressed up…and Nowhere to Go [CD 2008]
Toad Ranch Records
http://www.myspace.com/tragicromancerocks
Of everyone who sends CDs to my mailbox, Santa Fe’s Billy Miles Brooke
has a clue to what I like best: rock and roll, baby, with no metal, no bad
boy stance and no useless riffing. This is a good disc of rock & roll/
heart & soul with country honk and a taste of glam acknowledging Marriott,
Parsons (both Gram and Gene) and Jagger-Richards without mindless imitation.
The Stones influence is apparent right out of the gate. No, not their coke-sniffin’
cockhound persona but what they would’ve played for themselves in the wee
hours, trying to even out the highs and lows of powders, whiskey & pills
while recording in self-imposed “exile” in Villefranche-sur Mer, 1971. Toss
in Nikki Sudden and Jeff Dahl with smoother vocals and you have the full
picture. This isn’t balls-out rock (which is overrated anyway) but more like
keep it in your pants and let’s see what you really have to offer. Brooke
offers alot, with welcome subtlety.
The slide guitars are lovely and --yes!--finally a rock and roll record
that features piano in the vein of the great Nicky Hopkins. Wait, did I say
subtle? Closing track Tearin’ Up the Town wakes you out of the disc’s country
reverie with a barn-burning twist-party complete with honkin’ sax, the other
rock and roll instrument unjustly forgotten.
All Dressed Up… isn’t ground-breaking but reliable, no bullshit and comfortable.
Not easy to do, it works for either Saturday night or Sunday morning.
PAN!C
DO IT! [self-release CD, 2008]
http://www.myspace.com/rockwithpanic
Play this CD loud. That’s no empty directive as found on more discs than
one can count but is obvious by the first twenty seconds of Pan!c’s long-awaited
debut. I pressed play and was, like, what the fuck? It sounded flat enough
to dash for the equalizer like a bunt hitter diving for first base,
and push the bass further up and treble further down than I typically like.
That did the trick! Safe at first and bases (and bass) loaded.
Its not a bad mix (aside from Rob’s toms made to sound like the heads needed
replacement last month) but it could be too clean a separation--the bastard
devil in digital recording-- for a genre that benefits from smudges
rather than windex. Then again maybe it’s the distortion in my damaged eardrums
(thank you, Drags! I remember the exact Dingo show when my right ear took
a turn for the worse) that love the muddy wash of a live show way
better than any document made of one’s and zero’s.
No matter. Do It! improves each spin. I’m on about play seven first day
after getting my ahem advance copy and keep edging the volume slider further
west every time.
No musical boundary pushing here but sturdy pop punk just obnoxious enough
that it will never be used for a television commercial. This ain’t no Dookie
in other words.
Not breakneck speed, its still too fast to tap your toes through two minutes
three seconds without cramping the fuck out of your metatarsals. Truth to
tell, I’d given up on pop punk years ago when the Eyeliners ditched the
local scene but I’ve lately been reeled back in by Pan!c, hot on the heels
of Volume Volume.
As fun as Pan!c is, their music isn’t empty amusement, lyrics considered.
Sure some of it commemorates jackassery but the main theme touchstones raise
the question of just whose heart is breaking here. The no punches pulled
lyrics trump what could otherwise be a too familiar musical style. Local
name-dropping abounds and I’m guessing more than a name or two winces to
hear theirs.
Eva Racecar’s vocal range isn’t wide but a pleasing basso cantante which
I adore that wisely isn’t smoothed with studio tricks. For that matter neither
is Rachel Rachel’s hot and fuzzy riff-heavy dual rhythm/lead attack. Her
driving instrumental Vomit Rocket showcases Rach’s tuff strut. The song might
well be autobiographical but no one’s sayin’ and I’m certainly not inquiring.
Rob R. drums like nobody’s business and although I’d like to hear more of
the man’s rapidfire fills I think the lack of them speaks more to the stripped
down Pan!c aesthetic than anything else.
Melodically, my favorite cuts are the opening Nobody’s Girl (ouch) and closing
Bang Straight Back (brutal truth never sounded so beautiful or so at odds:
resilient, triumphant, poignant, heartrending, detached and strangely romantic,
all at once). These two tunes --bookends for sure -- have great hooks contained
more in Eva’s deceptively lovely voice than in actual song structure.
All said and done, I love Do It! and if you hear those two words screamed
out at some show, you’ll know the Pan!c gals are in the house, their voices
well lubricated with PBR and Jameson.
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