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PAN!C, ICKY & the YUCKS, the PORTER DRAW
10/4/08 Launchpad
Opening tonight was the Porter Draw, the best bluegrass outfit seen
here in many a year. I had a few things wrong when I first saw them a week
ago: Ben’s banjo picking is somewhat inconspicuous (read: not flashy) but
its no less good, a combination of the chromatic style of the great Bill Keith
and the laid back roll of Happy Traum. And though flatpicker Josh does his
share of wonderful high vocals, frontman Russell can keen with the best of
them.
Because of that harmony emphasis, the Porters remind me of an outfit who
played these parts in the late ‘70s (I saw ‘em at the defunct East Mountain
post-hippie dive the Blarney Stone) with local banjo legend Wayne Shrubsall.
A mandolin picker name of Joe DeMars had one of the most piercing but pleasant
high harmonies I’ve ever heard. Mr Shrubsall still picks in these parts but
to my regret I’ve never run across Mr DeMars again. Lucky for me the Porter
boys are in town.
Josh pulled out his harp for some honkin’ harmonica action similar to Jonathan
Edwards self-titled 1971 LP, still a classic despite his later Stardust Cowboy
stuff.
Tonight’s treat was Stealin’, a great jugband number with roots at least
to the 1920s. Despite all my ranting & raving about cover bands in these
pretentious pages, blues, bluegrass & folk are all about covers
or, more accurately, playing the standards while adding here, subtracting
there; making new songs of old and old songs of new.
Speaking of standards, Icky & the Yucks have been around for
what? a decade at least and are the standard for bellowing and rude punkrock,
whether my cup of tea or not. As always they roared, well-received by their
crowd so what do I know.
Finally, the stage was festooned with ribbons and balloons heralding the
release of Pan!c’s long-awaited CD Do It! Attention was paid to the
sartorial element by the band and so shall we here: Drumboy Rob sported the
classic Clark Kent look: red & navy striped tie on a white buttondown
.
He was almost a buzzkill, refusing to tear off his shirt despite numerous
requests from the audience. I uh wasn’t among them. He made up for it by tearing
off the beats instead. It must be said Rob plays the most appropriate cowbell
ever.
Guitargirl Rachel wore a little red spank-me jumpsuit while she chopped
out rhythmic leads and bassgirl Eva was resplendent in bright red strappy
dress and matching heels, beaming like a sweet sixteen at her debutante party.
Once again the ‘pad sound system was also a star, showing the band to good
advantage. It was a solid set by everyone’s reckoning.. Sadly, the underwear
rumors were untrue.
Despite driving rain, the afterparty at Blaylock Manor was a success. Eva’s
loving and lovely family attended in full effect, ignoring normal curfews
and bedtimes. Lucky us, Vince and Josh grabbed their axes and were shortly
joined by (another treat!) ex-Pan!c Mike on electric guitar. Such unplanned
sets earn a special place in my heart, reminding me of my “high” school
friends who picked guitar, banjo, mandolin & washtub bass on front porches
in the wilds of suburban New Jersey.
Josh pulled all kinds of tunes out of his deep repertoire recesses: Jagger
/Richards’ Dead Flowers, hands down one of the best country songs ever written.
Darth Brooks’ Papa Loved Mama. Insurgent country guardian angel Townes Van
Zandt’s Pancho and Lefty…It was near sunrise before I left. No telling how
long the party went on. It may still be going on for all I know.
DYNAMITE KEGS
10/18/08 Burt’s
Senile old coot, I’d forgotten I wanted to see this show. Luckily,
I was escorted there in the nick of time for the Las Cruces-based blastorama
the Dynamite Kegs, already one of my new favorites. Where’s the merch,
you guys? Dynamite Bill Bunting fronted the action, shouting like a motherfucker.
The Kegs bridge the gap between trashy garage, ‘70s punk and ‘80s hair rock,
a darn good pedigree. Its top notch roar n’ roll you can hip swivel to or
even headbang if you’re so inclined. I’d rather rockn’roll with my body than
bounce my addled grey matter around (it can’t take much more) so I bopped
as long as my inebriate self could take, which didn’t last much beyond their
set.
Despite Dead On Point Five (my tip top hard-stuff locals) next on deck,
the combination of dinner with a half bottle of wine, shots of Irish whiskey
and a beer had me looking for bed. I usually know better than to attempt such
a silly combination but peer pressure’s a bitch. I won’t make that same mistake
next time the Kegs roll into town, packing a TNT blast.
SCREAMING FEMALES, FANDO, SABERTOOTH
CAVITY
10/25/08 house show
See Show Photos Here: Screaming
Females, Fando,
Sabertooth
Cavity
This show was a must-see and a half since--as everyone in earshot was tired
of hearing before the night even began -- Marissa of Screaming Females is
the daughter of one of my brother’s good high school buddies. Seven years
younger, I was too little to hang with ‘the guys’ but now-Dad Angelo
always made a point to say a few words to me. Too young to be allowed to grow
my hair, I looked up to his moptop and Cuban heels. I particularly remember
him throwing Bob Dylan quotes at me to see if I could identify the song (“the
pump don’t work/ ‘cause the vandals took the handles..?”).
I passed the test. That was during my first summer job when I bought a Dylan
LP every week catching up on what I’d missed five, six years previous.
Back to the present: Sabertooth Cavity opened with a wild discharge
of jazzy/funk strobe mania, complete with wailing sax, Billy Cobham
drums, heavy guitars, tweaked keys and f/x and even a godamn flute. They set
the tone for the rest of a roaring night. The house was pumped when
Fando discharged a heavier than normal mélange of goodness with
a metal-tipped bullet. No matter what these guys do, from wild-eyed skronk
to rumbling noise to wild horses galloping in front of a locomotive,
I’ve yet to be disappointed.
Too bad for Las Cruces but good for us, Brunswick NJ’s Screaming Females
jumped in to hammer us here in the Dirt City when a show down south tanked.
A deep bottom end was the theme tonight ‘cause they just about ripped holes
in the carpet with their aural attack. Marissa’s leads are some-where between
Leslie (Mountain) West with profound fuzz and Fred “Sonic” Smith on a particularly
heavy day. All around pretty impressive for a three-piece.
The house was pumped throughout the set with good reason. It took awhile
for the place to calm down and folks to filter into the night. While my bro
brought the band home for chile stew and couches, I stopped by for what I
thought was a birthday ceremonial at Stacey and Raven’s where we immediately
spun the two Females records I bought while continually toasting the Green
Faerie. Good thing my casa was in stumbling distance because it was a wise
move on my part (for once) to abandon vehicular travel at 5 am.
the GRACCHI, the X-KHANS, BEN HATHORNE
11/9/08 Launchpad
Tonight was the annual benefit for Serendipity Day School organized by old
pal Cara (Roxiehearts, Hopefuls) Tolino.
I was out of the house by 8:30, home by 11pm. That worked. I figured I was
due for an early evening after lately seeing the sun rise more that I had
since my farm days. Besides, no way I was gonna miss the criminally-overlooked
songwriting genius of Mr. Ben Hathorne (Naomi, Hopefuls).
Ben offered us a set of sweet solo acoustic in his soft-sung neo-Spanish/Classical
guitar style. Spotlit were new tunes from his upcoming release. Lucky me I
was handed an advance copy within minutes of entering the ‘pad with the caveat
from Ben that “I don’t like all the songs on this one”.
The sole one I recognized tonight was New Mexican Wife off the only (boo!)
proper Hopefuls release, the 1999 classic Prypee. Hathorne is a combination
of someone whose melodies, lyrics, voice and playing are a match made in musical
heaven. You want proof? How about the fact that when the man is on stage
most of the crowd watching closely are musicians. Sure, musicians might
be irascible unreliable ego-driven bastards but if you want to hear the good
stuff, keep an eye on who your favorite bands pay attention to.
Tonight was the first I’d seen the X-Khans since their debut at Ralli’s
almost a year to the day. My mistake. It was a fun set of grabass raucous
n’ roll with a few c’untrified twangers. Midnight Penny’s voice was in good
form especially during the screamers. Scott’s leads are smooth as a bottle
of as good scotch, Chuck Berry-informed but to the next level. Too bad
things went downhill after the barn-burners ‘cause the mix was way muddy for
the quiet stuff.
The Gracchi roared as usual but it was mixed much too
loud, muddier than a caliche road after heavy summer rains. Not being
able to tell what song they were playing until the choruses kicked in, I
retreated outside for an eardrum break even though I was sporting fancy
twenty dollar earplugs. I thought maybe I was just being a bitch (nothing
new there) but when Albuquerque’s head -bangin’est couple said the same, I
was vindicated. With three more hard rocking bands still on the way I called
it quits since a wall of over-audible static held no appeal.
AIDS WOLF, SMOKE RINGS, FANDO
11/16/08 Launchpad
Its always a treat to see bands besides the usual suspects on the Launchpad
stage if for no other reason than to hear them filtered through the sound
system that dwarfs anything at their usual habitat of the house show or all-ages
space.
You never know which direction the Fando boys will take: drifty avant
non-compositions, molten lead uptempo dirge or my personal favorite: frenetic
Cold War classics with balalaika-like riffs, perfect for dancing Russian barynyas
with requisite knee-bending ?????????. Da, comrade!
Smoke Rings --in their third or fourth appearance --came on
strong but in a nicely understated way like Jesus and Mary Chain meets some
lost early Suicide demos before Alan Vega and Martin Rev took it to an artistically
confrontational level. Foremost was the deep reverb on vocals as well as Dave
Fame’s bass which jumped across the room like echoes skipping across a deep
winter iced-over pond on a still day. Because of the Rings’ reverb unit,
the voices were not distinct but mixed at an equal level of everything else
lending that old shoegaze feel with the vocals on par with the guitar and
keyboards, in effect becoming instruments.
From Montreal, the mighty Aids Wolf eschewed the stage altogether
and set up their own gear right on the floor. What a big sound you have ,
Grandma. All the better to confront you with my dear Red Riding Hood…
Manic spazzcore with a deep sea depth bomb charge overloading your internal
senses like an old room-size IBM fed too many folded, spindled and mutilated
punch cards.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Captain America is paid back after years
of bashing or damning with faint praise all things heavy and/or metal. Out
of everyone’s who’s ever promised to submit something to this wretched zine,
its always the heshers who get their shit together and do it. Big time. These
people don’t fuck around.
The DANGER ZONE
JUAN MacLEAN, D NUMBERS
9/19/08 Launchpad
by Black Cat Danger
I think I was drugged. Or, I don’t know, you be the judge: I only
had four beers and I was *trashed* (tallboys, but still!). Of course,
still operating with shimmer and poise to the outside world, but Jesus, inside,
struggling to hang on. Don’t remember the end of the nite, and woke
up 9 hours later still feeling drunk. Like, too drunk to drive. So, I think
I had a run in with a secret admirer/aspiring rapist. You’d think I’d feel
unnerved or violated, but I had a great nite, so, all I can say is, thanks
Sociodeviant, for the free pills.
The lineup definitely brought a different class of people to the Launchpad:
A mix of alternaprep sophisticates and crunch types. A greater than
usual selection of pretty girls in pretty clothes—Cara, in the charming green
cocktail dress: well done. Several dudes with pubic beards, for shame. But,
also some guys in close-fitting polo shirts, a nice change from the boys-in-girl-jeans
look that usually appalls your senses at the Launchpad.
Went out to see some old friends from Santa Fe, Ben Wright (nee Mary and
Mars) and Paul Gretzinger (aka DJ Feathericci) who, along with Brian Mayhall,
are D Numbers. Dancing, and lots of it. Even if some of it was
that fairy princess hippie dream sequence twirl--hey, I’m not a hater when
it comes to dancing. Splendid rabbit kick on the drums by Feathericci, in
his ecstasy with eyes rolled back in his head. Brian and Ben played out a
pretty romance between stellar bubblegum synth and lysergic strings.
Not the usual music genre I check out--kind of Heliotrope, kind of Umphrey's
Mcgee. Or, maybe not sounding too close to those bands. I don’t know,
like I said, not a category of music I’m too familiar with. But it was definitely
a good time. I’ll be dressing a little prettier and--if possible--rocking
it a little bit dancier next time you guys come down to Abq.
Next up: Juan MacLean. Starting to feel it. Receding from dance
party into pharmacy mystery. Forgive my reporting. Having a good time though.
Good news: more dancing. On stage, Asian girl rocking a pantsuit. Glittery
disco lights! Right on! The sound is compu-metallic rock candy. One track
has the refrain: “Space! ” …Next thing I know I’m waking up at a friend’s
house, safe and sound (as far as I know, anyway). Sorry I blanked out on you,
Juan MacLean. Those fragments of memory are so shiny. Will be catching
you next time.
the Suspended, Early
Man, Iced Earth
@ Sunshine
Eve of the End
@ Atomic
11/8/08
by Black Cat Danger
Can you see it, the dark star? Clearing the horizon and aiming for the zodiac
like a nuclear warhead? It’s the Albuquerque metal scene, friends.
Rising. And with an obsidian glint that is catching national attention.
Tonite, in the cursed confines of the Sunshine Theater, local phenoms The
Suspended did justice to the high honor of opening for Early Man, the
best thrash band touring today. Iced Earth rounded the ticket as headliners.
Even though it was an early show,* the Sunshine was jammed. Competing for
hard rock fans’ attention was Mudvayne, playing that same nite at the Convention
Center. Divided loyalties split the heschers from the thrashers, resulting
in a sea of purebred metalheads at the Sunshine. No filthy dreadlocks to be
seen. The crowd was decked out in what counts as high livery, above
and beyond army issue black t-shirts and jeans. For the majority, regalia
also included mustache-less beards and long hair of varying matt and luster
parted down the center. A healthy minority sported the classic metal
mullet. Just a few girls, and these ascetically outfitted like the men. No
trace of glamour here.
Amped anticipation among the crowd for Iced Earth-- as The Suspended scraped
open their first chord, a long line of votaries stretched into the lobby,
waiting for their chance to waste money on Iced Earth paraphernalia.
Tonite The Suspended proved itself capable of playing on a national level,
and may have even trajected into the national consciousness. The Suspended
agitated the swarms with a King scale sound executed with Kong scale skill.
Chan Concho makes it look easy on the drums, like she’s slaying her targets
with just a one-handed grip on an AK and a casual sweep of the arm.
Mimo channels Pinhead with her hell-stained monovocals. But it really is Mandy
on lead guitar who elevates this band above what you’d expect to hear any
given Friday at the Atomic. Her allegro hammer is like the celestial chimes
that ring as you enter the gates of Metal Heaven.
Later, on his band’s tour blog, lead singer Mike Conte of Early Man wrote
about the show in Abq: “There was another good local opener there called SUSPENDED.
They are an all girl death/thrash metal band. Adam thinks they sounded like
SODOM. I agree. They were really good.” These three young women will be putting
the Albuquerque metal scene on the map.
Next, primal visionaries Early Man take the stage. The general vibe
in the crowd is, “Who the fuck is Early Man? ” They were just in town
a couple months ago at the Launchpad--lost a major share of my hearing at
that show, as a matter of fact--but still unloved and uncelebrated here in
Albuquerque. Co-founding member and raw heart of Early Man, Mike Conte, opened
by expressing how impressed he was with The Suspended. Then he gave a Mr.
Roger’s-like PSA about supporting your local metal scene. Then they rocked
out.
This set started off kind of lethargic compared to their last performance
in town. But Early Man soon cranked up the sincerity and the intensity. Sensed
a little emotional disconnect by the Albuquerque crowd at first. But when
fellow founder and spit-fire drummer Adam Bennati exited stage and guitarist
Peter Macy, deliciously pretty young bass player Tim Rammage, and Mike got
together for a strings spotlight dance, you could taste a sweeter rapport.
In the middle of their set, some premature ejaculators back by the bar started
chanting “Iced Earth! Iced Earth!”.
I thought it was really fucking rude, but some friends of mine who happened
to be standing next to them said they seemed to be into Early Man’s
set. Well, whatever, I don’t know how Early Man took it, but they seemed to
be playing a hell of a lot better after that. Case in point, when they performed
some kind of coven ritual where all on stage turned to face each other in
a solemn circle and began a lurid melodic interlude that gradually ignited
into sulfuric fireball. Nice. By the end of the set, Early Man seemed to
have won a number of new friends in Abq, with the front staged increasingly
packed and more arms shooting electrified devil horns in the air.
By the masses of purchased and immediately donned t-shirts, Iced Earth
has a quite a shiny-eyed following here in Albuquerque. I previewed a little
of their music on line, and wasn’t too excited myself. But they had a double
drum kit raised up from the stage on a 6 foot platform, so I was obligated
to hear them out. They took their sweet time, and when they finally
arrived, it was in Dethklok fashion: The stage lights turned red, and then
a strobe light cast its amphetamine tinsel. The downstage spotlights turned
a spectral beam on each figure in the band from below.
Their first song sounded like a cheap Judas Priest knock off, and the lead’s
Rob Halford haircut and chaps heightened the effect. So we retired to the
Moonlight lounge for a few beers. A friend who stayed for Iced Earth
texted me later: “Iced earth is a budget iron maden [sic].” So basically
Iced Earth is a metal cover band with a rabid following here in Albuquerque.
It was only 10:30 at this point, and we decided to hit Atomic for some Tecates.
Grabbed a seat at one of the booths and checked out from afar yet another
metal band, Eve of the End. At this point, a little more interested
in romance with my date than the music, but the sound coming from the stage
was really strong: A lot of variety, with muscular execution.
Cool--more killer metal out of Albuquerque. For
those of you still nursing bile against the Shins for denying us our rightful
music glory, fear not. The corona will be ours again. Our dark star is rising.
* Jesus, what is it with these metal shows starting so fucking early?
This show started at 7. And I was barely waking up from my nap when
Motorhead went on stage this summer.
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SPLIT HOOF, SUPERGIANT, the CANTINA FLYS
10/10/08 @ Uncle Paulie’s Pub, El Paso, TX
by Black Cat Danger
Find myself in my estranged hometown, El Paso,
immediately following my five day fast and the Day of Atonement. Tonight Supergiant
and Split Hoof are playing in a bar in the same strip mall where I got my
first kiss 18 years ago. My parents and grandparents get their prescriptions
filled at the Walgreen’s across the street.
The venue, Uncle Paulie’s Pub, is an unreconciled hybrid of sports and rock
bar, but it’s got a nice, spacious interior. Español dominando
el sonido general debajo la mixed pop music terrible, i.e., Coolio and Buckcherry.
For a rock roster, there are quite a few women in attendance, showing plenty
of leg in otherwise forgettable black dresses. Most of the crowd is sporting
office-convertible happy hour attire. On the men, traces of Chess King. A
handful of military personnel with clean brute physiques. Se nota: Not one
hipster.
First to play are local boys, The Cantina Flys. Hijo de puta, hard
to even listen to their music--unable to get past the band gimmick of bandanas
low on the forehead, à la Bret Michaels. Decorative skull on the microphone
stand wearing the same. The whole band is in jean jackets with the sleeves
ripped off and the band logo pinned to the back. I struggle to look past these
superficial offences, only to be rewarded with a ballad to cunnilingus, South
of the Border (“this one’s for the ladies…”) and an ode to a generic rock
chick, Clear as Crystal. Jesus. Was considering not drinking so soon after
my fast, but seems like the perfect time for a beer now.
Step outside during the set break--the smoke patio is designated from the
sidewalk with sagging neon construction netting. It’s raining.
Enjoy a chitchat with two from Split Hoof, the cheerful and grizzly bassist,
Wade Morrison, and relentlessly verbal drummer, Kenny Wagner. Pleasant company.
A promise from Supergiant to burn me down before their set is unfulfilled,
but Wade and Kenny to the rescue with a wholesome hotbox in their van, right
in front of the bar. Almost have to forgo that high as well, thanks to my
superstition against yellow lighters that must be honored at all costs. Wade
finds his Zippo; Allah is merciful. Discussion includes drug/migra checkpoints
infesting the regional highways and the greats of sloppy guitar, i.e., Jimmy
Page. Grand Funk Railroad is playing on their CD deck. When we exit the van,
a gawker comment on how high we are. Kenny trips on this a little, but I can’t
help but agree. Yes, I am quite high. Thank you, Split Hoof.
Enter the venue just in time to hear Supergiant initiate their launch
sequence: a subtle reverb that powers up and up until the radiation presses
out against the edges of the room.
Interesting experience catching Supergiant, naked to scrutiny, away from
their fervent fan base. But, it goes to prove that Supergiant is the truth,
friends: A waking dream truly astral in spark and scope. A backdrop of indifferent
audience didn’t change that.
There are a lot of different energies at work: Gary Chavez stirs up a vitriol
of mathematical chaos on drums, while Joel Rogers summons his vocals from
deep within the second chakra. Kyle Erikson’s capricious rockstar ego translates
into an undulating but commanding throb of bass. But it’s the sonic dissonance
of Jeremy McCollum’s guitar that really manages to unify it all something
more than the sum of its parts. Lots to listen to--you’re never bored.
Don’t really get what’s up with those lyrics, but oh well, hard to make them
out live anyway. Set List: Antares, Luna, Psychedelic Sunset, Revolution,
Sol, WWM, In the Morning, Rosey, 888.
Taking a seat to enjoy the final set with trio Split Hoof from Austin.
A nice compliment to Supergiant’s superlative psychedelia, Split Hoof definitely
has a heavy head trip element to it. But their music is a hell of a
lot more complicated than that. Everything built up from a solid 70s rock
foundation. You can hear the reverence for Grand Funk in there, and there’s
also a bit of Stevie Ray Vaughn electric sinew. But it’s all pounded into
something way heavier. It’s like listening to a classic rock station on acid
and meth--but in a good way. Mr. Morrison tangles it up all tricky-like with
his bass. He’s also got a wrought iron voice that I find kind of hot, actually.
Purchased one of their albums and wish I had bought the other. Production
quality is good, and you can hear the lyrics--kind of clever and sensitive
and worth hearing. Each band privately voicing respect for the other between
sets.
A laid back family vibe after the show, smoking cigarettes and the rain
is clearing. Eardrums like crushed crepe paper by the end of the night. Kyle
introduces me to Hearos. Si alguien me los quiere dar para Hannukah this year,
te agradescaría. Talking about what constitutes stoner rock.
“All rock is stoner rock,” Jeremy points out. So true. Considering that first
kiss in this parking lot almost twenty years ago.
I’ve known what I wanted/Since the day I turned 13/It was hard then/And
it’s hard now./From nothing, all I can do/ Is write nothing down
--Split Hoof, Hard Times
I feel that, Split Hoof. I do.
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