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the X-KHANS
12/12/08 RB Winnings
Although everyone is amped on double mocha espresso
hazelnut café lattes, customers at Winnings pay more attention to
the music than the usual bunch of yahoos found in any bar you can name.
The most memorable sets I’ve witnessed here have been the Dirty Novels,
Suspended and Roñoso, not the kind of music that’s conducive to sucking
java while studying for that economics final next week.
The X-Khans can romp n’ stomp but tonight stuck to their easy-rock
blues-based numbers and were rewarded by a few old hippie types dancing
on the generous wooden floor. That’s no dis. Not that I’ve ever been in
a band (discipline issues) but anything’s gotta be better than looking out
from the stage to see hipsters standing around, arms folded. None of them
in attendance tonight.
Scott’s leads were bluesy /bendy, a bit longer than I prefer riffs but
that’s just the punk aesthetic rearing its ugly head where anything longer
than six seconds seems indulgent. Scott was far from indulgent but offered
what the songs called for. What I liked best was that it wasn’t that BB King
stuff that everyone is --or ought to be-- tired of by now but smoother and
mostly only halfway up the neck.
Penny belted out the songs with her monstro but in control voice. There
was even a Roxieheart cover or two but for some reason she didn’t play such
tender ditties as My Cunt’s On Fire But Its Not For You, always a crowd-pleaser.
To mix things up a bit, Scott sang an encore and passed muster although
he looked a bit uneasy.
I was most taken however with Penny’s pile of nephews who were tolerant
of a bunch of umm old people playing old people music. I mean, they’re all
like middle-schoolers or something and looked like a punk rock band thankfully
too young for “badass” tattoos. Word is they’re all picking up instruments
and I’m hoping against hope I’m invited to their first show.
the BOOTY GREEN, SMOKE RINGS, CALICO, DJ
CHERRY LEE
12/12/08 Burt’s
I arrived halfway through Calico’s opening set. There’s nothing
good enough to say about Nate’s building of live loops with drum, guitar,
keys, f/x pedals, vox and tapping the microphone. With some of it done on
the fly, its as impressive as watching a master Italian stonemason construct
a solid wall. Made from scratch every gig, Nate’s stuff --unlike a wall---
isn’t built to last except in your mind. I’d suggest that any forthcoming
Calico recordings be made live, which is his work’s raison d’ etre.
One nice number had a Philly soul sound like the best of early ‘70s Gamble
and Huff but with a synthy beat. This makes sense since the Philadelphia
soul scene was a precursor to disco where artificial beats finally took hold.
If you wanna get technical about it, disco is the precursor to techno/rave
although few ravers care to admit it.
I’m as guilty as anyone of not paying much attention to the between-set
DJ even though it was Cherry Lee at the controls. This because downtime
between bands is usually reserved for bellying up for a fresh drink and
yelling to make yourself heard with whoever you’re pretending to actually
have a conversation with. Lee’s list tonight featured things like the Clash
rather than booty dance faves. Works for me. Out of everything he did tonight
though Lee will forgive me saying I most enjoyed the photos he showed me
of his almost-new baby girl. Cute as can be.
Tonight was my favorite Smoke Rings’ set by far. The mix was better
than ever except--there’s always an exception-- that Nikolai’s keyboards
still need more volume. Ryan’s vocals had less reverb than normal which made
them more audible but still mixed on par with the instrumentation which suits
the Rings’ style just fine. Nathan had some kind of digital pedal velcro-ed
to his guitar for easy access but with its little video screen I kept expecting
to see YouTube videos or something. Best of all, Dave Fame’s bass was loud
and dominant in the mix, dirty as chinga and demanding attention.
A Smoke Rings set is more an ever-changing composition rather than a setlist
of verse-chorus-verse songs. Tonight it sounded industrial. Not modern techno-dirge
despair but the Industrial Revolution with clanging anvils and water-driven
room-size looms run by child laborers and there’s coal-fired factories in
the village but no one’s yet realized that the smokestacks should be taller
since fumes habitually hang low in the river valley and bonetired workers
have to pick cinders off their morning gruel. That’s what America was built
on, by god.
To top off the night, it was the Booty Green CD release show. Mark
pimped and macked all over the stage while punching a precariously balanced
array of sleek silver boxes. During the course of the set he somehow managed
to lose one lens from his sunglasses, lending him the look of that classic
scene of Warren Beatty in Bonne and Clyde, goofing around just before being
riddled with bullets when the Laws finally close in for the kill.
DJ Brandon knelt while spinning the sounds and beats behind Mark’s vox,
although its notable that “spinning” has become a less than accurate term
ever since Notebooks replaced turntables. Overall this was as close to a rave
as Burt’s has gotten and everyone was looking around for candy necklaces and
ecstasy. I didn’t find either but neither was I trying very hard. That rave
subculture is too close to my hippie roots for comfort. More well-bathed for
sure but an even larger riot of colors and peace/love/have- a-drink-from-
my-water-bottle vibes.
I’m always amused-- anthropologically speaking --to see girls on the dancefloor
grind their butts into their boys’ crotches. It makes me think of nothing
less than what zoologists call presentation: females of the species presenting
their buttocks to prospective mates. Its The Naked Ape all over again.
KATE MANN, CHRISTINA HEER & the WILD
FRONTIER TRIO
12/13/09 Blackbird Buvette
Not that anyone in the place much gave a damn but there was a nice acousti-show
at the Buvette tonight. Seemed like the only ones paying attention were
band friends and me. Maybe I’d get more action if I didn’t hit the clubs
with live music as my goal but if drunken mating calls are what it takes
I don’t guess I’ll be reproducing anytime soon and you ought to be thankful
for that at least.
There has to be a venue that can strike a balance between distracted drunks
and the over-reverent attitudes accorded to acoustic shows by folkie fans
who behave like they’re in Saint Peter’s Basilica. Musicians want to be
heard but veneration? No thanks. I bet Lead Belly rolls over in his lonely
Louisiana grave every time someone utters his name in hushed tones. Jeez,
remember what I said before about (not) mating? See, this is the kind of
stuff that I’m preoccupied with at shows. What that says about me I don’t
care to conjecture…
I would’ve been content listening to Kate Mann sing her entire catalogue
tonight but since this was the Songwriter Listening Room show I decided
not to be a Scrooge and kept my ears open for Christina Heer and the
Wild Frontier Trio. I only heard a short set but enough to interest me
in more especially when the Wild Frontier is in full effect rather than tonight’s
abbreviated trio. It was nice work echoing Gram Parsons sort of tales but
with the drugs in much shorter supply and the bottle emptied last night.
Her voice comes across as subdued Emmylou Harris meets Hejira-era Joni Mitchell
with a touch of vibrato.
As if Christina knew what was on my mind, she struck up a conversation
about regular Americana type shows somewhere like the Albuquerque Press
Club. That could work since the place is no stranger to the occasional debauch
but the gig area is separate from the bar which means there’s room for all
persuasions. Sounds win-win to me.
Although she now lives in Portland, Kate Mann’s roots are in New
Mexico for which I’m thankful since we’re assured of hearing her live at least
a couple of times a year. And her new release, the best CD so far with a
2009 datestamp? It’s the cinnamon on my holiday eggnog. Backed by a sweet
cutaway acoustic bass guitar tonight, Mann’s songs hold up to either full
band or solo on the strength of her remarkable voice.
Lyrics are usually the last thing I consider at shows, partially because
I’m digging the loud guitars and drums but also the fact that my ears have
taken a beating over the years from being pressed up against club speakers
as well as those big Koss headphones through which I used to crank Mahavishnu
John McLaughlin solos as a kid (an indiscretion of youth and I’m not only
talking about volume here).
With Kate Mann, its almost the opposite as her words are rivaled only by
her voice. Her lyrics cut deep but as if the knife was a bit dull. And only
because a dull blade hurts worse than a sharp one.
YODA’S HOUSE, BABY BIRDS DON’T DRINK MILK
12/17/08 the STOVE
The next-to-last show at the Stove. Word is that live music doesn’t play
into the picture of the new owners. Oh well it was a good run and remarkably
trouble-free for the most part. So where’s the next all-age avant-noise
venue gonna be...?
Between one thing (drink) and another, I only heard the last few minutes
of Baby Birds Don’t Drink Milk from Kansas. By this time it was down
to a very pleasant drone/wash with them on the floor eschewing instruments
while going for the f/x boxes. I liked it well enough to wish I’d heard
more but sometimes other things (like conversing over good booze) are more
important than making a show on time.
Yoda’s House wrapped up the night with a serene set of a rather
small looking cello, a zither, cymbals played with mallets, easy vocals
and quiet ambiance like chamber music as defined by Goethe: four rational
people conversing.
This was the soft fare-ye-well to the Stove but things went out with a
bang at the Fando/Roñoso/Potty Mouth Sherrys blow-out after xmas.
Which, by the way (p.s.) I failed miserably in attending. I have no good
excuse.
BELLEMAH, BEN HATHORNE
12/19/08 Launchpad
Its always gratifying to see an audience with taste enough to get out the
door for Ben Hathorne’s wondrous one-man shows, especially those
folks that are typically fans of the hard-edged stuff. It was mostly a vociferous
female or two but with all the hooting & hollering during the set you’d
think he was playing lead and rhythm guitar at the same time behind his
back while juggling a couple of torches. Come to think of it, I would be
less impressed to see such a display than what Ben does routinely. Slated
as an early show, it was pushed back an hour-plus so I heard Ben’s sound
check which was lovely in its own way. Hell, I’d pay cash money just to see
Hathorne tune his guitar.
Yet another incarnation of Bellemah tonight, down to a four-piece
with Billy Belmont trading his guitar for keyboards half the time, Daniel
“the Wet Sprocket” Dinning on guitar, Noelan Ramirez on drums and Greg Yazzie
on bass. Lots of line-up changes always make a fan nervous but it worked
very well, distilling Bellemah down its essence of nice vocals, sweet harmonies
and deliberate music with firm structure. There were more bands on the bill
but not wanting to be let down after such sturdy openers, I bailed. Thanks,
Richard, for a very nice mix tonight. Everyone and everything sounded just
right.
DEAD ON POINT FIVE, the WORLD ON FYRE
Atomic
WE WERE BORN AS GHOSTS, YETI HANDS
Burt’s
12/20/08
Unit 7 Drain maternity-leave band the World On Fyre tore it up tonight
with pounding drums, lo-rider bass and half-heavy/half-jangly guitar. Its
nice to hear the harder stuff with a voice like Harry’s. No throat-wrenching
silliness but vocals that you can actually decipher the lyrics of while
getting your head pounded. That’s more badass to me than any over-emoted
stoner/doom “poetry” or faux-evil shit.
There’s been lots of changes over the years from the band known as Mumblegum,
the Watership Down and finally Dead On Point Five but they’re holding
fast to my favorite line-up: the dynamic duo of Dom Cagliostro on wailing
guitar (more down the neck than up i.e. less squealing which always wins
the Wig Wam Bam seal of approval) and with surgical precision on drums, Dr.
Tim Nixon. Its fun to notice little stuff like Tim reaching to the floor
for a dropped stick with his left hand while not missing a beat with his
right. I dunno why, those kinds of things make me happy.
On lo-fi bass was Shae Longi (ex-Morning Wood) keeping the bottom end rolling
and roiling. DO.5 amped the night up a notch or three, closing in on metal
but more to the hardcore (in the truest sense of the term) and heartfelt.
The Bad Brains cover encore was a fierce wrap-up.
This show was for Albuquerque Babes and Bullies, some outfit selling cheesecake
calendars to benefit the cause of saving misunderstood pitbulls. Lots of
boneheaded owners of pits are really the ones who ought to be euthanized
instead of pooches that are encouraged to be at their worst. However, as
I was in a group sharing bad experiences with random dog attacks experienced
while on foot or bike, we were feeling none too charitable towards canines.
So I figured it was in my best interest to have my quick nightcap next door
at Burt’s.
I’m unclear if I heard some of Yeti Hands or some of We Were
Born As Ghosts or some of both since I was waylaid by my favorite waylayer
into a jam-packed booth for the remainder of the night. What I heard though,
so far from the stage (not my usual habitat), was very nice mostly instrumental
melodies that led me to believe I ought to go see them both to actually
listen.
the PORTER DRAW, PAN!C
12/26/08 Burt’s
Should’ve said yes when dude asked if I was Pan!c’s manager but
I’ve never been quick on my feet when it comes to lies. Maybe it was the
tie clip & cufflinks that made him think so. In any case I did my best
to talk up the band so that if they ask, I’m down for the job. Easy as herding
cats.
Tonight was ‘burque scene vet Joey Gonzales’ first show in the drum seat.
Let’s see…five or six Pan!c guitarists and maybe four drummers to date.
That bass player is the only one they can’t manage to get rid of. She’s
tenacious.
Joey as always did an excellent job but the gals were the only ones making
mistakes tonight. Must’ve been the pressure of auditioning for the new guy…ahem.
But its only (pop) punk so who gives a shit. Not me. A splendid time was
had by all present including the band. Nothing like seeing all three members
grinning like lemurs throughout. I had to smile too at some lyric changes.
Fuck me if I can’t take a joke.
The Porter Draw are the hottest bluegrass outfit to hit town
in years. The three-part harmonies and Russell’s flatpicking are their secret
weapons, always employed to the wonderful. It was disconcerting though that
every time I caught Vince out of the corner of my eye my brain kept registering
“dreadlocks” but thank baby Jesus it was only his scarf.
Speaking of Vince, even though he doesn’t play standup, I’m happy as hell
his bass guitar is acoustic. I recall visiting my sis in Virginia in the
early ‘70s and going to the world renowned Galax Bluegrass & Old Time
Fiddlers Convention and everyone present was horrified when an electric bass
made an appearance. This was the era when the old timers were dying off and
those dratted hippie types were starting to appear on stage. The traditionalists
were beside themselves as much as if they had been at Dylan’s reviled electric
set at Newport in ’68. I’m actually still pretty much among them. A pick
up on yer git-box is one thing but an instrument that can’t sound good without
being plugged in? Anathema. Don’t even get me started on bluegrass drummers.
The only thing the Porters are missing is some bass vocals but otherwise
I have no complaints with this outfit. Not one.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
yer mom always said to let others play
in your sandbox--ed.
The DANGER ZONE
YODA’S HOUSE, BABY BIRDS
DON’T DRINK MILK, SMALL FLIGHTLESS BIRDS
12/17/08 the STOVE
by Black Cat Danger
Experimental in every which way as music, sex, and psychedelics all conspire
for a most gratifying evening in the 505.
To begin: On its inaugural day, the Rail Runner from Santa Fe delivers
to me this very beautiful, very young man. He’s a physical artwork and sexual
artist, and just as sweet as can be.
Tripping out isn’t usually my thing, but Young Man expresses an interest
in taking a little space journey. Of course, under the sway of his incense,
the boy’s preferences are mine. We had a few beers downtown and then ate
up our magic tricks, heading to The Stove for unconventional sound: Small
Flight-less Birds, Yoda’s House, and Baby Birds Don’t Drink Milk.?
Inside The Stove, visual rapture provided by the art of Thomas Haag: mythic
taurine imagery crafted with digital wire line work. Really fucking cool.
First band up is Small Flightless Birds. Not sure which small flightless
bird the band aligns itself with most, but maybe it’s the Galápagos
Penguin. Those birds have a straight up quality, black and white, just what
you’d expect from a penguin. But there’s a weirdness, too. It lives on the
equator and not anywhere near Antarctica with the rest of its penguin friends.
Likewise, SFB has a straight up rock sound, as you’d expect from a rock
band. But there’s something fundamentally unusual, plus some nifty surprises,
in SFB’s music. Riffs matched with beats you don’t anticipate. Maverick dives
for krill next to slick belly skates. A lot of creativity from SFB, in the
spirit of scarcely seen local treasures, Leeches of Lore and The Ashes.
Between sets, Young Man and I step out to drink some beers and generate
heat in my little red Hyundai. G-ddamnit, that boy is all musk and vitality,
know what I mean?
Return in bright morale, but unfortunately for us, Yoda’s House
has a slate gray sound that doesn’t match our rainbow-my stereo love vibe.
Baby Birds Don’t Drink Milk is comprised of some serious musicians.
You can tell that they are serious from their grave and soulful expressions.
But even in my altered state, sensitive to the avant-garde, their work was
beyond my comprehension. One song did have an identifiable melody of some
kind, and that was killer. On another song, I was still baffled by the sound,
but the drummer was braining his kit within an inch of its life, and that
was entertaining. They ended up with some 15 minute psycho slow-motion white
noise explosion that, in my psychedelic state, crushed my bones into dust.
Okay, that’s enough aural experiment. Time to explore other channels of
the Sensorium. Young Man and I went back to my place, and it was all smoke,
spank, sugar and salt.
A New Year’s wish to the faithful readers of the WWB: may you too get lucky
like that in 2009.
Love,
Black Cat Danger
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