THE GRAVE of NOBODY’S DARLING, the SALTINE RAMBLERS, ORIGAMI ORGASM, VENUS BOGARDUS, PAN!C (2X), SHOULDER VOICES

THE GRAVE OF NOBODY’S DARLING - by Black Cat Danger
 

LODO VOCE #1

THE GRAVE of NOBODY’S DARLING, the SALTINE RAMBLERS
12/31/08 @ Press Club

The Press Club was a perfect spot for this New Year’s show. Good room with good sound for good acoustic music. It got elbow to elbow cheek to jowl for awhile but luckily those looking for quantity of revelry took off in search of it but those of us that stuck around (still a full house) were treated to quality in the form of the Grave of Nobody’s Darling. They were fucking spotless.

There’s always some new layer or turn of phrase to hear that you didn’t catch before. The unique and relentless time signature changes are flawless which speaks well of the rhythm section of Jill McArthur and Clifford Grindstaff. Unlike lesser bands that pack in the changes ---and lose themselves, their songs and audience in the process--the Grave make it look as easy as saying your own name.

And bonus! I got to pick up a vinyl copy of Firebird, my top local release of 2008 complete with beautiful full size cover art by frontwoman Jessica Billey. Pedal steel /banjo mastermind Bud Melivn too was beautiful full size tonight in a classic old school tux.

The Saltine Ramblers opened with laid back licks, not blisteringly hot but warm n’ fuzzy from Kevin Jones’ banjo. I’m not crazy about electric guitars in bluegrassy outfits since the picking never sounds as clean as someone with an acoustic box. I’m as progressive as Old Order Amish when it comes to hot licks.

Uncle’s mandolin could’ve been miked louder. Mandolins can always be miked louder because there’s never enough mando pickers to go around outside the bluegrass festival circuit. I had one, once upon a time, one of few things I packed for my journey by rail to the west from my yankee home. A couple of years later someone liked it better than me and took it without asking but it was just as well since I never got past learning two finger “cheater” G, C and D chords. Lazy.

This was my favorite New Year’s show in, like, ever.


ORIGAMI ORGASM, VENUS BOGARDUS, PAN!C
1/2/09 @ Burt’s

Not sure what anyone has against the moniker Venus Bogardus since I heard two snipes at it tonight but a rose by any other name and all that jazz. If bandnames get in the way of your enjoyment of the music you don’t know fuck-all. Venus Bogardus’ music speaks for itself and had an awful lot to say tonight. They pulled out some new material which is impressive since they’ve recently moved here from abroad and I’d guess have enough to deal with already. That’s going above and beyond.

Its no overstatement to say they’re the best band in years--maybe forever-- based in Satan Fe and already towards the top of my local favorites on the strength of two shows I’ve witnessed to date. It was a hot set, a more urgent Prids (minus the snyth) versus the Pretenders circa 1981.

New drummer (as of a few weeks ago!) Luke ruthlessly whips the band on from behind while Hannah’s bass holds rhythm & melody together in thrall. James’ guitar packs a powerful punch --sans useless wanking -- with beautiful but deadly turns like those of founding Pretender James Honeyman Scott-- whose untimely junkie death is still mourned by Chrissie Hynde and, if you’re in the know, you too.

I’m ancient enough to remember that rock n’ roll is supposed to make you move your body, not just jump up and down and hit people. Venus Bogardus won’t let me stand still and best of all also moves my mind.

Origami Orgasm is an offshoot of Paper Sleeves, neither of whom I’d heard before. It was a most enjoyable set with nice harmonies, a little melodium (which I dig on occasion despite what the Black Hand had to say in the premiere issue of Lodo Voce), big drumbeats, a big round acoustic guitar sound with country & western changes although Origami is not C & W. The cover of choice tonight was Liz Phair’s Fuck And Run from her 1993 lo-fi debut Exile in Guyville. That release got a lot of ink because she included the lyrics “I want to be your blow job queen” in Flower. Too bad the critics concentrated on that since its a decent record with more to say, mouthful or no.

Most who don’t like what I say in these birdcage-lining pages just ignore it. Fair enough. Over the years one or two people have gotten angry and let me know in no uncertain terms (which I applaud by the way. I love intelligent hate mail). But I’ve never been threatened with testicular injury from giving good review until tonight. Very well, I can take a not-so-subtle hint on occasion. Pan!c sucked aforementioned organs, just atrocious jackassery. Happy now, Racecar..?

Pssst! Now that she’s gotten what she asked for I can tell the rest of you: the Pan!c rock tonight was in good form, way above last week’s show. I’ve never seen Joey uncomfortable on a drum stool but he sounded tonight like he’s been in this one for years rather than weeks, tossing in all kinds of muscular rolls & fills, pushing the stripped-down Pan!c aesthetic envelope which can only benefit from a little nudge. Eva’s vocals were strong, the best in some time. I think she needs to just let her voice fly more often, as she never fails to do in barside shit-talkin’ conversation. And no dis to the guitar but I was most pleased tonight with Rachel’s bigass belt that looked like a Lucha Libre championship trophy. What more could I ask ?

Well, bass flourishes for one but that request I fear may be a losing battle. Ok what about some new songs? I hear they’re in the works. There’s good ones for sure but they’re getting a little dusty. Speaking of songs, I disagree that No Time has the most naughty words. Moms in the grocery store say ‘fuck’ on their cell phones these days while shopping with the kids. No, Bitch Cunt Whore gets my vote.


SHOULDER VOICES, PAN!C
1/3/09 @ Atomic

Rachel double-dog dared me to see Pan!c two nights in a row so how could a (almost) self-respecting man ignore such a challenge? Well actually Rach said she would be ‘way stoked’ but I can read between the lines. Besides, I haven’t seen Shoulder Voices for too long, since the stuffed animal melee at the Launchpad almost three years (yikes!) back.

I strolled in for the last half of Pan!c and found lots of Joey fans in the crowd who wasted no time in telling me how pleased they were with his recruitment. Although I’ve always been a supporter of Rob, Mr Gonzales suits the band well. Former Pan!c stickman (yes there’s more!) Anthony piped up about all Pan!c songs being love songs. I couldn’t agree more. Well, maybe not Vomit Rocket since Rachel refuses to add her vocals (that’s a thinly veiled challenge, Lujan). Anyway, even anti-love songs are love songs. I’m picturing a Pan!c song or two in one of those late-night Time-Life In the Mood for Love collections, right next to a Johnny Mathis track.

Shoulder Voices were sporting a new five-piece lineup and holy moley! What a killer set, although too short. Or maybe I was just enjoying so much it whisked by like a fleeting and evil impulse. It’s the Kasenetz-Katz Orchestral Circus meets Gilbert & Sullivan on a day when the latter are broke, out of work and crazed with hunger, playing variations of In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida for a new Saturday morning cereal box cartoon show.

The cover of the night was She. Little Bobby had taste enough to give onstage credit to songwriters Tommy Boyce & Bobby Hart rather than the Pre-Fab Four who recorded it on 1967’s More of the Monkees. I used to play that LP while falling in like with cute fifth grade classmates. Nice choice, guys. I’m hereby requesting a rendition of Nesmith’s 1968 obscure b-side Tapioca Tundra.

Mr Musk was on his back convulsing within minutes of set’s start as if he’d chomped some moldy Jimson Weed. Although there was no bunny massacre finale, Little Bobby’s snare head was kicked clean through while the Musk tossed his guitar into the crowd where patrons parted as if a big ugly dude was stage diving toward them. But don’t get the idea its all bedlam. Musical mayhem to be sure but melody and hooks emerged for those sharp enough to stick around. Much of the crowd split after Pan!c but those that stuck around & enjoyed Shoulder Voices are people I’d like to know, people way into the pudding.

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the GRAVE OF NOBODY’S DARLING
12/31/08 @ Press Club
by Black Cat Danger

Happy New Year! Peppermint on the breath, ¿que no?

And yet the nite plays out like an old classic -- back to when I was in art school in New Orleans. That was an era of premium vice, as I’m sure you can imagine.

For one thing, renewing the tradition of a little New Year snow. Though, a bit different from the old days: gone is Raekwon’s Only Built 4 Cuban Linx CD case as the preferred surface for grooming snow into trails-- we live in the i-pod age now.

For another thing, after this last five year passage among scientists, I am back with the arts intelligentsia: At the Press Club, six deep at the bar, wall to wall with dark rimmed glasses and layered, idiosync-casual attire. Here, music, bicycles, art, and booze are all uniformly revered.

Emerge into 2009 under the influence of high desert gothic, idyllic Tesla mourning by the Grave of Nobody’s Darling. Jessica Billey is a moon-skinned angel delivering unhappy news. Dulcet and tragic, but inviting just the same.

Sometime during the set, a friend proffers some mushrooms, and I have just a few bites—why not? Wash it down with some cherry vanilla vodka, which tastes better than it sounds. Afterwards, we light up a bat on the porch and are ejected from the premises. Sorry about that, Press Club-- no disrespect intended.

Onto a nearby party, in that case. Some Cool Pretty Girls around a smoldering fire out back: “Good riddance to 2008,” says one. “You’re so much better than that chick,” says the other.

The house has a little attic aerie outfitted with cushions and a guitar. My drunk hippie friends get comfortable in their nest and belt Arlo Guthrie tunes. I leave them to their sing-along and head downstairs, where it’s gaylandia disco.

House music makes the devil weep with shame, but for the love of dancing, anything can be forgiven. Every once and a while the DJ throws me a bone with some MIA or Chris Brown. Many a fey, lanky boy in tight t-shirt, posing and shoulder rolling. Amazingly, in this superhomosexual environment, a straight creep finds me and fastens on. Thank you but no, little man with the turned up collar and the laser eyes, not interested in sexy times with you no matter how many times you approach with your chin jut strut.

Though I do enjoy one sexual thrill tonite, and that a nice surprise. On the dance floor, two fine young men making out. Never found that appealing before, but maybe that’s because I’ve only seen washed out Dylan McKay wannabes doing it in gay porn. In this case, the boys be looking nice, and it’s pretty hot. Will be filing that image away in the fantasy archives, thanks.

Swept away to a cozy little after party with some new friends—day breaking soon. In this household, jazz is venerated like religion. Audiophiles argue about Sun Ra and introduce me to the music of Moondog -- earthy DJ Shadow sounding to me. Wired, spent, daylight on its way. 2009 arrives in full sun and 52 degrees. Happy New Year-- Yes, I’d say so.

- Black Cat Danger

LODO VOCE #1
10 pp, 8 ½ x 11, free
lodovoce@gmail.com

Paper zines have been dying a slow painful death ever since humans learned how to transmit half-baked heat-of-the-moment blogs in their underwear at four in the morning. I don’t call that progress.

Before I started this wretched rag I sent some stuff to local rag Mic Line who told me they only wanted good reviews, no matter the assignment. Fuck that. Contrary to popular vernacular, “Its not all good”. I can’t recall how many times in the past decade new publications have appeared (and just as quickly vanished) covering local music but unfailingly giving every miserable two-bit outfit a big thumbs up. Might as well just photocopy, collate, fold and staple a pile of press packets.

Me, I unapologetically like some miserable two-bit outfits and am bored to tears with some accomplished pro bands. I’m expecting the same and maybe even some more brutal reporting from Lodo Voce, the ‘burque’s latest non-slick (yay!) offering. Unmerciful opinion counts more in my book than any rote objective reportage.

With the premiere issue (conspicuously undated), I’m appreciative that Lodo Voce tells me why or not I should give a shit about any particular band. I/you don’t have to agree but that’s the point.

There’s also scene rants by the --uh--anonymous writers. I like it. The setting is just as much a part of the musical arena as the band onstage. And sometimes more amusing. There’s two reviews of the same CD (Bellemah’s latest): always good to know what different ears hear. A few prose pieces balance things out but luckily no stinkin’ poetry.

Two replies to Lodo Voce. One: I’d wear my old Scared of Chaka shirt if I still had it. Two: when was the last time you saw a Foxx review in Wig Wam Bam? Of course if they played out more, you’d see lots, so, guilty as charged. I’ve lately been “auditioning” a few bands to take their place.

What I’m really hoping for is that the Lodo musician-slash-writers review their own stuff, especially the shows. I’ve been asking for just that for years but so far no one’s taken me up on it. I guess I’ll call that a gauntlet thrown.

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