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Issue # 71 March 2006 thewigwambam.com |
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Ignoring Objectivity Since 1998 WIG WAM BAM “Albuquerque zine of music & nepotism” |
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LOCAL
SHOWS
NM venues,
bands from here or there
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| Nels Andrews, Raising Cane, Foma,
The Foxx, Shine Cherries, Lousy Robot, Old Beans, the Primates, MONO, Bellini,
Mindy Set, Giranimals, Romeo Goes To Hell, Shoulder Voices, Scenster,
The Gracchi, Jealous Gods, Fast Heart Mart, Trilobite, Duke City Derby
w/the Roustabouts, The Cops, Sexxytime Explosion, Kites, Round Hole &
the Square Pegs, Manhole, GnR (Greg [Fukrot] Rachel [Karen]), I Heart
Metal, Rum Fits, Detroit Cobras, Reigning Sound, The Sweatband
Acoustic Showcase at Harlow's
Lucinda Williams,
North Mississippi All-Stars |
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| LOCAL
CONTRIBUTOR |
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| by Doctor Bloor Long Gone Trio goes A-Ronk-A-Tonk-A-Tonk |
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| LOCAL
SHOWS |
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| Nels
Andrews & The El Paso Eyepatch, Raising Cane 7/08/05 @ Kimo Across the pond, Europeans fall all over them-selves to see Nels Andrews & the El Paso Eyepatch. I hear the Dutch regularly engage in bloody riots at ticket kiosks in Den Haag to get a pair of ducats for their shows. Unsubstantiated reports maybe, but I don’t doubt it. Tonight the Kimo was barely half-full (or half-empty for all you negative zendos out there). Hence, I was able to sit front row from which I could see all the action…well, not their feet so I can’t comment on footwear but hell who looks at shoes during great music anyways? Besides Sunday Shoes that is, but we’ll let that album reference pass. Don’t let anyone tell you that Americana or whatever folk-slot they’re putting Nels in these days is always laid-back and low-key. No matter how soothing Mr Andrews vocals may seem there’s a brooding backlash beneath: not all is well in the heartlands where lonely railroad whistles are carried on prairie winds for miles along with small-town secrets and jealousies-- secrets that should have died with their owners’ miseries. But the prairie wind endures, occasionally dying down to a soft hair-in-your-face breeze like Michelle Collins’ lovely vocal back-up. But it might soon whip up to the swift currents of Jeffrey Richards’ thrilling guitar work. They are matched by Heath Dauberman’s quiet and/or thunderclap drumming and Chris Kitchen’s firm but fluid basslines; both are modest when Nels’ material calls for it. The opening act Raising Cane was respectable twangcore but respectable doesn’t much equate to excitement. Don’t get me wrong : there was nothing wrong with their quietly stylish playing or semi-trad material but its nothing dozens of similar such outfits haven’t done before. But then again, by comparison, opening for Nels and the ‘patch can’t be easy… Foma, The Foxx, Shine Cherries 7/30/05 @ Harlow's On The Hill I never had much use for this club’s former incarnation as Club Rhythm and Blues. I mean, how many times can you listen to the same old electric blues bands playing the same old riffs for the same old aging crowd? C’mon, if B.B. King hasn’t done anything worth a damn in a few decades, how could you expect anything new here? Yeah, the place was always chuck-full of people my age, trying to “get down”, balding guys with tiny ponytails and gals with ill-fitting party frocks believing they’re still cool by rocking out to the same thing they’d rocked to twenty or thirty years ago. I may have momentary delusions of coolness when I attend indie-rock shows but I know I’m still a geeze. The place wasn’t shut for long before reopening with not much apparent physical change. The bar area is cozy, looks sharp and even sophisticated but the rest of the place hasn’t got much going for it in the way of comfort (but of course, neither do our other indie-hipster clubs. We’re just used to them). Little square tables in an undefined open space, not really in any pattern you can discern, best described by a secondhand quote I wish I’d said first : like an airport lounge. Still, I’m always delighted there’s another venue choice for bands and patrons. And on a personal note, its within stumbling distance of my own student ghetto hovel, a plus for any one in my ‘hood. The drawback of the location--as far as the hipster scene-- is that going to Harlow’s is a commitment: you can’t roll on next door or down the street to another joint if you don’t like the band. But there’s nothing wrong with leaving our little downtown cocoon for a change of scene-ery. I realize its expensive enough for a liquor license, to stockpile booze and to pay wages but its too bad there were few funds left to improve the sound equipment. Not much of a system and no full time soundguy doesn’t help. The place is all sharp angles and glass. The room sounds way too bright, like someone just turned the treble knob to ten at a party, rattling your speaker cones to hell. The bottom end is a little better but seems to slide across the smooth floor rather than sink in. Nothing a few thousand bucks of draperies on the walls and windows wouldn’t fix… No complaints about the service since we’ve got a couple of reliable familiar faces from both sides of the bar now behind it. The patronage is an interesting mix (interesting is an interesting word…) of the downtown scenesters and the R&B’s old guard who are likely wondering what happened to my old hang-out and who are all these damn kids anyway? The patio is well-liked enough by patrons of all types and this night it was especially liked when the Foxx took the tiny stage. No, not through the fault of the band but they were simply cranked too loud by now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t soundman. Shine Cherries and Foma were better suited to the equipment, size, ambient sound quality and room lay-out but I hope the situation can improve enough to recruit all kinds of bands. To that end, no matter how much the above rant sounds like me being a bitch (ok, ok, I usually am), I nonetheless vote we toss mucho patronage and dollars Harlow’s way to ensure the staying power of another worthy choice in town. Thanks, Matt. Lousy Robot 9/17/05 @ Burt's Tiki Lounge Gentleman Jim & Dandy Dandee breaking in the new boys –Jack: keys, Mike: drums-- on the Burt’s stage. It couldn’t have been a difficult job since the new crew done good. A splendid time was had by all. Jimbo’s vox and attitude tonight made it sound like he’d been swilling Old Crow straight all afternoon (and who’s to say he hadn’t?) while bassguy Dandee didn’t have to keep too much of an eye on drummer Mike; they both were right on the money. Jack’s keys kinda faded in & out for a few numbers but by mid-set, the sound demons had been conquered and all was well in Robot land. Things are looking up for Lousy Robot and uh Lousy fans alike. Old Beans, the Primates 9/16/05 @ Atomic Cantina Old Beans had a ball doing what they do-- combination hard rock/whoa-oh-oh-o punk-- the crowd had fun listening to it but me? No thank you, I didn’t, not really. I have an un-reasonable aversion to goofy lyrics and premises. Maybe it was growing on stuff like the Kingsmen’s Jolly Green Giant or Napoleon XIV (Kim Fowley)’s They’re Coming To Take Me Away. I dunno, but any piece of what little open mind I have left snaps shut like a steel bear trap and no amount of force or cursing will open it. I’d rather chew off my own limbs than succumb… Now, the Primates I love with a more immediate indie-rock style and the bass waaay up front while the drums pop like a string of tiny Chinese firecrackers, all backed by sticky melody and thoughtful lyrics. Thoughtful beats hokey everytime. But its that in-the-face bass that wins me over. Why is it that nobody except someone like Bootsy’s Rubber Band and P-Funk feature the low end? That will always be a mystery to me. Like R. Crumb sez, white folks sho’ is crazy. Still, a night of contrasting band styles always gets the thumbs up from me. Lucinda Williams, the North Mississippi All-Stars 9/20/05 @ Lensic Theatre, Santa Fe The North Mississippi All-Stars seemed agreeable and maybe even a little rockin’ at first but soon degenerated into a leads wank fest: the guitar player thinks he’s a combination of Duane Allman, Dickie Betts and Ry Cooder, rolled into his own personal one-man supergroup. His constant riffing held the songs captive, strangling them mercilessly, rather than the conservative approach of a great musician who knows he is at the service of the material and not the other way ‘round. This death-grip on the spotlight sadly gave the bass player little room to do much of anything except to try and anchor his wandering guitar player. It would’ve taken a long chain and big honkin’ chunk of pig iron to succeed. And all indications were that he could’ve done something with those bass-strings too. A big, big man (I’ve been calling him “Tiny” in my own mind), he was as solid as his lines and had a smooth tenor, although he received only a single chance to show the latter. The drummer must’ve had “lead” visions of his own when he took a grandstanding electric washboard solo. What the hell is this, an Ozark Mountain Daredevils show? Even worse, soon it was sounding like a Grateful Dead concert, what with the long leads and extended drum solo. Any Dead-head worth his beads will tell you that the segments known as “space” and “drums” are integral to their show experience. The similarity didn’t end there: the All-Stars’ songs were much like long-time but relatively unknown Dead lyricist Robert Hunter’s. The recipe: liberally drop well-worn traditional phrases like “dig my grave with a silver spade” or “my baby done left me” atop traditional-sounding melody (also lifted from the folk canon) and the public will applaud wildly, thinking you’re as authentic and important as Robert Johnson, the Carter Family and Jimmie Rodgers put together. Hogwash. Even the cream of the nufolk crop can at times barely pull off making traditional music fresh, with the brilliant exceptions of the incredible Norman Blake and the incomparable Gillian Welch & David Rawlings. I sighed relief from the All-Star rock n’bore show when Lucinda Williams took the stage. Can’t say I’d actually heard her before but every twang aficionado I know speaks of her almost as reverentially as they do of Gram Parsons. Plaintive without melancholy, pensive without brooding, Williams’ lyrics were masterful. And not just a little pissed-off. But I could’ve done without the Pavlovian audience cheers every time she sang the word “fuck”. Considering the average age of the crowd (one of the rare shows where I’m not the oldest one in the house), you’d think people would’ve by now dropped their childish glee at hearing amplified cusswords. Shades of Country Joe McDonald! The show took place just after Katrina’s assault on New Orleans and the crowd calmed down somewhat for one of Louisiana native Lucinda’s old songs about her homeland. The hush was complete, the reference to Lake Pontchartrain chilling. Williams’ vocal attitude is between Texas Terri Laird & Wanda Jackson and, musically speaking, her powerhouse voice was the star of the show. I bet she could’ve been heard throughout the house even without amplification in this old theatre built to project the human voice. Her backing band were capable but while not overpowering her (no one could), they took a larger role musically as the night went on and the material became more “rock”, the less enjoyable portion of her set. Her guitar man flirted with wank throughout but was encouraged to pull out the stops when Williams introduced the All-Stars’ guitar player for a couple of numbers. This was the only moment where I wholeheartedly disagreed with her, as Lucinda said how lucky she was to have two of the “baddest” guitar players ever with her onstage. Bad? Ugh! who needs it? No, badass is the Bar-Kay’s riffing out Son of Shaft live at Wattstax or James Brown bringing a crowd to its feet and then to its knees-- not self-important overblown guitar players who think riffing white-boy blues rip-offs are something special. Me, I don’t like “chops” but taste, timing and restraint. In a rare compliment to theatre shows, the lighting was excellent, allowing one to see everything clearly-- no glaring spots, the stage not bathed in gauzy red lights all night. Williams announced she had twenty-four new songs she was trying out this tour, test runs to see which make it to her CD, due early 2006. That’s a professional, honing songs before your audience and not just your producer. Whichever songs she picks, its bound to be a worthy release. MONO, Bellini 9/27/05 @ Launch Pad Something about these two bands resonated in my head, whispering: must-see show, must-see show. Its been quite some time that an indie rock bill was must-see for me but here it was: -- Bellini’s Don Caballero/Uzeda/ Girls Against Boys pedigree and the recommendation of trusted and respected expatriate friends -- Mono being from Japan; any band from Japan that makes it to our shores is worth a look. After all they go through to get here, they simply don’t fuck around. Bellini had a hard driving edge, relentless even when the tempo slowed, from an unyielding water-torture beat to a searing full-on we’ll make-you-talk/ bamboo-under-the-fingernails treatment. Like The Death of A Thousand Cuts but jabbed with the sharp point of guitar strings. Tomorrow’s music today (if tomorrow was to bring the apocalypse), Bellini were outstanding but not the type of music I’d pop in the stereo while washing the dishes. In fact its probably nothing I’d intentionally play much but its good to know someone’s out there doing it all the same. In Japanese, mono means thing, object or person but with the band Mono the sound is more like kaze, a wind. A divine one but without the kamikaze connotation. An orchestral air current gently sweeps you into a rock-a-bye treetops lull until the bough breaks and you’re falling into a violent funnel cloud before splashing headlong into a watery womb in aquatic slow motion. But watch out for the tropical taifun, because you’ll soon find yourself thrust ashore-- beached, drenched and straining for oxygen. But once you catch your breath, you may just turn around and dive straight back into the pounding aural surf. Mono is so good, I’d call them a prelude to the phenomenal sound of the Prids, probably the only other “indie” band I’d not dare miss live. In sum, this was one of the better touring shows of the year. Thanks to my man Rudy for the timely show tip. the Mindy Set, the Giranimals @ Burt's Tiki Lounge Romeo Goes to Hell, Shoulder Voices @ Atomic Cantina 9/27/05 The night started at Burt’s with the intensely sweet Giranimals who pull back just shy of making your cavities ache. Unlike cheap gum that loses its flavor in a few minutes, there’s lots of good melody and hooks to chew on. The flavor lasts and you can blow big bubbles to boot. All that’s missing is those little Bazooka comics-wrappers to save up for swell prizes. I wonder how many I’d have to collect to score one of Maury’s beautiful vintage drum kits...? Next door at Atomic, Scenester was a pent-up explosion of aggression and belligerence, a long uh stretch from their long ago roots as Stretch. Although they’re deceptively under control, make sure you have an exit strategy in case all hell breaks loose. Me, I eyed the door nervously, planning who I’d have to bowl over on the way out. Women and children first? I don’t think so. Shoulder Voices are a dream woven somewhere between heaven & hell (which are closer together than you might think) but just as important, a show, an event, and as entertaining as watching Satan tempt Jesus in the desert. Except that here, its unsure who’ll emerge the winner. It’s the Jefferson Airplane crashing landing into Wild Carnation while indie rock looks on helplessly. Now I know why Harry R-B says ya gotta watch out for Little Bobby. In supporting roles were shoulder puppets, Help Me Rhonda and the star-spangled curb-stomp death of the “crunar” keyboard in which all band members took part. Romeo got down and punky all over the damn place. King Dogg’s funky keyboard breakdown ought to be a regular portion of the show. Say yeah! to the Dogg Funk Hour! Imperius Rexx had more than a little trouble from an uncooperative guitar but he staged a comeback towards the end and wah-wah’ed riff after riff while Noelan attacked his drums--and the rest of the band-- like a WWF veteran on a double-dose of steroids. Good thing there were no folding chairs around ‘cause somebody would’ve gotten clobbered with one sure. Back over to Burt’s, the Mindy Set was rockin’, reelin’ and rollin’ with just the right touch of cosmo-swirl, doing great justice to their semi-new line-up. The Mindies were a perfect wind-down to a full complement of local talent. the Gracchi, Jealous Gods, Sin Serenade @ Burt's Tiki Lounge 10/01/05 Well its about damn time Lucky Serenade’s voice sounded good. No I didn’t mean it that way -- the Velvet Fog he isn’t--but its just that the soundboard did him justice tonight. The first time I saw Sin Serenade, no one’s voice came across as something swell. Now that that this equilibrium has been restored, things are looking up. I’m sure everyone hates the word but this is a quirky little outfit: part twang, part rocker-billy and part bare knucks street rumble. The Jealous Gods took a stripped down approach but wielded some lovely compositions that I never fail to enjoy. The tunes need a little more fleshing out to differentiate them-selves from one another but when I like something, I’m a patient man. I’ll wait it out. In the crowd tonight was none other than Thor himself. Not the Viking god of thunder but he of ‘80s glad-rock, as in gladiator rock: a strapping barbarian hunk of Frank Frazetta-illustrated He-Man with blow-dried hair and uh I have no idea what the music sounds like, And I’ll bet that many of you who have heard of him haven’t actually heard him. He was a pleasant chap though, chatting amiably and handing out copies of his new comic book. This was not something he had drawn but stories he is actually in, somewhere between superhero and rock god. Yeah I know, I know, I didn’t really care either but he was a nice guy and complimented the Gods bass player to me. Why he didn’t tell that to the Z-man himself, I dunno. But being of similar age we were discussing home & family while rocknroll poured out of the speakers around us. Interesting. Rocking that world around us was the Gracchi, this being drummer Jeffrey’s double-shift night, having opened with Sin Serenade. As always, the Grachhi’s choice of covers is impeccable, just spot-on really. X’s The Have Nots from 1982’s Under the Big Black Sun was superb. If this band ever undergoes massive writer’s block, they’ll still have plenty of material to choose from. And it will be beautiful stuff since they know what a real cover is: good starting material translated to their own unique style. Fast Heart Mart, Trilobite @ Harlow's On The Hill 10/07/05 Allreet. Now, this is more like it for Harlow’s. The tone of these acts, although quite different in execution, puts them in a good company with one another and makes a fine fit for the shall-we-say lo-fi capacity sound system at this club on the Hill. Sounding neither too bright nor too dull, the acoustic-based Fast Heart Mart and alt.twang-informed Trilobite were pleasantly pleasing although the latter’s mix was as muddy as the Rio Grande after a summer storm. The wide open space of the club doesn’t do anyone any favors. Even if you’re at the bar, there’s not much respite from the music if you need a break. Still, the Trilobite laid-back sound, in a way reminiscent of the New Riders of the Purple Sage, could be good if miked properly. But I will never understand electric mandolin. There’s a tremendous loss of the grace & beauty in the electric version of the instrument rather an old-fashion acoustic played close to a microphone. Fast Heart Mart, however, was amped down just enough. Martin’s about the only musician who could be described as playing tight even if he was solo. Lucky for Mart and us too, Robblyn’s drums purely complement the scene roundly. His vocals border on an Appalachian/hip-hop delivery, two words that have likely never appeared side-by-side before. Included was a Neutral Milk Hotel cover from a couple years back which was nice to break the routine of his superb originals which are sometimes too clever for their own good when heard one after another. Closing, Mart pulled out a song with his signature-of-old sound, acousti-raga-rock. The first time I saw Fast Heart Mart at the debut NM Music Showcase, there was a tabla player. I felt sorry for the guy though, as it was soon after 9/11 and he, being the darker middle-eastern sort, took to wearing a cap emblazoned with the US flag at every show. He needn’t have worried. The crowd loved them and in such a way that still spawns devoted FHM followers. Until Harlow’s can afford sound-absorbent wall coverings, shows like this will be their best bet. The short term solution would be alley & dumpster mattresses fastened to the walls, though I doubt the genteel clientele would stand for such a soiled and olfactory-objectionable scenario. Romeo Goes To Hell @ Burt's Tiki Lounge 10/09/05 Amy X-Rated’s wedding reception was a cross between grand Spanish baile and tattooed beer bash. Family and friends cavorted, intermingled and shed a tear of joy or two. I had hoped that the viejitos would break into some of the old corridos and huapangos but Romeo-punk had to do. And it did quite well I might add. Hoy y siempre, felicitaciones, Amy and John! Duke City Derby with the Roustabouts @ Midnight Rodeo 10/22/05 This was the debut and maiden voyage (I’m not sure “maiden” is the correct word here) first-ever public match of the Duke City Derby. The Big House Brawlers and Dead Man’s Curves rolled into local history this night since, as far as anyone can recall, this was the one & only roller derby bout to take place here in the ‘burque. As my companion and I watched the skate n’ scuffle action, the older lady next to me (and I use that term advisedly) recalled thrilling to live roller games when, as a youngster, she witnessed more fights & blood and less teeth than tonight, much to her disappointment. But the game has changed. Nowadays, teams based in Arizona, Texas and NM are closely allied with punk rock. While still wholly competitive, they are not pro’s vying for pots of cash and airplay on UHF television but just want to -- literally-- roll and rock. Most of the gals on the two Duke City teams appear to know one another but some were out for blood. A couple of “fights” seemed staged but at least one gal was ready to pound (yes, actually pounding; most unsportswoman-like) on opponents at the drop of an epithet or maybe an intentional foul. I’ve never understood why watching anyone fight is a crowd-pleaser, and the less said about mud-wrestling the better. One thing almost all the rollergals had in common was, as each was introduced, that self-satisfied coy look on their faces, the same you see on girls of all ages in the spotlight-- be they high-school cheerleaders, kindergarten dance teams or matrons garnering applause before their Garden Clubs. And these ladies should be self-satisfied for pulling the Derby together at what I’d guess are steep out-of-pocket expenses. Having half-time entertainment by punk rock bands is a natural. The rockin’billy Roustabouts were an excellent first-match choice since their music has appeal for the lo-fi civilians who are there for straight-up roller derby action rather than the “punk show” patrons. The Rousters thumped out their ‘billy best despite the echo-y acoustics of the cavernous former Midnight Rodeo. I hear a Roustabout dad was in attendance and that too was a cool part of the Derby: this was a true all-ages event, from eager grandmas on down to wound-up kiddies. Sadly though, having that demographic excluded beer from the mix which was sorely missed. Hell, you could barely buy a soft drink until far into the match. The Rodeo management needs to get on the ball here. Other than that, from the outside view, things seemed to go off as smooth as that shiny rink floor. No one was grievously hurt (except pride..?) and let’s give thanks for that: the thin polyfoam taped to the metal rails wasn’t about to save anyone’s ass. I must admit, though, I was hoping for one of the derby girls to tumble and slide below the open rails and topple a few spectators like ten-pins. Huh. Guess I’m more sadistic than I thought. Let’s hope the Derby succeeds not just for its own sake but for giving bands another off-the-wall venue and us another excuse to get the fuck outta the house on Sundays. When the DC Derby gets to the point of hosting bouts with out-of-town teams, I think then the competitive quotient will rise and likely the viciousness as well which will please all the bloodthirsty lunkheads in the crowd. It's not fun and games until someone loses an eye! Notoriously uninterested in sports my entire life long, I do feel it my duty to report the Big House Brawlers whooped Dead Man’s Curves, 62 to 48. “Just wait’ll next time,” sez the Curves. the Cops, the Foxx, Sexxytime Explosion 10/24/05 @ Burt’s Tiki Lounge The opening Sexxytime Explosion was pyrotechnically deficient, more like one of those cardboard New Year’s Eve party-crackers that spews glitter confetti rather than the implicitly promised detonation. Too-familiar bar room rock with uninspired L.A.-style monotone chick vocals and few tempo changes; about as lethal as a pop-gun and nowhere near as much fun. What can I tell you about the Foxx that I haven’t umpteen times already? They rocked, they glammed, they vogued; I danced. Another fun time was had by all. From Seattle, the Cops were the tops tonight. They had the energy of a young & starving Clash but minus most of the two-tone and reggae influence which was just fine by me. Although singer John Randolph emotes a good bit like Joe Strummer, somehow it doesn’t seem contrived or trite and that’s thanks in part to the material they roll and rock with. Its original but with a pinch o’ dub, a half-cup of Gang of Four and a few pounds of Brit-yob no-future snarl that slaps you around like a good friend giving you a much-needed kick in the arse. We were moving around so much and dancing so hard, though, it would’ve been difficult to zero in our buttocks with yer hob-nailed boot, mate. Detroit Cobras, Reigning Sound w/ the Sweatband 10/31/05 @ Plush, Tucson AZ 11/1/05 @ the Clubhouse, Tempe AZ Tucson’s Plush is a cool place for a show for several reasons: One, its got a stylin’ feel that isn’t overdone or obvious. No fake retro crap in the place, just classic Cold-war era good-taste décor and furnishings. Two, there’s separate rooms: one for music, one for hangin’ . If you don’t want to shell out to see the show, you aren’t barred from your local club. But chances are the aural live music spillover isn’t too shabby in the lounge area. Three, the patio is accessible from the show room and is secluded from sidewalks and the countless spare-change artists on the Tucson streets (lots of these here. must be more per capita than any other city of its size). Four, its in walking distance of the Hotel Congress, built in 1919 and still looking like the kind of place where notable Southwestern celebs stayed back in the heyday of “The Old Pueblo”. The hotel also houses Club Congress, since 1985 a good venue itself in the historic tap room built right after the repeal of Prohibition. I’ve caught notable acts there like the Geraldine Fibbers and X’s John Doe as well as local Tucsonians the Fells and Al Perry. Also here is the Cup Café offering fine dining at decent prices. Since my rocknroll traveling companion’s and my maxim is Cheap Motels and Fine Dining, we sorta stretched it a little this time as its not particularly cheap to room here, sixty to a hundred bucks a night depending on season. And yeah the rooms are a little cramped and spare (the style of the time) but the ambience is superb: southwestern deco, dark and cozy. None of that overly bright Motel 6 jazz for us! Beware however of rooms on the Bus Station side of the building. The city’s excellent system runs 24 -7 and no air-conditioning necessitates open windows all night. What little sleep I got was tinged with roaring diesel engine fueled dreams… But nevertheless, it was a most enjoyable stay. The stroll to Plush wasn’t far (but ask my companion with the high-heel feet and she might tell you different) but a tad sketchy when walking through the ancient underpass where urban bums like to linger or release urine. Once on the other side though its full-on Tucson 4th Avenue action, sorta like the ‘burque’s Nob Hill district but with more hippies, peace-punks and panhandlers-- who are mostly one and the same. Even Toxic Ranch, the city’s venerable punkrock record store is right off this same beat. Hallowe’en is normally an awful night for shows because you can’t avoid costumed revelers and even worse, some of them have like eight foot tall get-ups you can’t see around, over or under. This Samhain Eve was however mercifully short on tricker-treaters, thank the (Celtic) gods. But I have to admit show openers The Sweatband (gee that name sounds familiar… and as dumb as ever) approached genius in their costuming. The three-piece trudged onstage, shackled together, chain-gang style. With much ado and fanfare, their roadie/manager announced their freedom. One by one, they pulled their chains taut across an anvil while he struck with an axe, busted links flying all over the stage and into the crowd. With that, bits of chain still on their ankles, they launched into their set like a smoother more swingin’ Mr Airplane Man with vocals reminiscent of Johnette (Concrete Blonde) Napolitano The Detroit Cobras, I’m loathe to say, were somewhat of a let-down in the octane department tonight although they were mightily aided by the able Greg (Reigning Sound) Cartwright who is now a full-fledged Cobra…until the line-up changes again. Singer Rachel Nagy and Maribel Restropo are, for all intents and purposes, the Detroit Cobras and the rest appear to be sidemen. That’s not really a good thing since they’ve more than once jettisoned some able & rockin’ personnel. Some musically solid and stalwart line-up’s are sadly in their past. Seems to me the girls are semi-okay with that as they don’t appear to be looking to retire rich from the music game but gigging a comfortable living. You can talk all the shit you want about Nagy (everyone does) but she’s no more a dick onstage than any number of rockers with penises. But because she’s a Vaginal-American, every-one delights in ripping her. Whatever. Despite her bitch-goddess stage persona, she was sweet and friendly to me and my Denver homie Johnny Casio a couple years back at the reliable Lion’s Lair. >>> But although its not always apparent, Mari is the solid core of the group, hard-working, keeping it together, years of gig experience under her tiny belt. You might not think she’s doing more than rhythm guitar but look closer: you can see her watching out for the “new” guys, sending clues their way and keeping everyone -- everyone -- in line. After the set, we accosted her stageside and Mari was as outgoing and genuine as can be, even giving her phone numbers when I asked about getting her previous band (The Buzzards) merch. Mention must be made of her Mexican wrestling mask and Robin the Boy Wonder underoos over guy’s bondage pants. Although my love for their style and material afforded enjoyment of the Cobras set, it was clearly the Reigning Sound-- led by that selfsame Mr Cartwright-- who won best-of-show tonight. His vocals are gutbucket raspy, almost like “cornbread” soul with laryngitis. His catchy poprock tunes make ya wanna shake your ass and wag your hair even if the band occasionally wanders in and out of tune; not surprising given Cartwright’s roots in Memphis’ premier punkn’roll outfit, The Oblivians. When they opened the following night at the all-ages Clubhouse in Tempe, we were ready for The Sound: Greg, a gal name of Carol as his touring bassist and drummer Lance Willie (Unholy Trio, Freakwater). Pre-set, my vinyl-craving escort and I had a conversation about the best used record shop in Tucson. Under new management, Jane’s--formerly PDQ--remains the same: tons of great shit in any condition you care to pay for (mint to good to cat-scratched) in any category you like, with the exception of a small offering of newer punk. But classic soul, funk, jazz, country, showtunes and new wave? Killer selection! Back to the show: Cartwright throws himself into his work, body, soul and sweat. He sounds like the Muffs’ Kim Shattuck would sound if she were a man and the tunes like Carl Perkins covering the Raspberries. Their version of the classic Stormy Weather was perfectly lovely. It’s a tune that he obviously appreciates as only a good songwriter could. Tonight the Detroit Cobras were more ready to roll out the rockn’soul. Cartwright brings increased style to their set of obscure ‘50s/60s R & B covers that hardly anyone knows Their one original tune Hot Dog has a decent enough melody but fails at imitating the old double-entendre blues songs. With abominable lyrics (“watch me eat a hot dog”), its about as suggestive as a second-grade boys conversation on the playground. Still, the Detroit Cobras own my heart and soul for championing old R & B as lovingly as they do. Two nights of two great bands made the trip altogether worthwhile. Stopping in Hatch NM for a fresh roasted green chile luncheon and pausing at the freeway sign for Bowie, Arizona for photos with newly-acquired David LP in hand just added to our glee. I Heart Metal 11/5/05 @ Golden West Ah, the Golden West is at it again. Despite the best intentions of successive promoters over the years, the fact remains: the Golden West is a favorite show room for many (especially older gents like myself) but the foul-ups continue to leave a worsening taste in everyone’s mouths. How often can one eat shit and say “more, please” ? Some say we should stop talking bad about the GW and throw our support behind them. My reply: turning the other cheek is not an axiom for the bar business. Sure, other clubs fuck up, have mortal enemies and have also pissed off their share of patrons & bands, but they’ve nevertheless managed to win back respect and success. When was the last time you heard of a show cancellation because --less than an hour into it-- attendance was too low? What’s that you say? Never? Me too! Except for tonight. Broke-down tour vans, highway crashes, deaths ---of course, cancel the motherfucker. But… I’ve seen bands play with borrowed equipment on tour because theirs was stolen the night before, I’ve seen singers with laryngitis muster their strength and sing anyway, and drummers with fevers of 100 degrees play in spite of it all. Lousy Robot, the Dirty Novels and Holiday Sail didn’t play tonight because they weren’t given the chance. What’s worse, the Robot and Sail kids had already arrived, the latter even assembled their drum kit and unpacked guitars. The one-man I [Heart] Metal was allowed to bang away on an acoustic-emo guitar in vaguely familiar Lemonheads-indie style. He entertained his friends for a little bit. It wasn’t my cuppa. I don’t know, maybe he’s why they pulled the plug. oooh, zing! Note to the plug-pullers at GW: ya made a business decision to host an early all-ages show. All-ages = no booze= no/low dollars, remember? Take yer lumps. Note to the ones who are trying to keep the GW positive and happening: thank you. But I feel sorry for you in face of negative criticism (here and elsewhere) and what appears to be oblivious and indifferent owners and/or business managers who don’t give a jolly rat’s ass. Good luck. So c’mon, what’s the real story? My guess would be the owners just want to hang onto the valuable liquor license to make a killing on later. Otherwise do they really make all that much bank offa all those Mexicano weddings at El Rey? Acoustic Showcase V 11/18/05 @ Harlow’s On The Hill Hurrah! more kinder gentler acts at Harlow’s on the Hill, a winning and winsome combination. Oktober Nate opened and What?! Foma Ed not the initial act at an Acoustic Showcase? Blasphemy! A break with tradition! What’s wrong with these kids…? ah. um. excuse my outburst. I don’t take change easily… Nate opened with a (ulp!) Violent Femmes cover. Having seen the Femmes for the first time this year and finding them an entire waste of time, I was brimming with trepidation but, with a sweet looped bass line, Nathan pulled it off, beautifully and even nobly. Next Ed hopped up for some of his lovely and trembley delivered odes to sweetness and darkness, like a cyanide-laced Gummi Bear. If my memory serves, he played a cover of Rocket Man. I prefer to have nothing to do with Elton but this one worked out nicely alright. Just like that very first Acoustic Showcase (held at Ed’s a couple years ago) Mr Billy Bellmont was and is a revelation in action. There was a satisfying Aimee Mann cover from before she was an indie media darling but after Til Tuesday. Superb voice, wonderful writing, spot-on timing, I can’t say enough good about the man’s solo work. I’m still hoping for a Billy B. CD and soon. The Gingerbread contingent, John & Megan, guitar & accordion, in various additive and subtractive line-up’s with Jeshua gave us covers of Stephen Malkmus, the Silver Jews and other quiet heroes of indie rock when indie rock meant worth a damn. A fellow name of Nick offered a couple of dense deep bass voice songs that I took for originals. Maybe the Acoustic Showcase series ought to be called the Acoustic Cover Showcase as Isaac (Foxx, Foma, Shanghai Testarosa, Alarm Clocks) featured a fragile Joanna Newsom cover and some originals, the last which reminded me of Billy Corgan, who was always at his best on the tender stuff. Rebels always, Unit 7 Drain pushed the acoustic envelope by plugging in except for Harry and gave us covers of the Gingerbread Patriots, Romeo Goes To Hell and a teaser I Think We’re Alone Now, whether inspired by the Shondells or mall rat bitch Tiffany, none could say. They closed with another tease, an ethereal rendition of Gillian Welch’s The Revelator, a taste of what we’ll see early next year when I Is For Ida debuts their live show and CD at the same time. All I could further ask would be comfortable seating to swoon in while listening to these quiet strummers. Kites, Round Hole & the Square Pegs, GNR (Greg n Rachel), Manhole 11/24/05 @ Exxon Valdez Although there was lots of good stuff going on here tonight, the main attraction (for me and lots of others) was GnR. That is, Greg (Fukrot) and Rachel (Karen). A sad blow, we lost both bands fairly recently: Fukrot earlier this year due to stickman Eben’s departure to the northwest climes and Karen last year to most of the group moving to Califas. Though we’ve had the pleasure of a few Ronoso shows (Greg, Miles and new drummer Mike taking up where Fukrot left off), nothing has been heard in some time from gal-guitar wonder Ray Ray. First up though was scary-moustache man Alan, smooth drummer Jarrad and Frank Walls as the latest incarnation of Manhole. The noise is fun but as always I enjoy these sets that are a bit more melodic and rhythmic. The last time I caught Manhole, there wuz lots of metal riffage going on that left me cold but here was some fine guitar work by new guy Mr Walls. I refer to him that way because he was the proprietor of short-lived all-ages gallery/showspace the Walls a couple years back and I never did know his civilian name. The correct balance of clamor, clatter and melodics was here, not an easy thing to say, let alone do. Hearty applause was given and deserved all around. This night was my maiden voyage to the Exxon Valdez, a musical opium den of inequity and depravity, no surprise considering its denizens. Conveniently located next to St Joe’s, no one last night was in need of medical attention but I’ve heard third-hand stories of great human/environmental disaster & tragedy from the Valdez… But it’s a great joint for a house gig: showspace in the basement which is easily entered from the spacious backyard. Stone walls swallow up lots of sound (they have some grateful neighbors I’m certain) and a wide bench that circles the room and serves as a stage with room to spare. After Manhole’s R & N set (Rhythm & Noise), lots of folks were hanging around the yard and I was pleased to see lots of old Insurgo people as well as ex-Rebel-Radio-partners-in-crime afoot and even a Basement Films representative. These are mostly people who shun the normal bar shows I write so much about in these pages. I was enjoying the beer and conversation so well that I neglected to notice that new-to-me locals Round Hole & the Square Pegs were up inside, playing some quiet banjo, fiddle and bongos (?!) music. Oh, and apparently the skillet too since one was mounted on a mikestand. I didn’t get to hear what they did with it though. One song was all I caught, not enough to get a good impression. Next-- Greg sporting his new ‘fro, Rach in her charming rose-petal old-lady hat and Miles in regulation dreads an’ bandana took the stage--well, they didn’t actually take it but stood next to it, backs to us. Earlier, Greg told me that really had no songs and even less practice but ya could’ve fooled me. The bass was solid as the rock foundation and Miles held the rudder of the seafaring Valdez straight as Rach took a few lovely and loud nautical-guitar excursions. There was lots of potential and apparently a drummer wandering around who may play the next installment of whatever GnR is called then. I’ll be watching for it and so should you. Next was one-man stand Kites but bolstered by near a dozen pedals, a vox mike as well as some kind of hand-held controller and a neat-looking box full o’ dials mounted on a stand. Symphonic in its own way and a tad like Hendrix but sans guitar. The noisy flight built slowly, soaring and fluttering around before power-diving into a crescendo-crash of ear-splitting dimensions like a B-2 stealth bomber packed with munitions had crash landed into the local power plant and set off a chain reaction of explosive wonderment that would be breath-taking and beautiful to watch despite its destructiveness. Next was ex-Black Elf Speaks project The USA Is A Monster but I had other duties to attend and didn’t catch the self-billed heavy pysch. Me, I prefer my pysch paisley-powered and so wasn’t much disappointed to leave the Exxon Valdez as it sailed prow-ahead to its fate in deep and dark arctic waters. A foghorn sound-effect here would be nice… the Rum Fits 12/30/05 @ Launchpad A quick and dirty set by this trio of tattooed punk rock pirates. Aaarrrr! All that was missing were green mohawked parrots on their shoulders. I was despairing anything new here (punk is sort of like its own Oldies genre these days and I for one am not nostalgic for it). But damned if they didn’t surprise the hell out of me with a cover of the Animals 1964 House of the Rising Sun, the most inventive thing done with this song since Dylan stole Dave Van Ronk’s version of this traditional blues song in ’62. The fact that this was my favorite tune of the night is probably more telling of my taste than of the Rumfits’ talents… |
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The Long Gone Trio Goes A-Ronk-A-Tonk-A-Tonk by Doctor Bloor Despite what you’ve heard, some rules are not meant to be broken. When it comes to certain types of music--rockabilly or blues, for example--I have never seen any point in attempting to tackle them unless you're willing to do it straight. Which brings me to Thursday night at the Atomic and Long Gone Trio. These guys play straight-up, non-watered down rockabilly. I watched as they ripped, slapped and tickled through a set of some of the finest rockabilly that I’ve ever seen. Pat Bova’s eerie, aching vocals and Tom Sanderson’s slinky guitar lines are classic, errorless rockabilly. And in the purest style, they lack a drummer. But if you think that waters down the rhythm, you are mistaken. Stand up bass player Pat Kowalski handles the beat just fine, thank you. Their look is in perfect step with the music. Long Gone Trio look like they just finished eight hours of tuning up cars at the local garage. No, wait . . . ! They look like they just finished a shift driving a delivery van in Memphis. Yeah, that’s it. And really, the fact that they look like they could whip your ass doesn’t hurt either. Vintage look, vintage style and vintage instruments provide a quality that I can only compare to a time machine. What with the whirling dancers, feet tapping, hands slapping tables in time and the ronk-a-tonk-a-tonk of Long Gone Trio, you’d think that the bar had been transported to the 50’s. I’d love to hear them recorded at Memphis’ Sun Studio or some such place. Sun would know how to treat this rockabilly reincarnation and their sound would benefit greatly from a studio that knows which rules not to break. Road trip anyone? Long Gone Trio and The Roustabouts serve up hot, buttery rockabilly every Thursday night at Atomic Cantina. Show starts at 9:00. Where did I put my can of Royal Crown pomade? |
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Wig Wam Bam (by Captain America PO BX
4865 Albq NM 87196 captainamerica1941@hotmail.com)
has been slacking (or being a slack-
jawed yokel?) but is back -- months late--worse and more needlessly verbose
than ever and may (or not) be found semi-monthly at Launch Pad, Mecca Records,
the Silver Board Shop, Natural Sound, Free Radicals, Abode, Harlow’s, Damaged
Goods, Burt’s Tiki Lounge, Atomic Cantina and typically in a quandary.
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Wig Wam Bam is written by Captain America |
po box 4865 | albuquerque, nm 87196 |
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