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Do you trust these dudes with your words?
Many American music greats could’ve only happened here: Bessie Smith, Dylan, Jerry Lee, and surely the song-poem phenomenon, documented thoroughly at the American Song-Poem Music Archives. Maybe you’ve heard of this creation of our surreal sub-culture. Ordinary folks across the country would send in their hard-earned cash for a chance to have their poems or song lyrics recorded by a studio group. Since anything could be sent in, a new sort of weird art form came from the households of people who would never have a chance in the standard music biz. Here were anti-hits about presidents Nixon and Carter, an acid trip flashback called “Ecstasy to Frenzy” with lyrics like “Perhaps the world’s a cube/Or a tunnel or a tube …” or the real crowd-pleaser, “Blind Man’s Penis,” which gently declares in whisper-speak, “A blind man’s penis is erect because he’s blind …” Or maybe you’ve heard the country number “I Lost My Girl To An Argentinean Cowboy.”
Who else but Billy Sugarfix of Evil Wiener could we depend on to revive this lost art? Billy and pardner Brian Risk, who collaborated on the town pride rap “It’s Carrboro,” have a fun new project, The Surreal O’Rama Song Poem Bizarre Lyrics Contest. From Billy hisself: “Anyone and everyone is invited to submit their weirdest words, in any form that could possibly be considered song lyrics. An all-star panel of judges will then review the song poems, and five winners will have their words set to music and recorded (at no charge) by Billy Sugarfix and Brian Risk. Each winning song will be posted on the Surreal O’Rama blog, where readers will vote on an overall favorite.” (more…)
Straight Bangin’ comes recommended on high from me, with pretty great writing every day about hoops and hip hop and some hard, incisive political commentary. Most days, you get some links to good new tracks, too, and, today, SB links to Phonte Coleman taking on A-Ha’s “Take on Me” with Carlitta Durand helping out. “Dude is an underrated singer,” writes SB. That’s right, especially given Tay’s role as Percy Miracles. Also, that bass trick floating into the hook of this cover is phenomenal. Get it before it’s gone.
One of the questions I posed here has been answered: Indeed, Bickett Gallery’s space on Bickett Boulevard is closing on May 20. Molly Miller will continue work at Bickett on Hudson, but there’s no space for music there. While this certainly doesn’t have the magnitude of Kings closing a mile away, Bickett’s been a pretty important venue for several reasons over the last five years. Press release after the break.
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How big will this thing get?
The first time I saw The Avett Brothers was in a crummy Mexican Restaurant called Chico’s. About three, maybe four years ago. Greenville, NC (back before those house-show hounds at Amicitia taught the town to appreciate non-cover bands) had produced as many East Carolina University students as possible (17?), and a few unsuspecting families turned out for a nice meal. Chips came free with the performance.
While I chomped on my Speedy Gonzalez (or was it a Racy Rodriguez—either way, it’s the first option on the combo menu at these places…), three boys from Concord won me over completely, somehow managing to make bluegrass sound punk as fuck. The tall one, Seth Avett, hammered on his guitar, belting out buttermilk melodies, pounding on a bass drum with his left foot and a hi-hat with his right. The handsome one, Scott Avett, picked the banjo with an absolute fury in his eyes, his voice twirling somewhere between punk-rocker, total nut job and cowboy crooner. The sole non-bro, Mr. Bob Crawford, held onto his bass strings as though he were climbing a rope in third period gym class, slapping ‘em back harsh and loud, occasionally bowing the thing for the real gravitas. It was a site to see. A roots group—real sweet-mouthed country boys who said thank you in between every song—built music with this upspeakable momentum, capable of bowling folks over with little more than spirit. Everyone left happy. And full.
Fast forward to the last time I saw The Avett Brothers in perhaps the exact opposite setting. New York’s Rebel ain’t no Mexican Restaurant. Instead, it’s a horribly designed, overpriced venue in midtown Manhattan. Perpetual construction, scaffolding, and bullshit going on outside, of course. On Thursday March 8th, there were no chips at Rebel. No salsa. No ECU students (although some kids looked suspiciously young for a 21+ show). But as the Avett‘s unveiled new material from their upcoming and played through some of the same songs I heard years ago in Chicos for a room bursting at the seams with journo-types (Paste, Harp, Scan) and industry dudifiers, I couldn‘t help but notice they hadn’t lost those wide eyes and grinning smiles. If anything, their stage presence has grown even more adorably energetic.
Midway through the third song, Scott fell flat on his face. Or his elbow. Couldn’t tell because of the packed house, but the song chugged on as he plucked from the floor. Everyone gasped, laughed, cheered,and did whatever else you do when someone falls over on stage. Soon all the hooting and hollering converged into one big, congratulatory, “Hell yeah.” He got up, joked about needing to head to the hospital, and then tore into another track. Throughout the night, banjo strings broke (“Next record, we’re going to tune our guitars before each song, so the albums sound more like the live show,” Seth joked), audience members were boisterous and plenty annoying (Scott had to ask “Who the hell is Dale?” after one lush blurted it out a few too many times), but the band couldn’t stop thanking everyone for coming out, for making New York feel like a second home.
Hmm. I haven’t seen the Avett’s play in North Carolina since polishing off those free chips at Chico’s, but if this was some second-home revelry, N.C. must feel incredibly hospitable these days.
Not Savannah Lite.
Many Triangle punks thrive on vegan burritos, mixtapes and the fact that they can barely play their instruments. Sure, it can be endearing at times, but at the end of the day, when hugging and cutesy off-key anti-war songs have lost their appeal—and believe me, they will—its best to have something on which to fall back. May I suggest a bit of technical prowess, some rather large amps and the Dark Lord himself?
Enter Tooth. Together for a year and change, the Durham five-piece has fine-tuned its de-tune to become one of the strongest metal/hardcore/punk/whatever acts in the area. The quintet coalesces the depressingly damning assault of Eyehategod, the crust-ridden scuzz of Dystopia and the purely diabolical motorcycle mayhem of Venom into an obnoxiously loud, beard-tangled punk metal mess. Don’t think Savannah Lite: Think Durham Plus.
I’d wanted to see Tooth for quite a while and finally got my chance March 20 as they opened for Florida’s Torche and Georgia’s Black Tusk at Kings. First of all, it must be noted that Torche was heavy almost to the point of disbelief, and probably became a few—out of, I don’t know, 30? —people’s new favorite band that night. As for the locals, they held their own , even with such a weighty bill. Guitarist Rich James towered over his Les Paul, melding hammer-on solos and crust metal scales into each three-minute opus, while Ben Wilson pounded out equally menacing drop-D (or A or C??) riffs on his own axe. A grit-toothed Ryland Fishel maintained bass duties like a young Steve Harris, and Noah Kessler beat his way above the full-stack racket of his band mates. With fists and goats flailing, Jamie Guptil sang, screamed, growled and did whatever he felt necessary as a front man for a band like Tooth. It worked damn well.
The truth is, Tooth isn’t the tightest, best sounding or most original band in the Triangle, but who really cares? With only a year under their belts, it should be a hell of a time watching these guys get better and better. Actually, it’s a hell of a time watching them play now. I salute Tooth, one more example that heavy music can do just fine in the indie rock-saturated Triangle. Hail.
No, seriously dudes, where the fuck are we going to park the van?
“This is the end of the world. No, I’m lying. This is the end of the show.” —Valient Himself, or Herbie Abernethy, at Kings last night, just before Valient Thorr’s last song on McDowell Street.
Even if you’ve only been to one show at Kings, you still probably know what I’m talking about: An essential part of the club’s character over its seven-year run on South McDowell Street has been its utter lack of ventilation. I remember nights in freezing-cold Decembers (ever go the Great Cover-Up?) when you could barely breath inside, the few hundred people stuffed in two rooms either smoking or wishing they were. I’m not a smoker, but—more than once in Kings—I would puff a cigarette, hoping it would somehow help my assimilation into the heat and smoke that hovers perpetually in front of the low stage.
Last night, watching Valient Thorr play its final Kings (Sr.?) set, I wasn’t smoking, but that’s only because it was too loud to ask someone for a cigarette. But I was sweating, commanded by the humid room and somewhat inspired by the unshaven heads of VT, sweating the sounds and strains of their set all over the stage, like Southern shamans pouring holy water over sacred ground for the last time. Abernethy also inspired everyone in the sometimes packed club to think about what Kings has meant: He got hoarse as he preached, screaming those trademark “Do you know what I’m talking about?”s as he encouraged everyone to take the spirit Raleigh learned at Kings and carry it out into the world, into whatever space would open its doors. When Abernethy talked about seeing bands like Mastodon and High on Fire at Kings and meeting friends and drinking beer there, you knew he was speaking out of something called love. That’s how a lot of us think about Kings and the very open space it brought to bands trying to make something in Raleigh. That’s what it deserves, too: Kings has been open exactly as long as I’ve in Raleigh. It’s saved me a lot of Interstate 40 miles and a lot of nights sitting at home. It’s going to be missed.
It’s appropriate that Abernethy went nostalgic just before “Exit Strategy,” a VT song (and awesome video) about how very fucked America is overseas. People are wondering how we’ll ever get out of Iraq as a healthy country, and people in Raleigh are wondering how we’ll ever get out of Kings with a healthy music scene intact. For many of its seven years, Kings has been the most fecund ground for breeding new bands and sounds in Raleigh (and, in part, across the Triangle). But there are more questions right now than there are answers, and they’re all fairly major: If Kings reopens, where will it be? Can it make it financially, especially since Steve Popson told Todd Morman on cable-access television that—if there is a Kings II—they’re going to have to take out loans this time? Kings has often operated on the precipice of closing, and good nights and loud rock bands don’t always ward off the lenders. And is this it? Are more Raleigh rock clubs on their way out? Who’s going to pick up the slack, at least in the interim? Can and will Volume 11 handle more than metal? Are Sadlack’s and Slim’s ready to help? Berkeley? Are bands going to be spending more time on Flint Street? Art galleries? Restaurants? It’s going to take more from the Downtown Events Center sitting in the old Martin Street/Raleigh Music Hall space than fucking Talent Conquests presented by Jam Solid (?) to keep this scene in good PA’s and friendly doormen (here’s looking at Mike Dillon!). Where are we going, and who’s going to take us there? I don’t know, but I hope the trip is more interesting than it is disappointing. We’ll see.
P.S. VT played a new jam last night called “Infinite Lives,” and its near-sludge bottom and virulent mids and highs made it sound maybe like the best thing I’ve ever heard the band play. Question is, where will they play it next time they’re in town?
Jason Crumer: Unwilling to explain, but plenty willing to announce.
No Future Fest curator Jason Crumer and Nightlight co-owner Ryan Martin announced the official lineup for NFF’s third annual installation via the iheartnoise.com message board Tuesday.
NO FUTURE FEST III
Friday and Saturday, April 20th and 21st.
Nightlight
FRIDAY, April 20: [Doors at 7:00 p.m.; show at 8:00 p.m.]
Laundry Room Squelchers, Auk Theatre (Irene Moon), Angel of Decay, Leslie Keffer, Pop Culture Rape Victim + Tourette, Lazy Magnet, Black Meat, Lexie Mountain, Pax Titania, Clang Quartet, Ferveur Noire, Boyzone
SATURDAY, April 21st: [Doors and free pizza at 3:00 p.m; Show at 5:00 p.m.]
Macronympha, Bloodyminded, Can’t, Damion Romero, Harrius, Goat, Climax Denial, PrairiePusher + Door, Tom Grimley, Charlie Draheim, Shallow Waters, Ryan Bloomer, Tusco Terror, Haunted Castle, Villa Valley, Silvum, Is, Holy Family Parish, Joe Roemer + Jason Crumer
Day one= $10; Day two=$15; Both nights=$20
Despite the obvious lack of last year’s big names—sorry, kids, no Dilloway, Giffoni or Prurient this year—the No Future Fest 3 lineup looks promising. Macronympha, Can’t and Black Meat head the traveling NFF alumni, while Nightlight regulars like Clang Quartet, Crumer, and Boyzone represent for NC noise. Some well-known acts have been drafted, like Chicago’s Bloodyminded, but perhaps the most exciting thing about NFF3’s lineup is its introduction of the lesser-known performers. I’m unfamiliar with a slew of names listed to play, but that absence of the big guns is exactly why entry-level noise poseurs like myself should be excited. Also of note: LOAD Records’ Norwegian darlings NOXAGT list an April 21 stop at the festival on their MySpace page, but there’s no confirmation on that one yet. That could be huge: EVIDENCE.
Last year’s No Future Fest shared a number of acts with New York’s similarly themed and much larger No Fun Fest, but in 2007, the NFFs polarize. No Fun boasts the biggest of big—Merzbow, Thurston Moore, Keiji Haino, etc.—and No Future doesn’t. It’s a good reason for those of us who don’t shit, piss and bleed noise to be disappointed, but we should at least wait until those unfamiliar folks have pillaged our eardrums to moan. Kudos for now, Crumer. Oh, yeah, remember the drama surrounding last year’s festival? Fun.
Where is my garden
Lookin’ on the hill.
Old blood gets hardened
Rockin’ cheek to cheek
The late Tim Kimrey loved the song “Where Is My Garden.” And I believe it’s fair to say that he loved the man who wrote the song, Malcolm Holcombe. It’s also a safe bet that Tim first heard the song in his own living room during one of several house concerts that Malcolm did for Tim’s Afternoon Nap series. Those shows—Malcolm’s and all the others—they’d spoil you, brother. A seat five feet away from the singer, a wood stove on your right and a kindred spirit on your left.
Ain’t no need you knockin’
Won’t you come on in.
For 17 years, Tim was the pastor of the Church of Reconciliation in Chapel Hill, a calming presence and a superb listener. Malcolm’s music is so direct that it occasionally comes close to menace. But to focus solely on the tough is to miss the tender and the spiritual, which is where he shines brightest. In his later years, Tim willed himself to be a painter, layering colors as if they were life experiences. Malcolm’s artworks are songs that sound like they’ve been carved from still smoldering firewood. I would have loved to have hidden myself away and eavesdropped on one of Tim and Malcolm’s post-concert conversations.
Been waitin’ for you brother
My God my friend.
About a year ago, Malcolm sang “Where Is My Garden” at the memorial service for Tim. More than a few folks there had heard him sing it in Tim’s living room, with several colorful paintings looking down from the wall. When Malcolm Holcombe does a show at Hideaway BBQ this Thursday (March 15), I bet he’ll play it for you if you ask.
Your workin days are over
And your sufferin’s gone
Love’s gonna live forever
And your job is done.
Amen. Thanks, Tim, for many jobs well done. And thanks, Malcolm, for every time that you sing “Where Is My Garden.”
Tomorrow’s paper comes with a review of And Justus for All, Little Brother’s mixtape with DJ Mick Boogie. It’s got some of the Durham duo’s strongest moments to date within its 80 minutes, so you may want to grab Mick Boogie’s free download of it here.
Maybe they dug it in Russia?
A few months back, Robbie Mackey wrote a preview of a World/Inferno Friendship Society that essentially said one thing: This band is worth your attention not because of its music but because of its antics. I agree with this. I own all of the W/I albums of hyper-baroque-cracy gypsy punk, and I may be able to tell you one song off of one album. But I can tell you all about the band’s live show and preceding WTF reputation. Those revolve near the music, just not around it.
Monotonix has a similar reputation. First, they’re a rock trio from Tel Aviv, and that should be enough. They also play on the floor in front of the stage, the drummer standing at his kit while the guitarist and lead singer traipse around the room and play with their long-as-the-space-allows cords. They climb onto whatever objects they can find, spitting beer and singing and playing and generally making a lot of people smile. If that doesn’t sell you, the drummer lit his cymbals on fire when the band started its set Wednesday night at Kings. Probably minutes later, the lead singer set his shirt on fire. That was 10 minutes before he climbed a balcony to sing to a pretty girl watching the show. Oh, then he touched the drummer’s penis. More like, “WTF, this is awesome,” right?
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Well, Coach K kinda has gone Hollywood.
With last year’s graduation of Mistie Williams—a starting power forward on the Lady Devils hoop team and, more pop-culturally significant, the daughter of frequent Cameron Indoor Stadium visitor Chubby Checker—the Duke basketball programs have become a little less rock ‘n’ roll. But there’s still always Sal Amato one row behind the Duke bench, microphone in hand.
You know, Sal Amato. The guitarist in Eddie and the Cruisers. Hell, I’ll go as far as to call him the head Cruiser. If you’re still confused, then you probably haven’t seen the 1983 movie Eddie and the Cruisers, with Michael Pare as the eponymous Eddie, with Tom Berenger as Frank “Word Man” Ridgeway, and with Ellen Barkin looking really hot. The flick’s been gaining momentum for over 20 years, recovering after the setback that was Eddie and the Cruisers 2, but hasn’t quite reached cult status yet despite a truly impressive three-pronged attack. What’s that, you say?
Prong one: It’s the rare combination of two mysteries, a Romeo & Juliet-ish love story, and a rock-band biopic. Prong two: It gave John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band, who provided the music for the movie, their 14 minutes of fame. (They’ve been docked a minute as a penalty for the number of times I had to hear “On the Dark Side” on Upstate NY radio in the mid ‘80s.) Prong three: The spectacle of 30-something Tom Berenger trying to look comfortable playing more than 10 years younger in the flashback scenes. It might sound like I’m poking fun at the movie. But, nope, I’m an unabashed fan.
The role of guitarist Sal Amato in Eddie and the Cruisers is played by Matthew Laurance, and he has one of the best scenes. The movie flip-flops between Eddie and the band’s heyday and the present day; the latter finds Laurance’s Amato still trying to get by on his Cruiser days courtesy of a stage show that’s pure nostalgia. The act itself is a well-realized look at boomer-targeted rip-offs, but Laurance truly shines when Barkin’s reporter, hellbent on cracking the Eddie case (he went missing a la Rimbaud, a name that gets dropped with the subtly of a falling major appliance a couple times during the movie, at the peak of his popularity), interviews Sal in his dressing room.
Anyway, Laurance has been a member of the Duke hoop family for several years now. He was the Director of Donor Relations for the Emily Krzyzewski Family Life Center before accepting the Director of Community Relations job for the Washington Duke Inn this past fall. And when a donor friend, no doubt initially directed by Laurance, took me along on a backstage tour of Duke b-ball, our guide was none other than ol’ Sal. He led us through Coack K’s office like it was Jefferson’s study at Monticello, and even seemed amused when I stage-whispered to a fellow tourist, “You know, I don’t think those paperweights were meant to be souvenirs.”
However, his most visible, or at least audible, gig is the one that finds him eavesdropping on the Duke huddle during timeouts and then sharing Coach K’s counsel with radio listeners—an idea that apparently came from the coach himself. It does make for cool radio.
So my recommendation is the next time you’re at a Duke basketball game and you find yourself within range of a mic-wielding Laurance, just start singing, “On the dark side, whoa ooooh!” Because you know he’s never heard that one before.
No, really, she’s probably never heard these before.
Find the puns:
It was definitely a distraction. There I was trying to watch the Rutgers-Arizona State women’s basketball game on Monday night, and I kept hearing the last name of one of my musical heroes. Emily Westerberg is a six-foot forward on the Arizona State Sun Devils, a squad that likes to bring a lot of players off its bench. But Westerberg is a three-year starter—here comes a regular fans say when they see her—so she’s no…wait for it…replacement. She’s also a Naismith Player of the Year contender. Color me impressed. She looks quite attractive on her player bio page, sporting just a little mascara.
Alas, the game didn’t turn out well for Westerberg and her careless Sun Devil teammates. Her favorite thing seemed to be corner jumpers, but Rutgers’ merry-go-round of a trapping defense too often forced her to be stuck in the middle. A teammate limped off the court at one point, perhaps treatment bound. When the game’s within your reach, you’re achin’ to be the winner, anyway. But then you lose, and you’re left, I don’t know, unsatisfied. “Anywhere’s better than here,” you think as you leave the court.
Most of the Sun Devils can’t hardly wait for next season and redemption. But Westerberg’s a senior. She’ll graduate with a teaching degree, but she might want to look into creating soundtracks for animated movies. I hear there’s an open season for that.
Back in 2001, when there was a surge of local hard rock bands from Raleigh surrounding the then-new Kings Barcade, folks at the club decided to spit out a quick compilation of what was going on, a sort of ear to the ground No New York of Capital City cretins.
It was simply called Raleigh Rocks and started off with a kick of three cuts from in-their-prime The Cherry Valence. Among others, there were entries from garage stunners The Loners, the metallic k.o. of Olympus Mons and Rise’s pyrotechnic sludge. The cover depicted a headband-wearing metal dude tearing it up in a fit of glory on some stage. The title’s font looked like it could’ve come from a Def Leppard recording. Inside the cover was a cityscape, the big bank building downtown becoming engulfed by airbrush-styled flames: This was a city under siege from rawk!
The bands took it on tour with them. It acted as a promotion for the club. It solidified by documentation a specific thing happening at a specific time in Raleigh. Now it’s a way for us to look back and say, “Hey, that was a scene,” that place Kings made a home for a set of people to get used to playing and then spread the word about them. They still do that, there, and hopefully will wherever they land after next week when the South McDowell location closes. Raise up, Raleigh.
Two more local bands have signed to 54º40’ or Fight!, the Michigan-based label that issued the first two LPs from the momentarily docked, dearly missed Ticonderoga. Schooner, who has released two well-received EPs with Durham’s Pox World Empire, will release its debut LP, Hold on Too Tight, on 54º40’ on August 7. Meanwhile, Ukraine-born songwriter Alina Simone—who arrived in the Triangle two years ago after releasing an EP on Chapel Hill’s Fractured Discs—will release her debut LP, Placelessness, on 54º40’ on July 3. The Carolina-54º40’ connection gets funnier all the time, as North Carolinian James K. Polk was the president whose 1844 election hinged largely on the 54º40’ phrase as it related to manifest destiny. As for the mighty Ticonderoga, Mark Paulson—the only remaining member at this point—is, apparently, weeks away from putting down new material.
Amy Winehouse: No tour dates scheduled for Hillsborough…
For the fifth March in a row, I didn’t make it to Austin for the massive music bacchanalia that is South By Southwest. However, I did spend some time considering how to re-create the SXSW experience without leaving the Triangle, leading to these excerpts from a nonday-in-a-life journal.
7:00 a.m.: Drove to the airport to catch a much-too-early Southwest flight for Texas. Noted a couple others bound for Austin, too bleary-eyed even for small talk. Turned around and drove home because, you know, I wasn’t actually flying anywhere.
10:00 a.m.: Stuffed a burlap-ish bag with music publications, swag (primarily from the keychain and/or bottle opener families with the occasional appearance of the most unusual of freebies, the novelty condom), and CDs, the majority of which I’d have neither the time nor the inclination to listen to, and presented it to myself. Immediately trashed everything except a magazine or two, only the choicest of swag, and a compilation CD that had that Spoon song “Sister Jack” on it.
12:15 a.m.: After downing a breakfast of huevos rancheros, stood in backyard drinking beer from a plastic cup and listening to CDs from a half-dozen Bloodshot Records acts. Even surrounded myself with chimes and other hanging art that I’d bought for my wife over the years from the Yard Dog, the site of the best afternoon parties at SXSW. It just wasn’t the same. For one thing, the beer wasn’t free.
1:57 p.m.: Said rather loudly but to no one in particular, “I don’t understand all the fuss about Gorch Fock. I just don’t get it.” Expect heated discussion if not fisticuffs, but earned only confused looks. From my cat.
3:05 p.m.: Attempted to stalk, nonthreateningly, Amy Winehouse. I assumed (or at least hoped) that this would be difficult under any circumstances, but it was especially challenging from 1,350 miles away.
5:00 p.m.: Hit some area record stores looking for the Stooges. Not a Raw Power reissue, but the actual Stooges doing an in-store. No luck on that front, but I did score a copy of the latest entry in the Numero Group’s Eccentric Soul series, which has nothing to do with the Stooges. Still, it’s a fine consolation prize.
7:30 p.m.: Found a long line and happily joined it. Turned out to be for Wolfpack NIT tickets, though, and not the Pete Townshend-Ian McLagan showcase/jam session I’d hoped for.
9:16 p.m.: Vomited. Not sure whether it was from the mutton I pretended to eat or the tequila I pretended to drink.
10:50 p.m.: Stared at a piece of paper that spelled out my listening options for the 11 p.m. slot. I had a Chris Mills CD way across the room, the new Graham Parker on the kitchen table, the Figgs’ latest in the car, and a whole stack of Yep Roc things upstairs. I ended up going with the Silos recent record because it was right there next to me.
7:00 a.m.: Drove to the airport on three hours sleep. Loaded my suitcase with several large rocks to approximate the weight from the CDs that I would have bought from Waterloo and Cheapo. Hit myself in the skull with the rocks first to approximate the condition of my head. Turned around and drove home because, you know, I wasn’t actually flying anywhere. But, on the drive home, I had a lot of time to plan my real return to Austin in 2008.
WATCH THIS. Now, say, “Umm…???...”
Before answering the question of what smashing an acoustic guitar on national television means in 2007, maybe we oughta ask something else. What did lighting your guitar on fire in 1967 mean? How about beating your Mustang to smithereens in the early ‘90s?
Classic six-string destroyer Pete Townsend cast his actions in ambiguously political light when he aligned himself with “auto-destructive artist” Gustav Metzger in ‘60s interviews, calling the German brainiac his teacher when pressed to explain his SG trashing. Metzger pulled shit like painting on canvases with acid (commenting on bourgeois obsession with the hi-end) and burning gigantic towers of books (symbolizing a burnt-out Western society). So was Pete SAYING SOMETHING when he drew up his ax? A case could be made. An even stronger case could be made for Hendrix, an anti-warrior who’d slip Taps into the Anthem, and Cobain, perhaps the most alienated, crushed, unhappy character in music history. After all, the personal is political when it comes to words and guitars. But something about Pete’s explanation feels flimsy.
Sure it just didn’t look cool?
After you’ve wailed for an hour, after you’ve played the shit out of your instrument, fallen all over the stage, and still want to GIVE more, there aren’t many options. Taking it behind the back is still just PLAYING. Wailing with your teeth (totally possible) is still just wailing. The next logical step, the coolest place to take it, then, is to totally destroy the god damn thing.
So why did it feel so gross to see Win Butler smash his acoustic guitar at the end of The Arcade Fire’s rendition of “Intervention” on Saturday Night Live last week? Richard Reed Perry and the other guitar dude stepped on their tuners, muting the strings and drawing back as Butler unleashed that flimsy beast: Ca-chunk. Splinter. Ca-chunk. Ca-chunk.
The pieces of wood hanging from Win’s hand at the end of the performance screamed something loud and clear: “Say hello to the new indie rock: Dangerously Safe, Safely Dangerous.” Don’t get me wrong. Neon Bible is a fine album, filled with some really mature, grown-up songs. But that’s exactly why Butler’s antics didn’t quite add up. Arcade Fire, and by extension Indie (capital YES), just isn’t very TOUGH anymore. And flying in the face of that fact made the band’s most necessarily choreographed performance to date come off WAY TOO choreographed. Here’s hoping Snow Patrol (who, yeah, I love) disdainfully rip up some sheet music when they hit SNL later this month. Oh, the woes of an Indie Rock band. Papercuts or splinters: Make your choice.
This afternoon, at the close of the set from The Good, The Bad & The Queen (the biggest vanity project of the year) in the Fader Fort (the place you go to flex your vanity at SXSW), Damon Albarn said, “We’re going to New Orleans now. And, on a serious note, you can’t forget that city. You can never forget that city.”
I LOL’d. Is that so wrong?
Luckily, never in high fidelity.
While the denizens of music land descend upon the heart of Texas for South by Southwest next week, one of its own will be having a party of another stripe: He’ll be receiving some long overdue freedoms. One of the great figures of American psychedelia, Roky Erickson, has struggled with health issues in recent years, landing him far away from home. But the leader of The 13th Floor Elevators has returned to his Texas stomping grounds and the welcome arms of compatriots there.
From a press release on the celebration during SXSW:
“The 5th Annual Roky Erickson Psychedelic Ice Cream Social celebrating Electro-Shock Survivors: Come and celebrate with Roky, who has had his legal rights fully restored as of February 23, 2007!
In June, 2001, Roky Erickson’s youngest brother, singer/songwriter and former Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra Principal Tubaist Sumner Erickson, was appointed Roky’s legal guardian. Sumner established The Roger Kynard Erickson Trust to address Roky’s living expenses and other financial needs. From June 2001 until July 2002, Roky lived with his brother in Pittsburgh, where he finally began to receive the support and care he needs. Roky is now back in Austin. Not only has his health continued to improve dramatically, but, as of Feb. 23, 2007, the guardianship has been dissolved. Roky is back, a free agent and the rock n’ roll muse that he was born to be.”
Understand that Erickson was subjected to electroshock therapy and liquid Thorazine treatments when committed to a state institution after a pot bust (Townes Van Zandt and Jim Franklin are other Austin contemporaries who received the shock procedure). Erickson’s stirring single and hallmark with the Elevators, “You’re Gonna Miss Me,” became a fitting touchstone: His unique songwriting became a huge influence on the next several decades of music, even while he wasn’t working in the business anymore. Just watch this ‘60s rough footage of the band on a TV show, performing what became a high watermark for soul music arriving on a different plane, with that percolating jug sound rippling in and out the whole time.
His disciples include everyone from ZZ Top to R.E.M. It’s an important reason to be thinking about Austin music this week besides what showcase is the best or who might get signed. The gent who formed the first band to use the term psychedelic to describe their music has been given a better share of his life back, even as he pushes into his senior years, the music industry not withstanding. Take a look at some of those signed on for this party, and you’ll see his sprawling influence on heads and hearts:
Thursday, March 15th, 2007
Threadgills WHQ, S. Austin, Texas
Jack Blood, host. Featuring Roky Erickson and The Explosives, Spoon, Robyn Hitchcock and Peter Buck (3 p.m.), Michelle Shocked, Stuart Braithwaite of Mogwai, Tommy X Hancock, Black Lips, Powell St. John, J. T. Van Zandt and Sumner Erickson of the Texcentrics.
Imagine this. Just, you know, a little bit older.
You want a quiet, responsive, appreciative crowd? Wrong festival. Unless, of course, you’re playing in Centrel Presbyterian, where you’ll find skuzzy rockers lining the pews, sitting tight-lipped, fighting back urges to leave mid-set or chat with their neighbor, because, Hey Man, Church is about respect. No cruse words either, people. Tonight, Donovan played to a RAPT audience. One that showed up with every intention of clapping along like a buncha fools and singing the chorus of “Mellow Yellow,” damnit. Surprisingly (to me, at least), Donny had a great sense of humor about himself, laughing off his his boatload of TV adverts, and telling everyone in attendance that his songs would “actually make their lives better.” He did the big ones: “Hurdy Gurdy Man,” “Yellow is the Color,” and, of course, “Mellow Yellow.” Wrapping things up after a brisk 30 minutes, I wondered if my life had actually gotten any better, when the standing O brought Donny back on stage for his inevitable encore. Think David Karsten Daniels will do an encore when he plays there tomorrow night? Um…
Somehow, I expected their press shot to be much worse…
Last night, sitting in the Nashville airport while waiting on the plane to Texas, I was talking to this young Music City band, Bixler. They were flying down to play one show tonight and go home, and they seemed mildly concerned about that: Like most of the other 1,500 bands that have descended upon Austin for these next four days, they’re worried about making the impression that will make them famous. They know, I know and you know that it probably won’t happen. But it’s worth trying. But, oh, they did have an idea: Find a gimmick that no one has ever seen before, and immediately sign on the lucrative dotted line. When they suggested that they defecate onstage to make said shocking impression, they weren’t happy to learn they’d already been beaten to the punch. Oops. I didn’t see Bixler tonight, but I hope they found their gimmick and their label and their pot of whatever (Elixir strings?).
But I’d be telling a lie if I said I was holding out much hope.
I apologize, but this photo has to happen.
The following isn’t sarcastic, ironic or edited. It is sad.
Robbie and Grayson walk into Emo’s.
Grayson: [motions at indie rock band onstage] Who’s that onstage?
Robbie: I don’t know.
Grayson shrugs.
Five minutes later with schedule in hand, Grayson realizes it was RJD2’s new indie rock band.
(more…)
You. Hear it. First.
Menomena sets up on stage, while a cherry-faced John Norris chats up folks in the crowd behind Beauty Bar. No MTV camera crew for Barsuk’s finest, tho. Just a backwards baseball cap and that made-for-TV grin. He’s here for the show. Or maybe it’s the free Izze mix drinks. But they taste like day old iced tea, so that’s unlikely. After a 15 minute line check, we get the choice cuts from Friend and Foe. Over the (totally annoying) din of Some Band across the street, “Wet and Rustling” whets the appetite. “Can you turn down that other band in my monitors,” bassist and berryist Justin Harris jokes. It’s cute, and so is his voice. But percussionist Danny Seim steals this show, as the roomy drums punish every second of “The Pelican.” It’s easily the set stand-out, sounding every bit as gnarled and rusty as it does on record. I hear someone behind me say “This is the first really good band I’ve seen at SXSW,” and I have to agree.
Thank Zach Condon and his lil’ experiment in gypsy exoticism—it’s called ”nostalgic Eastern European” if you’re the merch girl— for making me wait an hour to get into the 4AD showcase last night. From an inexplicably peeved door guy: “since you all paid so much for those badges around your necks, why don’t you go to a show you can actually get in to?” But what about perseverance, Mr. Door? As suspected, when the Gulag Orkestra wrapped things up, a gaggle of months-late sightseeers fell out of the club and I made it in for JD and his new Mountain Goats, replete with funnyman/Superdrummer Jon Wurster behind the kit and a trebly electric guitar for Mr. Darnielle to hammer on. It was such a NEW experience, in fact, that I didn’t recognize my first Goats crush, “Going to Georgia,” until the bouncing ball verse line “I’ve got two big hands, and a heart pumping blood.” Throughout the set, Wurster’s drumming was invisible and perfect. He gave every song exactly what it asked for and nothing more. Meanwhile, the electric guitar in JD’s hands showed signs of Durham-influence, nodding to the tumbling fretwork of occasional MG tourmates Bellafea. Things ended with the girls from Pony Up on stage singing back-up vocals on JD’s cover of “The Boys Are Back in Town,” and by that time I’d completely forgotten about the wait. It was worth it.
Oops: I’m getting used to this. Burning Star Core in a field.
My feet hurt, I’m tired and I’m kind of sweaty. But watching Burning Star Core phase through this roaring, squawking drone in the middle of a field in front of a Texas State flag makes me wish this happened everyday. (Audio to come soon.) I saw C. Spencer Yeh from BCS jam with Thurston Moore, Magik Markers’ Pete Nolan and Monotract’s Nancy Garcia last night, but the breeze in my hair tells me this is better.
David Karsten Daniels’ showcase set for his label, Fat Cat Records, ended about two minutes ago inside the Central Presbyterian Chuch on 8th Street: I’ve never heard Daniels voice sound as good as it did tonight beneath these vaunts and arches. Daniels & Co. are swinging through the Southeast with labelmate Tom Brosseau, and they’re playing in a condensed line-up. Bu Hanan regulars Sara Morris and John Ribow (Kapow! Music) are traveling with Daniels, but—tonight—two of his Philadelphia friends from Pattern is Movement lent their talents to organ and drums.
But, here in church, the municipal services of Austin are due a special debt of sonic gratitude from Daniels: After a beautiful set full of segues and crystalline drones, the band closed with “We Go Right On,” the last cut from Sharp Teeth. During the first verse, at least two emergency vehicles raced past the church and, ostensibly, had to pause at the redlight on the corner. The sirens sat roaring, forming an unlikely and perfect phase beneath an ambivalent verse about trying to find meaning in the cosmos and/or the mundane. It’s probably the first time I would ever go so far as to describe a church siren is gorgeous. New low? Probably.
OK, now, Jana Hunter and Marissa Nadler.
Heard leaving the expectedly heavy Boris/Melvins double bill at Stubb’s this afternoon from a total T-shirt dude in tattered jeans: “I’m a big fan of the punchline in metal, you know? Like, when it doesn’t take itself to seriously.”
SXSW badgeholders: Eating Goblin Cock like it’s going out of style?
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