My first solo expedition into LA, to a club with no little mythology of it's own thanks to the fame of the Sunset Strip. The Viper Room, the Wiskey A Go-Go, the House of Blues, and the Roxy. I wasn't sure really what to expect. What does fame bring a place, really?
Apparently it brings it a section of V.I.P tables so precious that the bouncers won't even let you lean against the half-height wall that surrounds them. There's definitely a percentage of people who patronize this place for reasons other then an interest in music.
You could see them, hovering around the bar, talking, looking important, and completely ignoring whatever poor guy happened to be making noise on the stage at that moment. They were sitting at the tables like that older gentleman, engrossed in conversation with his two playboy-bunny lady friends sporting boobs that could double as emergency life-rafts. There was one short older lady accompanied by two younger guys who stood really close to the stage and looked stony all night. There was one tall thin girl off stage left who looked like she smelled something foul. There was the drunk dude with all the yakuza tattoos who wanted me to know all about his metal podcast that he does with some guy from New York. He was trying to pick me up, but not in a threatening way: I think he was just drunk and lonely. Those are just the ones I remember off the top of my head. The Roxy is definitely prime ground for people-watching.
It's also definitely built with the live show in mind. The ceiling was high, the stage was low, the bar (technically two bars and a cocktail waitress) was in the back, the merch area has it's own alcove and bright neon sign. The men's room also had a neon sign. The ladies room did not. I call discrimination. Lady's room was also at the entirely other end of the venue, just off the lounge-type area by the entrance where I guess you could wait for your friend/date/agent/escort to show amid red light-bulbs, smokey mirrors, and a giant poster for a Bruce Springsteen show. At the Roxy. From the "Born to Run" tour. That's the kind of place this is.
Anyway, the first band up was Putnam Hall, a power trio with a long, lean, Asian front-man with a reedy, barking voice and a little slab of a guitar, an aloof drummer who gives off a sort of "adult supervision" kind of vibe, and a bass player who really impressed me by wielding his large, heavy instrument like he was born with it in his hand. You don't often see BASS PLAYERS who are showmen, yet all four bands that night had charismatic bassists. I'm not familiar with Putnum hall's music, and it didn't make that strong an impression on me, but they were enjoyable. They have a striped-down indy rock kind of vibe. They are also apparently good friends with Resident Hero, who's front-man was spotted in the audience and honored with a rousing, tone-deaf cover of his hit "Happy Without Me." It was endearing.
The next band Media Orphan had a sax player. That just about sums it up. And it seemed like the snazzy-hatted-bassist was the band leader. Also a short, stocky guitarist as proud as a peacock with a full tail of feathers, and an even MORE aloofly amused drummer. They also had a dedicated singer with a barrel build and a voice to match. I wish they'd given the sax more solo time: that instrument gave the band a kind of film-noir flavor that could really have been taken farther. How cool might a jazz-age rock band be?
But Resident Hero was who I came to see. Ever since I encountered their live-video special and got "Happy Without Me" stuck irrevocably in my head for two days, the more I learned about this group, from the raw honesty of their sound to the fact that Ryan White (the frontman/songwriter/band leader) still waits tables and can't seem to land a record deal, the more I liked them. I got their White EP and wore it out. Then I got their album and am still in the process of wearing that out too. Their brand of music is melodic rock with teeth, both beautiful and intense, and I was determined to catch them live when I could.
They didn't disappoint. They are one of those groups that walks onstage and explodes. Ryan White, who has a round, boyish face completely dominated by a pair of huge blue eyes, is kind of the most non-threatening-looking guy to ever transform into a shrieking, heart-sick demon when he gets onstage. He's the kind of performer who can do knee-slides and thrash his instrument without the slightest hint of cheese, because the emotions just run that high.
The broad-shouldered bass player is like a superhero, playing from a stance so wide he's basically doing the splits, with a five-stringed instrument and a sizable board of effects peddles. I wish to hell I could remember what Ryan White asked him for, something to the effect of "Play me something dirty and magnificent" but the result was a roaring intro to one of my favorite songs, "Life in Hell," which brought the house down.
And I was surprised by the drummer: lean, sharp-edged and long-haired, he's got the kind of dramatic flare you don't normally see this side of Brian Viglione* hollering the words without a microphone, pulling his hair, rocking back and forth, shooting himself in the head with a drumstick... it's like the music is all in his head and it's ripping him apart. He's the face of the story. Together this power trio crammed more passion and more fire into their seven-song set then some hour-long shows I've seen in my life. It was so worth the hour-and-a-half I spent in the car.
Lukas Rossi was the headliner. I'd run into his eye-lined self outside the venue when I first arrived to hear Resident Hero sound-checking, which made me happy, but the box-office closed, which made me less happy. He came out of the front door, and since no one else was around, I asked him when the box-office would be open, and he told me eight and I was relieved. That was kind of as deep as our conversation got, but he did laugh at a lame joke I made about his glittery hat giving him the power to fly, so I was kind of obligated to at least check out his set. His very professional street-team leader also cornered me after Resident Hero, saying she thought she recognized me but giving me a wrist-band and telling me she would want to know what I thought of Lukas after the show. I said I'd stick around.
I lied to them. It was almost midnight. I had an hour-and-a-half drive ahead of me to get home. Watching Lukas, immediately after Resident Hero was an interesting study in contrasts. Resident Hero are not virtuosos, but they set the stage on fire. This Lukas clearly IS a virtuoso. He's got a voice that can shift effortlessly between Thom-Yorke style eerie balladeering, punk-rock-barking, metal screaming and everything else. His band were slick and professional, and he had some vaguely amusing banter with his alcoholic bass player. He was deft on his guitar and just oozed style. He was the only one to actually have a small crowd standing exactly at the edge of the stage, gagging to see him. But he could not wake them up. Looking around I saw polite head nodding and toe tapping. That was as much enthusiasm as people could muster for the evening's headliner, and he'd been playing for forty minutes already.
I bailed. Sorry Lukas, sorry street-team lady, but if you're gonna play last, you better be worth the wait and you just weren't.
Anyway, Dear God, make Resident Hero super-stars already please. And while you're at it, world peace would be nice too. Alright? Thanks!
*if you don't know who Brian Viglione is, he was the drummer of the theater-geeks-turned-rock-star Dresden Dolls. Check out his theatrical magnificence here.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Pearl Jam at the Viejas Arena: 10-8-09
This was how it went. The show was in San Diego. My sister lives in San Diego. I figured I could go to San Diego, see the show, and crash at her place. However, the Angels had a playoff game at the very day of the concert. My dad got tickets for my sister and himself. She would not be in San Diego at the time. She told me I could still come, and she ordered her boyfriend to look after me. This ended up working perfectly.
My sister's boyfriend is named Mike. He was extremely accommodating. So much so that he was actually OK with us ditching the lousy seats we were given and sneaking closer. So instead of being up in the nosebleed section staring at Matt Cameron's back all night, we were actually only a few rows up, off stage left--
But you know what, you don't really care about any of that. I'll talk about the show now.
First off, Ben Harper rocks. There's lots of other ways to say that, but none of them sum it up so nicely. He's clearly a powerful enough force to rock a venue on his own, and he deserved way better then a half-empty arena of concert-goers who are barely paying attention. At least they WERE barely paying attention until the tiny, flannel-clad Eddie Vedder staggered onstage and he and Ben ripped through a cover of "Pressure" which really woke everyone up.
Eddie, it turned out, wasn't just staggering around because he's clumsy. Someone who made his name climbing hundreds of feet onto lighting fixtures, leaping over speaker cabinets, and generally being a human tornado wouldn't have made it into his forties if he was clumsy, but at this show he'd be limiting his stuntwork to some gravity-defying yoga-type poses with the very sturdy microphone stand. Other things he tried, like the jumps, the throws, and the simply walking across the stage wouldn't work so well for him.
Blitzed. Three sheets to the wind. Shitfaced. Hammered. Furry. Zipped. Talking to Earl on the Big White Phone (my favorite). Call it whatever you want, it's probably why Eddie Vedder squeaked on his highest notes and breathed through his lowest, but losing his voice didn't stop him at Outside Lands, so getting swimming drunk wouldn't stop him in San Diego. Pearl Jam was wrapping up the American leg of the Backspacer world tour with this show, and three members of the group spent important parts of their lives in the city so they were treating it like a homecoming and celebrating accordingly. "We got lots of family and friends here," said Eddie, "and you guys are making us look really good, so thank you!"
As usual, you'll have to go elsewhere for the setlist. It didn't strike me as that special until the encores, which were heavy on the hits, but this was one of those shows where the energy hit the roof early and just stayed there. The crowd was on their feet, almost every song was a sing-along, and the group were fired up. Quoth Eddie: "We got a shitload of amps and guitars, lets blow the roof off this motherfucker."
THIS is why Pearl Jam has made it almost twenty years. played tens of thousands of shows over almost twenty years, but they seemingly effortlessly convince you that tonight, tonight, is as special for them as it is for you. They are as glad to see you as you are to see them. After tens of thousands of shows to massive audiences all over the world, how the hell they manage to do it is beyond me, but Mike (who had only a passing knowledge of Pearl Jam) walked out of there talking about what a down-to-earth, genuine, likable guy that singer seemed to be. He said it was cool that they played "Last Kiss" facing the seats directly behind them where Mike and I would have been if he hadn't gotten away with stealing closer. That was considerate of them. Then Mike asked if he could burn my Pearl Jam CDs to his computer, and what that song they'd played about surfing was called.
It was called "Amongst the Waves" and it was from Backspacer. We listened to it in the car on the way back to the apartment. Eddie had intro-ed that song by saying "This is a song you'll like if you're a surfer. Or you'll like if you're in love. If you're a surfer in love it'll blow your fucking mind." They ended up playing most of Backspacer that night, including "The Fixer," "Got Some," "Johnny Guitar," (less obnoxious live then it was on the record) and a powerful version of "Just Breathe" that featured just Eddie, alone, with an acoustic guitar. "We've been playing this with a string quartet, but...fuck it, this time I'm going naked." For the record, he remained fully clothed throughout the whole show. Just saying. Mike said that song was what proved to him what a singer Eddie Vedder really is. Even if I, sadly, can no longer deny that the alcohol and a lifetime of smoking have eroded the window-rattling power he had when he was twenty-five, the raw, unironic, unapologetic honestly of his voice is still among the most formidable weapons in Rock and probably (hopefully) always will be.
Eddie told stories about the band's respective histories in San Diego: Matt Cameron was born there, Mike McCreedy lived there as a kid, Eddie spent about two decades there after leaving Illinois, discovering surfing, learning guitar, and working odd jobs as well as morphing into the open wound he'd be when he shipped a demo-tape to some dudes in Seattle who were looking for a singer.
One more story from Eddie: Pearl Jam's single longest-running roadie (now working for Ben Harper) was the first of the band's extended "family" to take the big step into adulthood and have a kid. He had an adorable little daughter, all the more adorable (according to Eddie) for being named "Lou. What's cuter then a girl named Lou?" Eddie remembered going to the hospital the day after she was born to visit her, and catching the new parents on their way home. Dad went to put the new Mom in the car, and somehow Eddie was left holding this day-and-a-half-old baby, trying to shelter her from the pouring Seattle rain.
"She just turned sixteen today!"
He brought "Lou-Lou," a blond girl in a sporty hat who was only a little bit shorter then the front-man, out onstage, put his arm around her, and hugged her like an adoring uncle. Then he had the whole arena sing "Happy Birthday" to her while the band brought out a cake and had her blow out the candles. I didn't miss that when it looked like she didn't have enough lung-power and was gonna miss a candle or two, Eddie, hovering just over her shoulder, lurched forward to help, but she got it. Everyone cheered.
Someone just became the coolest kid in school. Suck it, My Super Sweet Sixteen. You brats all WISH you could be Lou-Lou.
I ask you, how many multi-millionaire, A-list, globe-trotting, platinum-selling bands would do that for the kid of a former roadie?
Mike McCreedy's old high-school drama teacher, whom he has kept in touch with over the years, was there, and that fact had inspired Eddie to track down an important teacher from HIS high-school days, and actually find him! "After thirty years, I just had to tell him..." he gestured around at the audience. "Check this out! This one is for them." And they played Betterman... which of course the entire audience sung along to.
Eddie talked about how he had worked as a night-shift security guard, and had had "a really great boss" whom he had begged to let him get a mohawk, saying "I really appreciate this job and it's a great job and I appreciate that you gave me responsibility, making me SUPERVISOR of night-shift security and gas-pump detail," he said with relish, "and I wish I could promise it would be worth it but I can't because I don't know, it might never go anywhere at all, and I like this job a lot but if I don't do this thing, this punk rock thing, I..." he didn't finish the thought.
And his boss thought about it, hemmed and hawed and eventually said "Yeah, you should do it."
The boss was actually there that night: a huge black guy in the VIP section that Eddie kept pointing at through the whole story. He was pointing back and pumping his fist. The mood was so joyous and communal that Eddie closed with, "I liked that job, it was a great job, but this job, this job I've got now...I AIN'T NEVER GONNA QUIT!" You believe he means it.
I can't help but wonder if that boss had ever heard Eddie sing before he decided to humor his rock and roll dreams. I wonder if he suspected that he'd be standing in a stadium full of thousands of people all transported, all because of his supervisor of night-shift security and gas-pump detail. And his band, of course.
Who knows where talent comes from. Some people are just born with the raw stuff to conquer the world. But it doesn't do everything: far more people have talent then manage to build an actual life with it. Some crash and burn trying. Most take a look at the odds and choose a normal, reliable life instead, keeping their talent locked in a secret box inside them.
Some make it to Viejas Stadium, standing center-stage with their old mentors just off stage left, bursting with pride while an entire arena belts out the words to a song you wrote in your room when you were a teenager.
Also, there is Mike McCreedy. If you ask me he is, bar none, the best guitarist to come out of Seattle since Hendrix himself.
I'm going to quote Jason Owens of the San Diego News Network because it summises the ending of the show perfectly:
Finally the curtain call. Lou-Lou returned to the stage. The two music teachers, who had replaced their students for a cover of "Little Wing," also came back to the stage. Everyone threw their arms around each-other, and bowed deeply.
They don't make rock shows better then this one.
My sister's boyfriend is named Mike. He was extremely accommodating. So much so that he was actually OK with us ditching the lousy seats we were given and sneaking closer. So instead of being up in the nosebleed section staring at Matt Cameron's back all night, we were actually only a few rows up, off stage left--
But you know what, you don't really care about any of that. I'll talk about the show now.
First off, Ben Harper rocks. There's lots of other ways to say that, but none of them sum it up so nicely. He's clearly a powerful enough force to rock a venue on his own, and he deserved way better then a half-empty arena of concert-goers who are barely paying attention. At least they WERE barely paying attention until the tiny, flannel-clad Eddie Vedder staggered onstage and he and Ben ripped through a cover of "Pressure" which really woke everyone up.
Eddie, it turned out, wasn't just staggering around because he's clumsy. Someone who made his name climbing hundreds of feet onto lighting fixtures, leaping over speaker cabinets, and generally being a human tornado wouldn't have made it into his forties if he was clumsy, but at this show he'd be limiting his stuntwork to some gravity-defying yoga-type poses with the very sturdy microphone stand. Other things he tried, like the jumps, the throws, and the simply walking across the stage wouldn't work so well for him.
Blitzed. Three sheets to the wind. Shitfaced. Hammered. Furry. Zipped. Talking to Earl on the Big White Phone (my favorite). Call it whatever you want, it's probably why Eddie Vedder squeaked on his highest notes and breathed through his lowest, but losing his voice didn't stop him at Outside Lands, so getting swimming drunk wouldn't stop him in San Diego. Pearl Jam was wrapping up the American leg of the Backspacer world tour with this show, and three members of the group spent important parts of their lives in the city so they were treating it like a homecoming and celebrating accordingly. "We got lots of family and friends here," said Eddie, "and you guys are making us look really good, so thank you!"
As usual, you'll have to go elsewhere for the setlist. It didn't strike me as that special until the encores, which were heavy on the hits, but this was one of those shows where the energy hit the roof early and just stayed there. The crowd was on their feet, almost every song was a sing-along, and the group were fired up. Quoth Eddie: "We got a shitload of amps and guitars, lets blow the roof off this motherfucker."
THIS is why Pearl Jam has made it almost twenty years. played tens of thousands of shows over almost twenty years, but they seemingly effortlessly convince you that tonight, tonight, is as special for them as it is for you. They are as glad to see you as you are to see them. After tens of thousands of shows to massive audiences all over the world, how the hell they manage to do it is beyond me, but Mike (who had only a passing knowledge of Pearl Jam) walked out of there talking about what a down-to-earth, genuine, likable guy that singer seemed to be. He said it was cool that they played "Last Kiss" facing the seats directly behind them where Mike and I would have been if he hadn't gotten away with stealing closer. That was considerate of them. Then Mike asked if he could burn my Pearl Jam CDs to his computer, and what that song they'd played about surfing was called.
It was called "Amongst the Waves" and it was from Backspacer. We listened to it in the car on the way back to the apartment. Eddie had intro-ed that song by saying "This is a song you'll like if you're a surfer. Or you'll like if you're in love. If you're a surfer in love it'll blow your fucking mind." They ended up playing most of Backspacer that night, including "The Fixer," "Got Some," "Johnny Guitar," (less obnoxious live then it was on the record) and a powerful version of "Just Breathe" that featured just Eddie, alone, with an acoustic guitar. "We've been playing this with a string quartet, but...fuck it, this time I'm going naked." For the record, he remained fully clothed throughout the whole show. Just saying. Mike said that song was what proved to him what a singer Eddie Vedder really is. Even if I, sadly, can no longer deny that the alcohol and a lifetime of smoking have eroded the window-rattling power he had when he was twenty-five, the raw, unironic, unapologetic honestly of his voice is still among the most formidable weapons in Rock and probably (hopefully) always will be.
Eddie told stories about the band's respective histories in San Diego: Matt Cameron was born there, Mike McCreedy lived there as a kid, Eddie spent about two decades there after leaving Illinois, discovering surfing, learning guitar, and working odd jobs as well as morphing into the open wound he'd be when he shipped a demo-tape to some dudes in Seattle who were looking for a singer.
One more story from Eddie: Pearl Jam's single longest-running roadie (now working for Ben Harper) was the first of the band's extended "family" to take the big step into adulthood and have a kid. He had an adorable little daughter, all the more adorable (according to Eddie) for being named "Lou. What's cuter then a girl named Lou?" Eddie remembered going to the hospital the day after she was born to visit her, and catching the new parents on their way home. Dad went to put the new Mom in the car, and somehow Eddie was left holding this day-and-a-half-old baby, trying to shelter her from the pouring Seattle rain.
"She just turned sixteen today!"
He brought "Lou-Lou," a blond girl in a sporty hat who was only a little bit shorter then the front-man, out onstage, put his arm around her, and hugged her like an adoring uncle. Then he had the whole arena sing "Happy Birthday" to her while the band brought out a cake and had her blow out the candles. I didn't miss that when it looked like she didn't have enough lung-power and was gonna miss a candle or two, Eddie, hovering just over her shoulder, lurched forward to help, but she got it. Everyone cheered.
Someone just became the coolest kid in school. Suck it, My Super Sweet Sixteen. You brats all WISH you could be Lou-Lou.
I ask you, how many multi-millionaire, A-list, globe-trotting, platinum-selling bands would do that for the kid of a former roadie?
Mike McCreedy's old high-school drama teacher, whom he has kept in touch with over the years, was there, and that fact had inspired Eddie to track down an important teacher from HIS high-school days, and actually find him! "After thirty years, I just had to tell him..." he gestured around at the audience. "Check this out! This one is for them." And they played Betterman... which of course the entire audience sung along to.
Eddie talked about how he had worked as a night-shift security guard, and had had "a really great boss" whom he had begged to let him get a mohawk, saying "I really appreciate this job and it's a great job and I appreciate that you gave me responsibility, making me SUPERVISOR of night-shift security and gas-pump detail," he said with relish, "and I wish I could promise it would be worth it but I can't because I don't know, it might never go anywhere at all, and I like this job a lot but if I don't do this thing, this punk rock thing, I..." he didn't finish the thought.
And his boss thought about it, hemmed and hawed and eventually said "Yeah, you should do it."
The boss was actually there that night: a huge black guy in the VIP section that Eddie kept pointing at through the whole story. He was pointing back and pumping his fist. The mood was so joyous and communal that Eddie closed with, "I liked that job, it was a great job, but this job, this job I've got now...I AIN'T NEVER GONNA QUIT!" You believe he means it.
I can't help but wonder if that boss had ever heard Eddie sing before he decided to humor his rock and roll dreams. I wonder if he suspected that he'd be standing in a stadium full of thousands of people all transported, all because of his supervisor of night-shift security and gas-pump detail. And his band, of course.
Who knows where talent comes from. Some people are just born with the raw stuff to conquer the world. But it doesn't do everything: far more people have talent then manage to build an actual life with it. Some crash and burn trying. Most take a look at the odds and choose a normal, reliable life instead, keeping their talent locked in a secret box inside them.
Some make it to Viejas Stadium, standing center-stage with their old mentors just off stage left, bursting with pride while an entire arena belts out the words to a song you wrote in your room when you were a teenager.
Also, there is Mike McCreedy. If you ask me he is, bar none, the best guitarist to come out of Seattle since Hendrix himself.
I'm going to quote Jason Owens of the San Diego News Network because it summises the ending of the show perfectly:
The biggest hits had already been played, but the show didn't end. Eddie thanked everyone from the heart and said goodbye, but the show didn't end. Mike had to leave to get to the car before he got ticketed, but the show didn't end. The house lights came up, but the show didn't end. Mike turned the end of his solo into a whole other song while his bandmates ran around throwing guitar picks, set-lists, and drumsticks at the crowd. Up until the very end, the energy level was just insane. Like that, it was over."While Vedder takes center stage on almost anything and everything Pearl Jam, the final two songs were definitely about Mike McCready and his guitar.
With the crowd hungry for another Pearl Jam hit, the band delivered with a version of “Alive” from the debut album that featured McCready and Vedder climbing on to the tops of the stage-side speakers as McCready wailed on what may be the band’s most familiar guitar riff.
By the time they closed with “Yellow Ledbetter,” which McCready transitioned into a Hendrix-esque “Star-Spangled Banner,” there was nothing left to give."
Finally the curtain call. Lou-Lou returned to the stage. The two music teachers, who had replaced their students for a cover of "Little Wing," also came back to the stage. Everyone threw their arms around each-other, and bowed deeply.
They don't make rock shows better then this one.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Dreamer Reviews: Black Gives Way to Blue
Grunge was a genre that saw more then it's fair share of brilliant singers. Layne Staley of Alice in Chains was one of them. Layne had a voice like a heartbroken werewolf, all bitterness and wild power, and he could hold his own easily with rock's best frontmen.
Layne Staley is also the one Grunge casualty to boast of an end even more harrowing then Kurt Cobain's suicide blast to the head. A shotgun, though gruesome, is at least quick. Layne chose the long, lonely, painful path of the hard-core drug addict. In the end, he had become so isolated that he would be dead for weeks before his 6'1, 86-pound body was finally found.
Maybe that's what Jerry Cantrell, the band's surviving principle songwriter, is referring to in "All Secrets Known," the opening track of Black Gives Way to Blue. This is Alice in Chains first album in fifteen years, and first album ever without Layne, but their former band-mate casts a long, dark shadow over the group that they have only just begun to make peace with.
The song starts with a Slash-in-a-haunted-house style riff, which swings back and forth as the vocals kick in. "Hope / A new beginning/ time/ time to start living," a life-affirming sentiment made flat and factual by the droning, weary singing. Jerry Cantrell, lead guitarist and the band's principle songwriter, has mostly taken over lead vocal duties, and his voice, though tuneful with a pack-a-day grizzled edge to it, lacks the dog-of-war power that Layne took with him to his grave. Instead Jerry sounds flatly amazed that life continues on even after "we died." There's no joy here, just perseverance in a world that won't ever be the same, and for reasons everyone knows about.
The group members have, for the most part, avoided talking too explicitly about Layne in public, but for for me it makes the most sense to think of this album as the band's attempt to say goodbye to their band-mate properly, even if posthumously. Like most posthumous goodbyes, they'll probably spend the rest of their lives trying to get it right.
Check My Brain has become a hit all over rock radio and it's easy to see why: the churning, droning guitars are classic Alice in Chains. Jerry Cantrell's singing voice may or may not be up to sharing space with a ghost, but he's a powerhouse on the guitar and probably always will be. He doesn't have the naked virtuosity of Mike McCreedy but his brand of droning, haunted, bluesy metal sounds like nothing else you'll hear.
The song's topic is Cantrell's re-location from Seattle, with it's rain and oppressive cloud of memories, to sun-bathed Los Angeles which he declares "alright" with all the enthusiasm he can muster. It looks like California is one of the last places he expected to end up, let alone be happy. You get the sense that he's not really at peace with being at peace, calling himself "a creep in the fog," but he's found healing there, for better or worse.
Last of my Kind is the first track on the album co-written by new member William DuVall, and it starts with an atmospheric, haunted ambiance before degenerating into the kind of deconstructed, post-apocalyptic noise of see-sawing, screaming guitars and slow, thundering drums. It's a one idea song and while rocking hard, I found it a bit musically underwhelming.
The lyrics are pure Alice in Chains too: a portrait of a mythical outcast, exiled and forced to scrounge for survival in a world that hopes the hardship will beat him into complacence. It's dark, it's dream-like, and it fits right into the pantheon of dystopian metaphors that Alice in Chains has always traded in.
Your Decision is the first track on the album worth actually buying it for. It's a mostly acoustic number and displays an unexpected strength for the new Alice in Chains: sentiment.
I was listening to this track on headphones in the middle of the community college computer lab and I started tearing up. In public. Some mournful cello adds portent to the situation, the acoustic guitars have an almost folk feel before the aquatic, electric solo kicks in. This is one of the first tracks were new guy William DuVall's supporting vocals are audible,
The lyric writer was, simply, powerless. He couldn't stop "you" from destroying yourself. He couldn't change the fact that, when faced with the world, you chose to die rather then deal. They needed you. You choose fear instead. It's a choice you made knowing what it meant, and it inflicted no small damage on the people around you. "You feed the fire that burned us all/when you lied."
The singer loves you and he hates you, he's washed his hands of you for the pain you've caused him, he desperately misses you. There's something bitter and angry in this song, wounded and howling, quiet and sad. Tragedies are whirlwinds, and there are no easy answers. Art might be unique in it's ability to take something so painful and make it into something so beautiful. The spell it casts lasts long after the song ends.
This live performance is noteworthy too. First because the lack of strings and the totally acoustic treatment of the song makes it sound more frank and places everything in a smaller space. William Duvall's choice to wear sunglasses onstage is an interesting one: they make him stylish but anonymous. Jerry Cantrell's face, on the other hand, says everything. He's the beating heart of this band. Maybe he always was.
Bands tend to stick together because they believe they can bring out the best in each other. If the three of them didn't still believe they have something to offer the world, as a group, then this resurrection would have never happened. Where DuVall fits in I don't know quite yet.
A Looking In View was the first taste anyone got of this album, being the framework of the atmospheric and very NSFW music video that featured, in succession: child abuse, obsession, decay, repression, dehumanization, religious fanaticism, despair and, at the end, something resembling renewal. The whole sad play is bathed in the colors of despair and isolation, and there's even a visual reference to Alice In Chains very first hit single. This video is what got me paying attention to this band's comeback. Bands that play this grim card are a dime a dozen now, but this one might just be the real thing. Another interesting note: the band themselves don't actually appear in the video, and that works too.
The song itself is like a dirge: the tempo is torturously slow, like a migrane throb, but everything piled on that kick-drum beat comes on like a hurricane: the bass-line is breakneck, the guitars drone and shriek, the vocals snarl. It's a long song, over seven minutes long, ending in a fade-out. It's a fairly accurate barometer of whether or not you'll like this new Alice in Chains: if you got through the whole thing, then you'll get through the whole album. It's also the second song on the album to end in a fade out. Apparently new AIC is more interested in how things start these days then how they end.
When The Sun Rose Again is where things slow down for me. Well they slow down for everyone, it's a very slow piece with acoustic guitars and shakers easily audible, and though this combination is usually a recipe for sadness, this song is more pensive and vaguely ominous then sad, and the lyrics are the album's most ambiguous yet. "Were you burned away/ When the sun rose again?" could be a reference to the resurrection of the band, or a retelling of The Snowman so that doesn't narrow it down. "Pray / squeal when you're caught/ cry/ it's not my fault," which, though straight-forward enough in it's imagery, could refer to any number of things. "Time to trade in never-befores / Selling out for the score" could be nitpicked to death. We're in dense metaphor country here, but at least we're out of fade-out country. The next songs flow flawlessly, one into the other, letting the landscape build: a feature they didn't even have to make a big deal about in the promos, (cough)Timbaland!(/cough)
Acid Bubble starts out sounding like A Looking In View's little, more sensitive brother with it's buzz-sawing guitars, the murderously slow pace, but the relentlessly dark tone suddenly takes a more mysterious turn when the chorus starts soaring. "I am the child that lives and cries in the corner." Since this is AIC we're talking about, they soar on broken wings close to the ground, but they are on wing nevertheless. This is as anthemic as post-Layne Alice in Chains is gonna get, I suspect. It even contains a Green-Day-Style plot-twist when the style shifts to a menacing march that sounds like an army advancing, then retreating, then taking the hill for good over the songs six minutes.
Lesson Learned reminds me of "Last of my Kind" in that it's another sloggy rock number that is shorter then "A Looking In View" and doesn't have "Acid Bubble's" militant plot-twist. However, it does have a nice tremolo-heavy solo.
It could be interpreted as being about that rock-bottom moment when you learn that the end is not the end. "Nowhere to buy in, most of us hiding, others are shining" is another nice positive thought wrapped in so much world-weary drear that you'd ALMOST think the singer was being sarcastic if the tone wasn't so frank. This is a quality Jerry Cantrell's voice has that Layne's never did. Layne was a beast of the underworld, and he never went near sentiment without the armor of angry resignation. Jerry Cantrell and William DuVall can voice the occasional positive thought without sounding sappy or insincere. "In your darkest hour you strike gold."
Take Her Out is yet another sloggy, droning rock number. Make no mistake: this album is not a triumphant return for one of the 90s most evocative rock groups. The musical choices themselves are redundant enough to make this a promising start at best. Yes, the sludgey metal IS Alice in Chains, but Cantrell himself is usually more then willing to dabble in other styles. I hope they just need to get their nerve back.
All the same, I'm probably not alone in suspecting that "Her" in the title is Alice herself (i.e, his band) and this song is as close to an answer to those who question his right to resurrect the group as we are probably going to get.
If I'm sure of one thing, it's that Jerry Cantrell wants to be in this music thing for the long-haul. His millions haven't robbed him of the fire in his belly. He's also realized that he's always going to be "Jerry Cantrell from Alice in Chains," expected to play those songs. Well, he wrote those songs.
"I feel time is dragging on/ Aren't you getting tired of me?" he asks. Who is he asking? Himself? The fans who keep showing up to his shows? The band-mates who where quick to answer his homing beacon? The people waiting for him to decide whether to claim AiC for himself or split from it entirely? All of them?
"Want to take her out again." At least he knows he wants to do what he's doing. It's everything else that's uncertain.
Private Hell is slow, with a mournful tone the electric guitar solo gently weeps, the arpeggio riff the song seems written around is beautiful, strong, and very sad. It'd be too easy to say this one is about the self-imposed suffering that you-know-who locked himself into. He's not the only one in the world who ever died this way. Choosing to stay in the cell you made for yourself, opting out of love, joy, and eventually life itself, nevertheless the song doesn't have much of "Your Decision's" droning bitterness. This song is a cry of mourning.
Black Gives Way to Blue. If you need one reason to get this album, it's this song. The song is a sensitive arrangement of acoustic guitars, a slow tempo, delicate, rushing cymbals, and one crying electric guitar that made me think of Eric Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight:" slow, beautiful, and as full of love as a guitar can be. I even heard a xylophone in there somewhere. The band really pulled out all the stops for this song.
By the way, according to the liner notes, the piano was played by Elton John. Elton John + Alice in Chains = Owch my brain. However, if it sounds dorky in concept, it's not at all dorky in practice. This is the only piano I can find anywhere on the album and it gives this track a graceful solemnity.
Every time they've performed it live, it's the last song they play, and they've played it "for Layne." And maybe this is the best way to handle Layne, his legacy, and their own grief. After all the blessing, damning, begging, loving, cursing, and crying is over, this is the best thing you can do for the ghost you see everywhere.
You tell him you'll never forget him.
You tell him you love him.
Then you let him rest.
If this is the start of a new stage of Alice in Chains, or just the farewell the band deserved, I can't say. But I'll be listening. That's for sure.
Layne Staley is also the one Grunge casualty to boast of an end even more harrowing then Kurt Cobain's suicide blast to the head. A shotgun, though gruesome, is at least quick. Layne chose the long, lonely, painful path of the hard-core drug addict. In the end, he had become so isolated that he would be dead for weeks before his 6'1, 86-pound body was finally found.
Maybe that's what Jerry Cantrell, the band's surviving principle songwriter, is referring to in "All Secrets Known," the opening track of Black Gives Way to Blue. This is Alice in Chains first album in fifteen years, and first album ever without Layne, but their former band-mate casts a long, dark shadow over the group that they have only just begun to make peace with.
The song starts with a Slash-in-a-haunted-house style riff, which swings back and forth as the vocals kick in. "Hope / A new beginning/ time/ time to start living," a life-affirming sentiment made flat and factual by the droning, weary singing. Jerry Cantrell, lead guitarist and the band's principle songwriter, has mostly taken over lead vocal duties, and his voice, though tuneful with a pack-a-day grizzled edge to it, lacks the dog-of-war power that Layne took with him to his grave. Instead Jerry sounds flatly amazed that life continues on even after "we died." There's no joy here, just perseverance in a world that won't ever be the same, and for reasons everyone knows about.
The group members have, for the most part, avoided talking too explicitly about Layne in public, but for for me it makes the most sense to think of this album as the band's attempt to say goodbye to their band-mate properly, even if posthumously. Like most posthumous goodbyes, they'll probably spend the rest of their lives trying to get it right.
Check My Brain has become a hit all over rock radio and it's easy to see why: the churning, droning guitars are classic Alice in Chains. Jerry Cantrell's singing voice may or may not be up to sharing space with a ghost, but he's a powerhouse on the guitar and probably always will be. He doesn't have the naked virtuosity of Mike McCreedy but his brand of droning, haunted, bluesy metal sounds like nothing else you'll hear.
The song's topic is Cantrell's re-location from Seattle, with it's rain and oppressive cloud of memories, to sun-bathed Los Angeles which he declares "alright" with all the enthusiasm he can muster. It looks like California is one of the last places he expected to end up, let alone be happy. You get the sense that he's not really at peace with being at peace, calling himself "a creep in the fog," but he's found healing there, for better or worse.
Last of my Kind is the first track on the album co-written by new member William DuVall, and it starts with an atmospheric, haunted ambiance before degenerating into the kind of deconstructed, post-apocalyptic noise of see-sawing, screaming guitars and slow, thundering drums. It's a one idea song and while rocking hard, I found it a bit musically underwhelming.
The lyrics are pure Alice in Chains too: a portrait of a mythical outcast, exiled and forced to scrounge for survival in a world that hopes the hardship will beat him into complacence. It's dark, it's dream-like, and it fits right into the pantheon of dystopian metaphors that Alice in Chains has always traded in.
Your Decision is the first track on the album worth actually buying it for. It's a mostly acoustic number and displays an unexpected strength for the new Alice in Chains: sentiment.
I was listening to this track on headphones in the middle of the community college computer lab and I started tearing up. In public. Some mournful cello adds portent to the situation, the acoustic guitars have an almost folk feel before the aquatic, electric solo kicks in. This is one of the first tracks were new guy William DuVall's supporting vocals are audible,
The lyric writer was, simply, powerless. He couldn't stop "you" from destroying yourself. He couldn't change the fact that, when faced with the world, you chose to die rather then deal. They needed you. You choose fear instead. It's a choice you made knowing what it meant, and it inflicted no small damage on the people around you. "You feed the fire that burned us all/when you lied."
The singer loves you and he hates you, he's washed his hands of you for the pain you've caused him, he desperately misses you. There's something bitter and angry in this song, wounded and howling, quiet and sad. Tragedies are whirlwinds, and there are no easy answers. Art might be unique in it's ability to take something so painful and make it into something so beautiful. The spell it casts lasts long after the song ends.
This live performance is noteworthy too. First because the lack of strings and the totally acoustic treatment of the song makes it sound more frank and places everything in a smaller space. William Duvall's choice to wear sunglasses onstage is an interesting one: they make him stylish but anonymous. Jerry Cantrell's face, on the other hand, says everything. He's the beating heart of this band. Maybe he always was.
Bands tend to stick together because they believe they can bring out the best in each other. If the three of them didn't still believe they have something to offer the world, as a group, then this resurrection would have never happened. Where DuVall fits in I don't know quite yet.
A Looking In View was the first taste anyone got of this album, being the framework of the atmospheric and very NSFW music video that featured, in succession: child abuse, obsession, decay, repression, dehumanization, religious fanaticism, despair and, at the end, something resembling renewal. The whole sad play is bathed in the colors of despair and isolation, and there's even a visual reference to Alice In Chains very first hit single. This video is what got me paying attention to this band's comeback. Bands that play this grim card are a dime a dozen now, but this one might just be the real thing. Another interesting note: the band themselves don't actually appear in the video, and that works too.
The song itself is like a dirge: the tempo is torturously slow, like a migrane throb, but everything piled on that kick-drum beat comes on like a hurricane: the bass-line is breakneck, the guitars drone and shriek, the vocals snarl. It's a long song, over seven minutes long, ending in a fade-out. It's a fairly accurate barometer of whether or not you'll like this new Alice in Chains: if you got through the whole thing, then you'll get through the whole album. It's also the second song on the album to end in a fade out. Apparently new AIC is more interested in how things start these days then how they end.
When The Sun Rose Again is where things slow down for me. Well they slow down for everyone, it's a very slow piece with acoustic guitars and shakers easily audible, and though this combination is usually a recipe for sadness, this song is more pensive and vaguely ominous then sad, and the lyrics are the album's most ambiguous yet. "Were you burned away/ When the sun rose again?" could be a reference to the resurrection of the band, or a retelling of The Snowman so that doesn't narrow it down. "Pray / squeal when you're caught/ cry/ it's not my fault," which, though straight-forward enough in it's imagery, could refer to any number of things. "Time to trade in never-befores / Selling out for the score" could be nitpicked to death. We're in dense metaphor country here, but at least we're out of fade-out country. The next songs flow flawlessly, one into the other, letting the landscape build: a feature they didn't even have to make a big deal about in the promos, (cough)Timbaland!(/cough)
Acid Bubble starts out sounding like A Looking In View's little, more sensitive brother with it's buzz-sawing guitars, the murderously slow pace, but the relentlessly dark tone suddenly takes a more mysterious turn when the chorus starts soaring. "I am the child that lives and cries in the corner." Since this is AIC we're talking about, they soar on broken wings close to the ground, but they are on wing nevertheless. This is as anthemic as post-Layne Alice in Chains is gonna get, I suspect. It even contains a Green-Day-Style plot-twist when the style shifts to a menacing march that sounds like an army advancing, then retreating, then taking the hill for good over the songs six minutes.
Lesson Learned reminds me of "Last of my Kind" in that it's another sloggy rock number that is shorter then "A Looking In View" and doesn't have "Acid Bubble's" militant plot-twist. However, it does have a nice tremolo-heavy solo.
It could be interpreted as being about that rock-bottom moment when you learn that the end is not the end. "Nowhere to buy in, most of us hiding, others are shining" is another nice positive thought wrapped in so much world-weary drear that you'd ALMOST think the singer was being sarcastic if the tone wasn't so frank. This is a quality Jerry Cantrell's voice has that Layne's never did. Layne was a beast of the underworld, and he never went near sentiment without the armor of angry resignation. Jerry Cantrell and William DuVall can voice the occasional positive thought without sounding sappy or insincere. "In your darkest hour you strike gold."
Take Her Out is yet another sloggy, droning rock number. Make no mistake: this album is not a triumphant return for one of the 90s most evocative rock groups. The musical choices themselves are redundant enough to make this a promising start at best. Yes, the sludgey metal IS Alice in Chains, but Cantrell himself is usually more then willing to dabble in other styles. I hope they just need to get their nerve back.
All the same, I'm probably not alone in suspecting that "Her" in the title is Alice herself (i.e, his band) and this song is as close to an answer to those who question his right to resurrect the group as we are probably going to get.
If I'm sure of one thing, it's that Jerry Cantrell wants to be in this music thing for the long-haul. His millions haven't robbed him of the fire in his belly. He's also realized that he's always going to be "Jerry Cantrell from Alice in Chains," expected to play those songs. Well, he wrote those songs.
"I feel time is dragging on/ Aren't you getting tired of me?" he asks. Who is he asking? Himself? The fans who keep showing up to his shows? The band-mates who where quick to answer his homing beacon? The people waiting for him to decide whether to claim AiC for himself or split from it entirely? All of them?
"Want to take her out again." At least he knows he wants to do what he's doing. It's everything else that's uncertain.
Private Hell is slow, with a mournful tone the electric guitar solo gently weeps, the arpeggio riff the song seems written around is beautiful, strong, and very sad. It'd be too easy to say this one is about the self-imposed suffering that you-know-who locked himself into. He's not the only one in the world who ever died this way. Choosing to stay in the cell you made for yourself, opting out of love, joy, and eventually life itself, nevertheless the song doesn't have much of "Your Decision's" droning bitterness. This song is a cry of mourning.
Black Gives Way to Blue. If you need one reason to get this album, it's this song. The song is a sensitive arrangement of acoustic guitars, a slow tempo, delicate, rushing cymbals, and one crying electric guitar that made me think of Eric Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight:" slow, beautiful, and as full of love as a guitar can be. I even heard a xylophone in there somewhere. The band really pulled out all the stops for this song.
By the way, according to the liner notes, the piano was played by Elton John. Elton John + Alice in Chains = Owch my brain. However, if it sounds dorky in concept, it's not at all dorky in practice. This is the only piano I can find anywhere on the album and it gives this track a graceful solemnity.
Every time they've performed it live, it's the last song they play, and they've played it "for Layne." And maybe this is the best way to handle Layne, his legacy, and their own grief. After all the blessing, damning, begging, loving, cursing, and crying is over, this is the best thing you can do for the ghost you see everywhere.
You tell him you'll never forget him.
You tell him you love him.
Then you let him rest.
If this is the start of a new stage of Alice in Chains, or just the farewell the band deserved, I can't say. But I'll be listening. That's for sure.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Nine Inch Nails at the Hollywood Palladium: 9-2-2009
This is WAY after the fact, but what the hell. I haven't yet worked through my own feelings towards this event. I'm a relatively recent Nine Inch Nails fan: I first discovered them last year, so the fact that they are going to no longer be touring isn't as loaded an issue for me as it has been for others, but there was something like desperation in the brutal, every-man-for-himself vibe I was getting from the crowd as we all jostled for position. Maybe it was partly my fault for showing up without anyone I knew. Normally sallying forth solo into the unknown is how I like it, but this place was going to get very intense very fast. My pre-show jitters were more intense then they normally are.
On the plus side, someone at the Palladium must have known I collect buttons. The commemorative NiN button they were handing out now decorates the new black trilby I got at Outside Lands to replace my much-loved, faithful red DREAMER hat that got lost in my move.
The opening act was called Queen Kwong, a five piece I had never heard of before; an eclectic line up of bass player rock-god-type who was dressed all in black and slinging his bass from his knees, a woman with lots of curly hair and a silver violin, a cellist and drummer I could not see from where I was standing, and a slim, dark-haired front-woman who wielded the only guitar. Her small orange instrument provided the group's crunch, while the strings wove a haunted, paranoid tapestry, creating a very interesting kind of multi-layered effect. The front-woman also has an effortless way with a crowd, engaging in some banter with front-row people who were inaudible but apparently complementing her on her bass player, since her response was an enthusiastic "I KNOW, that's why I have him in the band!" Her bubbly attitude was kind of at odds with her malevolent vocal style: she snarls, yelps, growls, drips disdain and reminds me strongly of Prince of Darkness Trent Reznor's breathy, emotional range.
Now, I know a lot of very smart people who swear by MEW, the electronic-goth-mind-bendy group from Denmark. They even had their own cheering section in the front to wave little Danish flags when they took the stage. All the same, I just didn't like them. They had a big multi-media display behind them that kept showing surreal animation clips that they looped over and over, which was atmospheric but distracting (to an animation nerd like me anyway) and their music, at least to my over-anxious, uneducated ears, washed around my head like an otherworldy tide without giving me anything to really hang on to. And the bass was turned up so high that the overhanging speaker cabinet rattled my bones like an LRAD. It's not the greatest first impression I've ever gotten from a band.
Then came Nine Inch Nails. All hail, the moment of reckoning.
What is it with the bands I see and the front-men falling sick? Incubus's guy was sick. Poor Eddie Vedder was sick. Now Trent was sick, and while it didn't stop him from grabbing the mic with both hands and striking that runner's pose we all know, screaming his lungs out, diving into the audience during "Piggy," or much else of anything, really. He apologized around 2/3 through the show for his "shitty" voice, but since "shitty" in his case meant "hoarser on the low-ranges then it usually is" no one minded that much. And the rest of the band, of course, was phenomenal. Robin Fink is less of a guitarist and more of a guitar-plucking space-alien with liquid joints and the voice of a demon. Justin Mendal-Johnson looks like a normal guy who's bass transforms him into Your Worst Nightmare: stomping around and screaming his backing vocals. Drummer Ilan Rubin is a tornado with arms and hair. This line up rocks.
Oh, there was a guy Trent introduced to the crowd as "having a huge influence on what Nine Inch Nails turned into." His name was Gary Numan, he was a pickled little goth guy with huge black hair who walked up to the microphone and took over the band effortlessly. Trent, probably grateful for the break, retreated to his keyboards and for the next three songs, it was this Numan guy's reedy croon that ruled the day. This Numan is impressive, whoever he is.
They played "The Downward Spiral" beginning to end, too. Forgot to mention that part.
It was hot as hell in the pit. I was still badly sunburned from Outside Lands, and didn't last longer then about three songs. And then I found out they weren't letting people off the floor, so there was no way to get to the water-bottles. I got so thirsty I grabbed an abandoned, half-full bottle off the floor and drank THAT. The fact that it doesn't seem to have made me sick amazes me.
Amazing show, and eventful enough to clear Shoreline's "NiN/JA" disappointment from my mind. Not that NiN was bad, but JA was so much BETTER....
It's sad that NiN is going away for a while, but as Yahtzee has said (in a completely different context) if the original creator really wants to put his pet project down humanely, it's usually in everyone's best interests to let him.
Until we meet again, then. Now that Year Zero TV show.... THAT is something to get excited about.
On the plus side, someone at the Palladium must have known I collect buttons. The commemorative NiN button they were handing out now decorates the new black trilby I got at Outside Lands to replace my much-loved, faithful red DREAMER hat that got lost in my move.
The opening act was called Queen Kwong, a five piece I had never heard of before; an eclectic line up of bass player rock-god-type who was dressed all in black and slinging his bass from his knees, a woman with lots of curly hair and a silver violin, a cellist and drummer I could not see from where I was standing, and a slim, dark-haired front-woman who wielded the only guitar. Her small orange instrument provided the group's crunch, while the strings wove a haunted, paranoid tapestry, creating a very interesting kind of multi-layered effect. The front-woman also has an effortless way with a crowd, engaging in some banter with front-row people who were inaudible but apparently complementing her on her bass player, since her response was an enthusiastic "I KNOW, that's why I have him in the band!" Her bubbly attitude was kind of at odds with her malevolent vocal style: she snarls, yelps, growls, drips disdain and reminds me strongly of Prince of Darkness Trent Reznor's breathy, emotional range.
Now, I know a lot of very smart people who swear by MEW, the electronic-goth-mind-bendy group from Denmark. They even had their own cheering section in the front to wave little Danish flags when they took the stage. All the same, I just didn't like them. They had a big multi-media display behind them that kept showing surreal animation clips that they looped over and over, which was atmospheric but distracting (to an animation nerd like me anyway) and their music, at least to my over-anxious, uneducated ears, washed around my head like an otherworldy tide without giving me anything to really hang on to. And the bass was turned up so high that the overhanging speaker cabinet rattled my bones like an LRAD. It's not the greatest first impression I've ever gotten from a band.
Then came Nine Inch Nails. All hail, the moment of reckoning.
What is it with the bands I see and the front-men falling sick? Incubus's guy was sick. Poor Eddie Vedder was sick. Now Trent was sick, and while it didn't stop him from grabbing the mic with both hands and striking that runner's pose we all know, screaming his lungs out, diving into the audience during "Piggy," or much else of anything, really. He apologized around 2/3 through the show for his "shitty" voice, but since "shitty" in his case meant "hoarser on the low-ranges then it usually is" no one minded that much. And the rest of the band, of course, was phenomenal. Robin Fink is less of a guitarist and more of a guitar-plucking space-alien with liquid joints and the voice of a demon. Justin Mendal-Johnson looks like a normal guy who's bass transforms him into Your Worst Nightmare: stomping around and screaming his backing vocals. Drummer Ilan Rubin is a tornado with arms and hair. This line up rocks.
Oh, there was a guy Trent introduced to the crowd as "having a huge influence on what Nine Inch Nails turned into." His name was Gary Numan, he was a pickled little goth guy with huge black hair who walked up to the microphone and took over the band effortlessly. Trent, probably grateful for the break, retreated to his keyboards and for the next three songs, it was this Numan guy's reedy croon that ruled the day. This Numan is impressive, whoever he is.
They played "The Downward Spiral" beginning to end, too. Forgot to mention that part.
It was hot as hell in the pit. I was still badly sunburned from Outside Lands, and didn't last longer then about three songs. And then I found out they weren't letting people off the floor, so there was no way to get to the water-bottles. I got so thirsty I grabbed an abandoned, half-full bottle off the floor and drank THAT. The fact that it doesn't seem to have made me sick amazes me.
Amazing show, and eventful enough to clear Shoreline's "NiN/JA" disappointment from my mind. Not that NiN was bad, but JA was so much BETTER....
It's sad that NiN is going away for a while, but as Yahtzee has said (in a completely different context) if the original creator really wants to put his pet project down humanely, it's usually in everyone's best interests to let him.
Until we meet again, then. Now that Year Zero TV show.... THAT is something to get excited about.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Outside Lands Music and Arts Festival: August 28-30 2009
This is gonna be abreviated because I'm heading to NiN in an hour or so, so I'm gonna do this review in Bullet Point form!
Friday
Friday
- Wish I'd gotten there earlier. Zap Momma was cooking up some bluesy, jazzy magic at the Twin Peaks stage the instant I arrived. I didn't get to hear them for long since I wanted to see Built to Spill but it was quite a way to start the festival.
- I missed Built to Spill. That's what I get for "short-cutting" through the Beatles: Rock Band tent. I guess I forgot that I'm extremely distractable.
- Silversun Pickups are one of those buzz bands that's got a hit single and a lot of good press these days, but unlike most of those flavor-of-the-weeks, they actually deserve the hype. Their lead singer/guitarist looks like Caleb Followill and sounds like Billy Corgan, all while stalking the stage like a starving tiger. The bass-player was atypical as well, a pale girl with a purple sundress, gently rolled hair, and a shy-but-confident demeanor. She's one of those bass soloists and her style with the instrument is brisk and effortless. The drummer was a whirl of long black hair, speed and power, popping his drumsticks into the air and turning his shirt dark with sweat. The keyboard guy had a selection of instruments and a hat like the one John McCrea used to wear. This group was playing to a bigger crowd then they were used to and were plainly exhilarated by it: Singer guy said he'd had NO IDEA they were going to get to share a stage with Built to Spill ("One of the best bands in the fucking world!") Then he turned up the volume and rocked the house. This group was the first big surprise of the festival.
- INCUBUS! If you've listened to rock radio anytime at all since '99, you've heard at least one Incubus song, and they played them all that evening. The lead singer was the slim, beautiful boyish type and was stretching out while his band-mates picked up their instruments, so I knew we were in for some acrobatics. They weren't as intense as hoped, but they had roared through "Pardon me" and another song before stopping for break. The singer had a cold that day (he said) and was nervous about performing, so one of his bandmates suggested getting drunk. The crowd cheered, so he said "From your reaction I'm guessing you agree!" He raised his glass of wine and said "Isn't it great, the way we all look out for each-other?" He finished his glass and had stripped his jacket and shirt off before the end of his set as well for his rubber-jointed flailing, but his illness had made his voice weak and reedy and the rest of the band, though musically more-then-capable, were not engrossing enough for me not to loose the fight against my bladder, give up my spot and head for the bathrooms.
- Pearl Jam! The main event, and poor Eddie Vedder lost his voice! The golden baritone that has become one of the most famous (and oft-imitated) voices in music was more like the raspy tenor today as he sang around an octave above where he normally would. He apologized for this, saying it was the very end of a long tour and "it's pissing me off that my voice isn't what it usually is, so I'll take whatever help you're willing to give me." Fortunately the show itself seemed built around encouraging this: the setlist never strayed too far from a greatest-hits list, along with "Betterman," "Daughter" (which morphed into "Another Brick in the Wall") and other well-known tracks like "I Am Mine." "The Fixer,"and "Got Some," their newest singles, even got their slots. There were none of the tortured political anthems from their last few albums, no bellyaching, just Pearl Jam enjoying being Pearl Jam, with Eddie Vedder taking flying leaps off of monitors, Mike McCreedy playing the guitar behind his back, Stone Gossard doing scissor-kicks and throwing picks across the stage, Jeff Ament prowling in a circle, and Matt Cameron being the cool cat I totally didn't recognize that night at the Crocodile. Eddie said that a number of people from the Bridge School were there, off stage right, (they were the recipients of most of the flying picks), including Ben Young, Neil Young's boy which might explain part of why the band were so effin' excited. Eddie told the crowd a story about a night "kind of like tonight" about when the band were on their first big national tour and were all revved up and raring to play the same San Francisco polo field where they were playing tonight, when "I came down with the worst case of food poisoning I've ever had in my life." In short, Eddie was out of commission, disaster loomed, and Neil Young swooped in to save the day. Ever since then there's kind of been nothing Pearl Jam wouldn't do for Neil Young. They've been regulars at his annual Bridge School Benefit Concerts for over ten years and have obviously built up some relationships of their own with the students there, judging from the adoring vibes the band kept sending to the alcove just offstage. They rocked their hearts out. There was crowd-surfing. There was jumping. The last encore of the night was a barn-burning rendition of "Rockin' the Free World." All this while their singer's voice was completely shot. Pearl Jam are the real shit.
- Street Sweeper Social Club: I won't lie. I love this band. Tom Morello can do no wrong in my eyes, and while I'm not entirely sold on Boots as a singer (his vocals still tend to get swallowed up in Tom's riffs) this show kicked ass. Converted the two rail-sitters I was sitting next to to instant fans within five minutes too, because it was that kind of show, and they are that kind of band. These guys are the real deal.
- Portugal: The Man: An indy rock outfit from Wasilla, Alaska that got an unwitting popularity boost when someone else from Wasilla, Alaska became a political superstar over-night and the band took to their blogs to try and warn the country about what they were getting into. I really want to like their band, if just for that reason. Their brand of rock is quirky and dreamy, and the lead singer sounds like a girl. I couldn't figure out if I liked it or not.
- Mastodon. Alright, ladies, grab your pom-poms! Now gimme an M. Gimme an E! Gimme a T! Gimme an A! Gimme an L! What does that spell?! METAL! Now throw your fucking devil horns in the air and ROCK OUT!
- TV on the Radio, and I'd thought Boots Riley had some happy feet. I didn't know nothin'. This band of odd-balls make funky psychedelic soundscapes that are creepy and vaguely apocalyptic. They kept tossing the lead vocals around and switching instruments. Pretty cool.
- The Mars Volta, sharing the headlining time-slot with Dave Mathews, couldn't have been LESS like Dave Mathews if they were from another planet altogether. Think a cross between Pink Floyd and Metallica, with some Latin seasoning and a lead-singer with 80s hair who will get into a fight with his own band's name-placard and loose, right before putting his foot right through it. And at least a dozen crowd-surfers. It was demented, and I was hooked 30 seconds in. Wow.
- I can't tell you how Dave Mathews was because by the time I got to the crowd, I realized I had dropped my camera and spent the set running around shining my flash-light at people's feet, but my friend David is a huge Dave Mathews fan, and was watching on the Webcast so when he says it was a great show, I'd believe him. I still haven't contacted my two rail-sitting friends, who were looking forward to seeing them on Facebook, because I can't believe I've lost ANOTHER camera. That makes a total of four. I am NOT getting another one until I figure out who put this Camera-Jinx on me and how to fix it.
- Bettye Lavette said, during her mini-bio "when I was sixteen this was the first song I cut. And when I was sixteen, not only did I know I was a singer...I also thought I was a star." Well, she might not have been famous when she was sixteen, but she was always a star. She was born a star. In an alternate universe, she was as big as Aretha Franklin. She even moved away from the mic to bellow out her song from the Main Stage and everyone HEARD her. What a powerful voice on that woman. Her guitarist, a long-haired man who had to be around half her age, introduced some truly searing guitar work to the soul anthems, joining her center-stage for a little dance number at one point. So even though she might have looked more at home in a glittering dress in a smokey nightclub then in jeans and a leather jacket on an outdoor stage at 1am on a foggy day, but she guided her set with the unshakable hand of a born star. In another world, she would have been as big as Aretha Franklin. She has the goods.
- Modest Mouse were trying hard, they really were, switching instruments and bellowing through different microphones, and they inspired lots of smiles and head-bobbing, but they distinctly failed to electrify the crowd. Maybe they were having an off-day (their old guitar-player has left), but they didn't help their case by not playing any songs anyone knew. Really, I go see Modest Mouse perform, and they don't play "Float On?" Really? But I've heard from other sources that live performance is just not a strength for Modest Mouse, which is a shame because they have some genuinely interesting stuff in their catalog.
- M.I.A, on the other hand, WAS electricity. This woman brings the idiosyncratic fashion without the class-baiting, richer-then-thou flavor of Lady Gaga, and with her two female backup singers, two blue-suited male backup dancers, and beat-meisters all decked out in Micheal Jackson T-shirts, she ruled the stage. She threw horns into the audience. She made it look so easy. AND she played "Paper Planes" to close, so whatever aversion Modest Mouse has to their own hits, she didn't share. She's amazing. Sunday was a good day for the ladies at Outside Lands.
- Tenacious D (aka "Jack Black's Band") filled in for the Beastie Boys and were (as a friend of mine had predicted) hilarious and fantastic, just not headliner-caliber fantastic. Lots of people were grumbling at the D getting the headlining slot when there were plenty of other acts on the bill that could easily have been bumped up to headliners (M.I.A could have done it easily), and it turned out to be pretty justified. That's not to say their act isn't funny: but if you've seen "Pick of Destiny" you've seen pretty much all of Tenacious D's material. I hope Adam gets better soon. The Beastie Boys were missed that night.
Friday, August 28, 2009
CAKE at the Fox Theater: Pomona 8/27/2009
Since I'm heading to Outside Lands tomorrow, this one will be a quick one.
Something was up with CAKE. I mean, I love CAKE. Their brand of architectual pop rock blues with a trumpet and John McCrea's chilly, detached speak-singing make them a band unlike any other you'll ever hear.
But something was up with them tonight.
The monitors were irregular, there were problems with guitars requiring roadie assistance, and tense conversation between band-mates. The show took a while to take off, probably because of the general strained attitudes of the performers.
And curiously enough, there was a "break." A period of fifteen minutes or so when they brought the curtain down and let everyone go to the bar or the bathroom. Now, the only other time I have been at a live show that had a break, I went to see a Jam band that'd been playing for hours already.
If I had to bet, I'd say the break was due to a technical problem that required more re-setting-up then the roadies could do otherwise. When they took the stage again, to a roaring cover of "War Pigs" the mood seemed more relaxed. By the time the show finally wrapped up, things had finally started to take off, thanks to a funny interlude about a tree that people were doing push-ups for, since the normal question of "what kind of tree is it" was a bit redundant considering the lemon growing on the tree.
And CAKE are a cool band. They all wear checkered shirts and look like your neighbor, especially the relentlessly normal multi-instrumentalist who has a different thing in his hand every time you look at him, and when he doesn't have a thing, he dances. The drummer hunched over his kit like he was worried someone would see him. Bassist played like he'd been born with a bass in his hand, and the guitarist tapped his heal, rocked his hollowbody, and swaggered like a guy who knows he is good at his job. And John McCrea was a real ringmaster in terms of orchestrating the audience sing-alongs, and he was in fine voice.
So I still love CAKE. But I can't help but wonder what the deal was that cast such a spell over the evening. I doubt I'll ever find out.
Something was up with CAKE. I mean, I love CAKE. Their brand of architectual pop rock blues with a trumpet and John McCrea's chilly, detached speak-singing make them a band unlike any other you'll ever hear.
But something was up with them tonight.
The monitors were irregular, there were problems with guitars requiring roadie assistance, and tense conversation between band-mates. The show took a while to take off, probably because of the general strained attitudes of the performers.
And curiously enough, there was a "break." A period of fifteen minutes or so when they brought the curtain down and let everyone go to the bar or the bathroom. Now, the only other time I have been at a live show that had a break, I went to see a Jam band that'd been playing for hours already.
If I had to bet, I'd say the break was due to a technical problem that required more re-setting-up then the roadies could do otherwise. When they took the stage again, to a roaring cover of "War Pigs" the mood seemed more relaxed. By the time the show finally wrapped up, things had finally started to take off, thanks to a funny interlude about a tree that people were doing push-ups for, since the normal question of "what kind of tree is it" was a bit redundant considering the lemon growing on the tree.
And CAKE are a cool band. They all wear checkered shirts and look like your neighbor, especially the relentlessly normal multi-instrumentalist who has a different thing in his hand every time you look at him, and when he doesn't have a thing, he dances. The drummer hunched over his kit like he was worried someone would see him. Bassist played like he'd been born with a bass in his hand, and the guitarist tapped his heal, rocked his hollowbody, and swaggered like a guy who knows he is good at his job. And John McCrea was a real ringmaster in terms of orchestrating the audience sing-alongs, and he was in fine voice.
So I still love CAKE. But I can't help but wonder what the deal was that cast such a spell over the evening. I doubt I'll ever find out.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Kings Of Leon at the Forum: Inglewood CA, 8/22/2009
It's difficult to know where to start with this one, so I'm going to start at the beginning.
I took my sister to this show. We bought the expensive beers. We ate our respective salty carbs. We ended up sitting in a place very similar to where Mom and I saw Bruce Springsteen, so we were close, but would be looking at lots of shoulders, as opposed to faces, which gives the show a different feel but (as my sister pointed out) provides a perfect, rare chance to watch the drummer. Try patting your head and rubbing your belly at the same time if you want a glimpse of how hard drumming really is. It's amazing to watch.
The opening act, the Whigs, were an impressive power-trio hailing from Athens, Georgia and boasting of some serious athletics. These guys are powerful musicians, in every sense of the word. They are amp-hoping, two-stepping southern rockers who make a much louder noise then you'd think three people could, more like the noise of Lynyrd Skynyrd then the alt-rock, grunge retro headliners. Later on in the show, Caleb Followill would call these three his friends and declare "Someday they'll be headlining here!" and I would hope he's right: it won't be for lack of talent if these guys don't make it.
Kings of Leon have clearly made it. Their fascinating amalgamated brand of rock comes on like a hurricane and never lets up, and I swear, spirits were running so high that in comparison, they might as well have been asleep the last time I saw them.
Iggy Pop once said of the Stooges sibling rhythm section "You can't get a bond like that without blood." And although a lot of fantastic bands haven't needed blood, the Followill brothers + cousin have been playing together since they were children and it shows. I got the feeling an earthquake couldn't derail this crew.
And Caleb Followill, who had barely a sentence to spare for the audience last time I saw them, was positively glowing. "I was so nervous I was throwing up all day, but now that I'm here, and you're a great crowd, I'm having a great time!" Then he downed his red plastic cup and yelled "I'm getting drunk!" Everyone cheered. The reason for the nerves was made apparent when he said that he had lots of family and friends in the crowd, here to see them to finally play the big venues "we get to play everywhere else" and how "rarely enough these days" every last person in the band was having a blast.
They seemed to be. Guitar picks were flicked. Nathan's drumsticks went flying across the stage more then once. No one but Caleb said anything, but the band's high-spirits were evident in that sort of intangible quality the best live music has, the kind that just sets the place on fire. There was just pure exhilaration in the air.
"You guys, you guys are great but some of you, some of you I know are sitting down. This is for you, stand up, let's have a party!" And he rocked into the fuzzy, dirty bass-line of "Crawl." I didn't see anyone sitting. Although some of Caleb's attempts to get the crowd to take over vocal duties were more successful then others (Everyone was singing along to "Use Somebody"), the crowd was loud and enthusiastic and quick to clap and cheer and scream. It was a crowd anyone would be proud to have their mom see them play to.
There was even a sign-waver: "Caleb can I hav ur hankie?" Unfortunately he didn't manage to throw it that far. There's a reason why he's a musician and not a pitcher.
Caleb's sign-off was heartfelt, about how "We're up here, we're playing music, we get to play music with family... and that's the most important thing in the world." He thanked everyone again (he'd been thanking us all night), and declared, "standing up here, looking out at all you...you make this boy from Tennessee very happy." He meant it too.
The Rock n' Roll dream lives.
I took my sister to this show. We bought the expensive beers. We ate our respective salty carbs. We ended up sitting in a place very similar to where Mom and I saw Bruce Springsteen, so we were close, but would be looking at lots of shoulders, as opposed to faces, which gives the show a different feel but (as my sister pointed out) provides a perfect, rare chance to watch the drummer. Try patting your head and rubbing your belly at the same time if you want a glimpse of how hard drumming really is. It's amazing to watch.
The opening act, the Whigs, were an impressive power-trio hailing from Athens, Georgia and boasting of some serious athletics. These guys are powerful musicians, in every sense of the word. They are amp-hoping, two-stepping southern rockers who make a much louder noise then you'd think three people could, more like the noise of Lynyrd Skynyrd then the alt-rock, grunge retro headliners. Later on in the show, Caleb Followill would call these three his friends and declare "Someday they'll be headlining here!" and I would hope he's right: it won't be for lack of talent if these guys don't make it.
Kings of Leon have clearly made it. Their fascinating amalgamated brand of rock comes on like a hurricane and never lets up, and I swear, spirits were running so high that in comparison, they might as well have been asleep the last time I saw them.
Iggy Pop once said of the Stooges sibling rhythm section "You can't get a bond like that without blood." And although a lot of fantastic bands haven't needed blood, the Followill brothers + cousin have been playing together since they were children and it shows. I got the feeling an earthquake couldn't derail this crew.
And Caleb Followill, who had barely a sentence to spare for the audience last time I saw them, was positively glowing. "I was so nervous I was throwing up all day, but now that I'm here, and you're a great crowd, I'm having a great time!" Then he downed his red plastic cup and yelled "I'm getting drunk!" Everyone cheered. The reason for the nerves was made apparent when he said that he had lots of family and friends in the crowd, here to see them to finally play the big venues "we get to play everywhere else" and how "rarely enough these days" every last person in the band was having a blast.
They seemed to be. Guitar picks were flicked. Nathan's drumsticks went flying across the stage more then once. No one but Caleb said anything, but the band's high-spirits were evident in that sort of intangible quality the best live music has, the kind that just sets the place on fire. There was just pure exhilaration in the air.
"You guys, you guys are great but some of you, some of you I know are sitting down. This is for you, stand up, let's have a party!" And he rocked into the fuzzy, dirty bass-line of "Crawl." I didn't see anyone sitting. Although some of Caleb's attempts to get the crowd to take over vocal duties were more successful then others (Everyone was singing along to "Use Somebody"), the crowd was loud and enthusiastic and quick to clap and cheer and scream. It was a crowd anyone would be proud to have their mom see them play to.
There was even a sign-waver: "Caleb can I hav ur hankie?" Unfortunately he didn't manage to throw it that far. There's a reason why he's a musician and not a pitcher.
Caleb's sign-off was heartfelt, about how "We're up here, we're playing music, we get to play music with family... and that's the most important thing in the world." He thanked everyone again (he'd been thanking us all night), and declared, "standing up here, looking out at all you...you make this boy from Tennessee very happy." He meant it too.
The Rock n' Roll dream lives.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Elvis Costello at Aguas Caliente Casino: 7/10/2009
I left this show convinced of two facts. One; Elvis Costello kicks ass. Two: I do not know enough about his catalog, his history, and music in general to fully appreciate how much ass he really kicks.
On the drive home, my mom had to explain to me that His rendition of a deeply romantic love song called "Alison" contained snippets of "fuck you" songs from the 60s like "Tears of a Clown." Songs which I, being a child of the 90s and 00s, have never even heard of before: a hole in my education that I was never aware of before now.
Elvis Costello is way smarter then me. That's the third fact I left convinced of. He's also the only rocking frontman I can think off off the top of my head who performs in a suit and tie. I guess in recent years he's toned down his Buddy Holly style: wearing smaller glasses and incorperating touches like a violet tie and patterned turquoise shirt into his wardrobe. He plays his gold-top slung low, or his telecaster suspended in front of him with one hand: punkish moves Buddy Holly never did. And you'll still catch Elvis wiggling his legs like back in the day. More then anything else he has that quality that just dictates that when HE'S onstage, it doesn't really matter who else is there or what they're doing: he's the one you look at. That's a quality you can't teach: you either have it or you don't, and Costello, like Springsteen, and Reznor, has it in spades.
Which isn't to say his band wasn't worth watching. His back-up band for this tour was called The Imposters, and consisted of a stout, goateed drummer, a bass player all bedecked in head-to-toe white, complete with a white cowboy hat, and a keyboardist who's rig of keyboards, sythesizers, and odd gadgets would make him the source of the most interesting wailing, space-agey sounds. He even took a cue from one of Costellos lyrics and played a note with his toe, and him not so young neither!
Too bad the Casino audience sucked. For starters, any audience comprised of mostly middle-aged white people (and some younger white people) seemed unable to manage such tricky feets as "clap in rhythm" or even "Stand up out of their chairs." Costello was clearly gesturing that he wanted the people of orchestra level to gather at the foot of the stage, and since he did so during a roundy rousing number, quite a few people down in front tried to comply, only to either get dispersed by a house bouncer or by their own misguided sense of propriety. Bad audience karma. Blarg.
Speaking of house bouncers, this leads me to the biggest problem of the night.
Short.
This show was too short!
The show did not start until 9pm. It ended, after a highly abreviated encore, promptly at 10:35, the house lights came on less then a millisecond after the band had left the stage. B.B King also had this problem: the man could have played all night, but there was a house curfew to meet.
This is the downside of gigs at Casinos. This theater was large, state-of-the-art and beautiful, but the casino wants the show to end early. Their whole motivation for hosting the show is to funnel people through the casino, and they want to make sure the show ends with plenty of time for the audience members to gamble some more.
I know I'll be trying to see Elvis again, but not until I've done some serious homework. And hopefully, not at a Casino.
On the drive home, my mom had to explain to me that His rendition of a deeply romantic love song called "Alison" contained snippets of "fuck you" songs from the 60s like "Tears of a Clown." Songs which I, being a child of the 90s and 00s, have never even heard of before: a hole in my education that I was never aware of before now.
Elvis Costello is way smarter then me. That's the third fact I left convinced of. He's also the only rocking frontman I can think off off the top of my head who performs in a suit and tie. I guess in recent years he's toned down his Buddy Holly style: wearing smaller glasses and incorperating touches like a violet tie and patterned turquoise shirt into his wardrobe. He plays his gold-top slung low, or his telecaster suspended in front of him with one hand: punkish moves Buddy Holly never did. And you'll still catch Elvis wiggling his legs like back in the day. More then anything else he has that quality that just dictates that when HE'S onstage, it doesn't really matter who else is there or what they're doing: he's the one you look at. That's a quality you can't teach: you either have it or you don't, and Costello, like Springsteen, and Reznor, has it in spades.
Which isn't to say his band wasn't worth watching. His back-up band for this tour was called The Imposters, and consisted of a stout, goateed drummer, a bass player all bedecked in head-to-toe white, complete with a white cowboy hat, and a keyboardist who's rig of keyboards, sythesizers, and odd gadgets would make him the source of the most interesting wailing, space-agey sounds. He even took a cue from one of Costellos lyrics and played a note with his toe, and him not so young neither!
Too bad the Casino audience sucked. For starters, any audience comprised of mostly middle-aged white people (and some younger white people) seemed unable to manage such tricky feets as "clap in rhythm" or even "Stand up out of their chairs." Costello was clearly gesturing that he wanted the people of orchestra level to gather at the foot of the stage, and since he did so during a roundy rousing number, quite a few people down in front tried to comply, only to either get dispersed by a house bouncer or by their own misguided sense of propriety. Bad audience karma. Blarg.
Speaking of house bouncers, this leads me to the biggest problem of the night.
Short.
This show was too short!
The show did not start until 9pm. It ended, after a highly abreviated encore, promptly at 10:35, the house lights came on less then a millisecond after the band had left the stage. B.B King also had this problem: the man could have played all night, but there was a house curfew to meet.
This is the downside of gigs at Casinos. This theater was large, state-of-the-art and beautiful, but the casino wants the show to end early. Their whole motivation for hosting the show is to funnel people through the casino, and they want to make sure the show ends with plenty of time for the audience members to gamble some more.
I know I'll be trying to see Elvis again, but not until I've done some serious homework. And hopefully, not at a Casino.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Wilco at the Greek Theater, Berkeley: 6/27/2009
This was one varied crowd. Not in terms of ethnicity, it was white on white on white, but in terms of age. Young kids, 20-somethings, 50-somethings, and everyone in between was standing in the long line waiting to get into the Greek Theater, presumably hoping to grab a spot in one of the ornate concrete thrones that lined the edge of the first rings of long, low steps that was the Greek's seating arrangement (more fun then folding chairs). I know that's where I would have sat if I could have had my choice. I know the rail is always fun but c'mon, a concrete THRONE? You get to watch the show like some Greek dictator watching the gladiators. How could you say no to that?
Anyway, I think I know how Wilco acquired such a generation-spanning fanbase. I brought my folks to the show, and they both left Wilco believers.
I first saw Wilco at Outside Lands last year. I'd never heard of them, but 2 out of every 3 conversations I overheard that day was people making plans to catch Wilco, so I figured I could check them out. I did, and I've been waiting to catch them again with some better knowledge of their back catalog. All I knew was they made a delicate, glorious noise.
Wilco is a six-peice band from Chicago. You want a full history, go elsewhere. You want a setlist, go elsewhere. This is what the show was actually like.
It even started out well. Well, not WELL, but with promise. I'll be frank, Okkervil River is not the best band in the world, mostly because a few of their members are downright lifeless: the girl guitarist (plagued by technical problems that demanded she fiddle with her les paul for most of each song), and the two keyboardists had about as much charm as cardboard cut-outs. But the tall, blue-clad bassist had a laid-back attitude that made being up there in front of a sold-out house look easy. Their drummer wailed on his pale-pink kit with a lot of fire, if not a lot of finesse. Still, if there's one reason to see this band it's that frontman, with his strong, clear voice and his effortless, effucient stage pressence. He was so energetic that his shirt was soaked through by the second song. He has real star quality even if his band doesn't.
Alright, we're done with the opening band: time for the guys we all came to see. And it hurts that they opened with Wilco (the song) while I was in the bathroom line, so I didn't get to witness live what I will always associate with Stephen Colbert and a strategically placed HOPE sticker.
There wouldn't be much else painful about the set. Wilco was flawless. Dad pinned "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart" as the moment where he stopped enjoying the show and realized he was watching something incredibly special. My mom couldn't get over the drummer. He was a classically trained percussionist, she could tell, and she was riveted watching him. It was the kind of performance that makes you listen to a band a whole different way. It's the kind of stuff fans for life are made from.
And thank Heebus Dreamer's bad audience karma stayed away this time. This audience knew lyrics, sang loudly to fill in gaps, and clapped (more or less) in rhythm.
As a native So Cal gal, I could have handled a little less bad-mouthing of So Cal from Tweedy ("They're saying 'thank you!' after songs instead of clapping. What's that about?") but the Nor Cal audience, of course, ate it up. And there was an adorable moment where Tweedy admonished the Berkeley crowd "Look what you've done to my son, you dirty hippies!" and a fine boy, around ten and almost as tall as his dad already, came sheepishly from the wings wearing garish tie-died pajamas. "He goes for a walk and he comes back like this!" Everyone laughed. The kid shrugged all dramatic-like and scampered off after Jeff's "Go take a bath!" Adorable.
EDIT: The kid, it turns out, is about 14 or 15, and an avid blogger. He writes about the tie-die incident here.
Jeff Tweedy would reference the joke later, dedicating "I'm the Man who Loves You" to his wife, who was apparently somewhere over near the sound board, adding, "Sorry I let our son become a hippie!" He was also heckling some guy in the front row who had passed out, then shrugged it off, then passed out again. His stage persona was warm, affable, even slightly goofy but completely in command. Like any great frontman, he made the impossible look effortless.
Still, my favorite member of Wilco is still Nels Cline. Their new-ish lead guitarist was poached from the improvisational jazz circuit and plays like a more eccentric Eric Clapton. Not kidding. The man's searing solos were almost always the highlight of any given song. Plus, I love anyone who can rock a pair of bright red pants and still look as stern and intimidating as a tall, wispy blond guy in his middle-ages can realistically look. He had a formidable guitar rack next to him and it wasn't just for show. What a wizard.
Speaking of Wizards, Pat Sansone, the multi-instrumentalist, proved he can rock a guitar with as much charisma as anyone when he's allowed out from behind his keyboard. My mom was so sure he was a teenager, he looked so young from so far away. Bass player too got his moment in the spotlight. In fact, everyone got their moments in the spotlight except the dedicated keyboardist. He just sat behind his keys and played. Well, I guess someone's gotta play rhythm.
The biggest moment of the night was the next-to-last song where every single member of the group grabbed a tamborine or a maracca and all built the tension, holding their instruments high while the percussionist, Glen Kotche, stood on his drumstool with his sticks held high in the air, dramatically backlit. I don't know what song they launched into when Glen came crashing down again on his drumkit, but it doesn't matter. The moment was perfect. And so was the show.
Anyway, I think I know how Wilco acquired such a generation-spanning fanbase. I brought my folks to the show, and they both left Wilco believers.
I first saw Wilco at Outside Lands last year. I'd never heard of them, but 2 out of every 3 conversations I overheard that day was people making plans to catch Wilco, so I figured I could check them out. I did, and I've been waiting to catch them again with some better knowledge of their back catalog. All I knew was they made a delicate, glorious noise.
Wilco is a six-peice band from Chicago. You want a full history, go elsewhere. You want a setlist, go elsewhere. This is what the show was actually like.
It even started out well. Well, not WELL, but with promise. I'll be frank, Okkervil River is not the best band in the world, mostly because a few of their members are downright lifeless: the girl guitarist (plagued by technical problems that demanded she fiddle with her les paul for most of each song), and the two keyboardists had about as much charm as cardboard cut-outs. But the tall, blue-clad bassist had a laid-back attitude that made being up there in front of a sold-out house look easy. Their drummer wailed on his pale-pink kit with a lot of fire, if not a lot of finesse. Still, if there's one reason to see this band it's that frontman, with his strong, clear voice and his effortless, effucient stage pressence. He was so energetic that his shirt was soaked through by the second song. He has real star quality even if his band doesn't.
Alright, we're done with the opening band: time for the guys we all came to see. And it hurts that they opened with Wilco (the song) while I was in the bathroom line, so I didn't get to witness live what I will always associate with Stephen Colbert and a strategically placed HOPE sticker.
There wouldn't be much else painful about the set. Wilco was flawless. Dad pinned "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart" as the moment where he stopped enjoying the show and realized he was watching something incredibly special. My mom couldn't get over the drummer. He was a classically trained percussionist, she could tell, and she was riveted watching him. It was the kind of performance that makes you listen to a band a whole different way. It's the kind of stuff fans for life are made from.
And thank Heebus Dreamer's bad audience karma stayed away this time. This audience knew lyrics, sang loudly to fill in gaps, and clapped (more or less) in rhythm.
As a native So Cal gal, I could have handled a little less bad-mouthing of So Cal from Tweedy ("They're saying 'thank you!' after songs instead of clapping. What's that about?") but the Nor Cal audience, of course, ate it up. And there was an adorable moment where Tweedy admonished the Berkeley crowd "Look what you've done to my son, you dirty hippies!" and a fine boy, around ten and almost as tall as his dad already, came sheepishly from the wings wearing garish tie-died pajamas. "He goes for a walk and he comes back like this!" Everyone laughed. The kid shrugged all dramatic-like and scampered off after Jeff's "Go take a bath!" Adorable.
EDIT: The kid, it turns out, is about 14 or 15, and an avid blogger. He writes about the tie-die incident here.
Jeff Tweedy would reference the joke later, dedicating "I'm the Man who Loves You" to his wife, who was apparently somewhere over near the sound board, adding, "Sorry I let our son become a hippie!" He was also heckling some guy in the front row who had passed out, then shrugged it off, then passed out again. His stage persona was warm, affable, even slightly goofy but completely in command. Like any great frontman, he made the impossible look effortless.
Still, my favorite member of Wilco is still Nels Cline. Their new-ish lead guitarist was poached from the improvisational jazz circuit and plays like a more eccentric Eric Clapton. Not kidding. The man's searing solos were almost always the highlight of any given song. Plus, I love anyone who can rock a pair of bright red pants and still look as stern and intimidating as a tall, wispy blond guy in his middle-ages can realistically look. He had a formidable guitar rack next to him and it wasn't just for show. What a wizard.
Speaking of Wizards, Pat Sansone, the multi-instrumentalist, proved he can rock a guitar with as much charisma as anyone when he's allowed out from behind his keyboard. My mom was so sure he was a teenager, he looked so young from so far away. Bass player too got his moment in the spotlight. In fact, everyone got their moments in the spotlight except the dedicated keyboardist. He just sat behind his keys and played. Well, I guess someone's gotta play rhythm.
The biggest moment of the night was the next-to-last song where every single member of the group grabbed a tamborine or a maracca and all built the tension, holding their instruments high while the percussionist, Glen Kotche, stood on his drumstool with his sticks held high in the air, dramatically backlit. I don't know what song they launched into when Glen came crashing down again on his drumkit, but it doesn't matter. The moment was perfect. And so was the show.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
IAMX at Slims - 6/9/2009
I guess under other circumstances I wouldn't do shows at this clip, but this is my Last Month Here and I needed a pick-me-up. I'd listened to some of IAMX's stuff on youtube, and his dark, sleezy brand of pop appealed to me. A friend on Twitter unexpectedly helped out with a free ticket! So I had no reason at all to miss this show.
The friend was HardRockChick of live-blogging fame, who is, by the way, exactly as cool as you might imagine she'd be. She's sweet and soft-spoken and comes to life when it's time to talk music. After a few false alarms in which I weirded out a few slim, dark-haired people (though I AM sure I've seen the girl in the black ruffled dress somwhere before: she said she was a musician so maybe... Kimos?) we connected stage left.
The opening band was Hypernova, a six-piece pretty standard line-up remarkable for their curls, their glittery-but-driving hollow-body guitar riffs, their pounding drums, and their bespectacled frontman with the short beard, the booming voice, and the face carved out of wood. I think it would take him days of intense concentration to form a smile, even assuming he has it in him at all. They weren't a bad group, in fact they were actually pretty good, but I didn't enjoy them. And I'm not above accusing the frontman's inapproachable, unresponsive face of being the thing that stopped me from really connecting with the group. I'm not sure what this says about me and my standards. Upon hunting down the link to their myspace I discovered they are actually from Iran, which is interesting and makes me sad I didn't enjoy their show more then I did. If there's one place where rock and roll SHOULD flourish, it's in a country where those who play can be publicly flogged.
Maybe some smaller glasses on the frontman. This isn't nerdcore.
There was a very long interval between sets thanks to all the gear that had to be changed, so Hardrockchick and I filled the time by talking. Our conversation included, in no particular order: NiN/JA (her stories are MUCH more interesting then mine), Tom Morello's badass superpowers, how much Chris Cornell's solo show suffers from a distinct LACK of Tom Morello, how much "Scream" sucked, even live, Trent Reznor's now not-so-secret sense of humor and aggressive tweeting, how funny the concept of "aggressive tweeting" is when you think about it, Boots Riley's sense of fun, Ilan Rubin's raw talent, repeated my interview question and she promised she'd try and get him to answer if she can, Carl Restivo's coolness, how much we love Restivo's bubble-tweets and wish he'd do more of them, both hoping details surface about his twitter party, whatever that turns out to be.
Have I mentioned this Jaimie girl is awesome?
As for the main event, I can sum it up by saying my feet are bruised and covered in dirt. And glitter. I am never wearing flip-flops to this kind of show ever again. I count myself lucky to still own ten toes, but in happier news, Dreamer's Bad Audience Karma was LIFTED! If just for tonight! During the set a girl with a jangling outfit of feathers started dancing with me out of nowhere, then a girl with a short brown bob grabbed my hand and sling-shotted me to the front of the stage where I jumped, jammed and pumped my fist in my wonderful out-of-rhythm way until my poor unprotected feet couldn't take it anymore and I was forced to retreat, mercifully late in the set, only to get snagged on some kindly gay giant's button.
But this blog ostensibly isn't about me, so how was the performer, IAMX?
He was very...small. I mean, Jaimie had told me he was small, but I wasn't expecting him to be AS small as he was. He wasn't a little person or anything, but he's definitely tiny, so much so that I believe Jaimie when she tells me he has to make his own clothes, since most men's clothing doesn't come in a small enough sizes for him.
Good thing the guy melts some serious face. What a performer. His sweet tenor is full of an almost tender despair. His brand of dark pop filled the whole room, two synthesizers working full blast to keep the electric waves coming, but not detracting from the vitality of the live performers: a keyboardist woman in some truly horrific make-up and a guitarist with an open shirt and a headband. They commanded almost as much attention as the frontman did, singing back-ups and leaping on things, clapping and doing whatever they could to get the audience fired up.
It worked. They were fired up. I'm not familiar enough with his catalog to tell you what his setlist was, but the audience adored him and I heard sing-alongs at more then one point. Wow. Remarkable.
When it was all over, I counted all ten toes (thank goodness), bid a fond farewell to the Hardrockchick, thanked the gentle gay giant for unhooking me from his button, looked in vain for the woman who had dragged me to the front row, told Gentle Gay Giant to thank her for me, bought some buttons, and went home.
Good people make for good times. It's a truth.
The friend was HardRockChick of live-blogging fame, who is, by the way, exactly as cool as you might imagine she'd be. She's sweet and soft-spoken and comes to life when it's time to talk music. After a few false alarms in which I weirded out a few slim, dark-haired people (though I AM sure I've seen the girl in the black ruffled dress somwhere before: she said she was a musician so maybe... Kimos?) we connected stage left.
The opening band was Hypernova, a six-piece pretty standard line-up remarkable for their curls, their glittery-but-driving hollow-body guitar riffs, their pounding drums, and their bespectacled frontman with the short beard, the booming voice, and the face carved out of wood. I think it would take him days of intense concentration to form a smile, even assuming he has it in him at all. They weren't a bad group, in fact they were actually pretty good, but I didn't enjoy them. And I'm not above accusing the frontman's inapproachable, unresponsive face of being the thing that stopped me from really connecting with the group. I'm not sure what this says about me and my standards. Upon hunting down the link to their myspace I discovered they are actually from Iran, which is interesting and makes me sad I didn't enjoy their show more then I did. If there's one place where rock and roll SHOULD flourish, it's in a country where those who play can be publicly flogged.
Maybe some smaller glasses on the frontman. This isn't nerdcore.
There was a very long interval between sets thanks to all the gear that had to be changed, so Hardrockchick and I filled the time by talking. Our conversation included, in no particular order: NiN/JA (her stories are MUCH more interesting then mine), Tom Morello's badass superpowers, how much Chris Cornell's solo show suffers from a distinct LACK of Tom Morello, how much "Scream" sucked, even live, Trent Reznor's now not-so-secret sense of humor and aggressive tweeting, how funny the concept of "aggressive tweeting" is when you think about it, Boots Riley's sense of fun, Ilan Rubin's raw talent, repeated my interview question and she promised she'd try and get him to answer if she can, Carl Restivo's coolness, how much we love Restivo's bubble-tweets and wish he'd do more of them, both hoping details surface about his twitter party, whatever that turns out to be.
Have I mentioned this Jaimie girl is awesome?
As for the main event, I can sum it up by saying my feet are bruised and covered in dirt. And glitter. I am never wearing flip-flops to this kind of show ever again. I count myself lucky to still own ten toes, but in happier news, Dreamer's Bad Audience Karma was LIFTED! If just for tonight! During the set a girl with a jangling outfit of feathers started dancing with me out of nowhere, then a girl with a short brown bob grabbed my hand and sling-shotted me to the front of the stage where I jumped, jammed and pumped my fist in my wonderful out-of-rhythm way until my poor unprotected feet couldn't take it anymore and I was forced to retreat, mercifully late in the set, only to get snagged on some kindly gay giant's button.
But this blog ostensibly isn't about me, so how was the performer, IAMX?
He was very...small. I mean, Jaimie had told me he was small, but I wasn't expecting him to be AS small as he was. He wasn't a little person or anything, but he's definitely tiny, so much so that I believe Jaimie when she tells me he has to make his own clothes, since most men's clothing doesn't come in a small enough sizes for him.
Good thing the guy melts some serious face. What a performer. His sweet tenor is full of an almost tender despair. His brand of dark pop filled the whole room, two synthesizers working full blast to keep the electric waves coming, but not detracting from the vitality of the live performers: a keyboardist woman in some truly horrific make-up and a guitarist with an open shirt and a headband. They commanded almost as much attention as the frontman did, singing back-ups and leaping on things, clapping and doing whatever they could to get the audience fired up.
It worked. They were fired up. I'm not familiar enough with his catalog to tell you what his setlist was, but the audience adored him and I heard sing-alongs at more then one point. Wow. Remarkable.
When it was all over, I counted all ten toes (thank goodness), bid a fond farewell to the Hardrockchick, thanked the gentle gay giant for unhooking me from his button, looked in vain for the woman who had dragged me to the front row, told Gentle Gay Giant to thank her for me, bought some buttons, and went home.
Good people make for good times. It's a truth.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
A Night At Cafe Du Nord: 6/7/2009
I had just hung out with this friend last night, but he sent me a text anyway and asked if I wanted to catch a show. Turned out a family friend of his had a band that was kicking off their tour tonight, and he was attending. Asked if I'd go too. Sure, why not. It'll sure be cheaper then trying to bum tickets to see Janelle Monae which was my OTHER plan for the evening, so I hit the road.
The following will contain no coments about lyrics. Like most small places, this basement venue had a problem with drowning out the vocals. It was a low-ceilinged place, fairly dark with a large bar and a pool table stuck behind the stairs like they didn't want anyone to find it. Beers were three dollers, so it was better then Kimos.
First band was the Dave Rude Band. There wasn't much that was particularly rude about it, just loud. They were a three-peice that played pretty straight-up rock. It's kinda funny that for a band bears the name of just one guy, the frontman was the group's least interesting member. The manic metal bassist, hunched over his instrument with a scowl and some serious flare, was much more fun to watch. And the drummer's standing-up behind the kit fury on the skins bellied his well-groomed, Nice Jewish Boy looks. They were pretty good, loud, full of fast riffs and just the right touch of swagger.
I noticed that the next band setting up had an extremely professional air about them: all of their gear was decaled and the design on their kick drum was a lovely mixture of pop art and anime, a description which actually perfectly describes the motley-but-coordinated stage costumes of the band: sequins, dyed-hair in shades of pink, white, and black, eyeliner on everyone while still allowing the band their individuality. Their sound was pop-rock with some synth looping things up and an interesting dark undercurrent provided by the scuzzy guitars and heavy basslines. And this is also one of those rare situations where I have seen co-lead-singers actually work well together: the pink-haired pixie keyboardist and the guitar-wielding, eyelined frontman pass off the mic with their pure, pop voices. The bassist almost exclusively played from a stance so low he was almost doing the splits, the black-clad guitar player had some sort of problem with her ax that recurred throughout the night but she didn't let it slow her down too much as she posed like Dave Navarro and made the most of the tiny stage they were working so hard to rock. The drummer lady was barely visible behind her monster rig. I didn't even realize she was a lady until the set was over. I bought their EP for another listen. Hope to catch them again sometime, hopefully on a bigger stage with a less apathetic audience: Dreamer's bad audience karma continues...
I'm writing this a few days after the fact so forgive the following impressions if they're a bit vague: Triple Cobra is what you'd get if you took a couple old west showgirls and incorperated them very fully into a traditional glam rock band. The girls, with their feathered costumes and coordinated dance-moves seemed to be the band's main attraction. The frontman, who sported conditioned hair and more glittery eyeshadow and lipstick then either of his female sidekicks. He looks kind of like an effemninate Lenny Kravitz and acts kind of like one too. He flings himself all over the place, virtually injuring himself in the spirit of rock. Bubble machines, strobe lights, smoke machines and flying feathers all testify to the sheer chaos of the show, but somehow it worked.
And I got to see my friend again. Three weeks left in SF and counting...
The following will contain no coments about lyrics. Like most small places, this basement venue had a problem with drowning out the vocals. It was a low-ceilinged place, fairly dark with a large bar and a pool table stuck behind the stairs like they didn't want anyone to find it. Beers were three dollers, so it was better then Kimos.
First band was the Dave Rude Band. There wasn't much that was particularly rude about it, just loud. They were a three-peice that played pretty straight-up rock. It's kinda funny that for a band bears the name of just one guy, the frontman was the group's least interesting member. The manic metal bassist, hunched over his instrument with a scowl and some serious flare, was much more fun to watch. And the drummer's standing-up behind the kit fury on the skins bellied his well-groomed, Nice Jewish Boy looks. They were pretty good, loud, full of fast riffs and just the right touch of swagger.
I noticed that the next band setting up had an extremely professional air about them: all of their gear was decaled and the design on their kick drum was a lovely mixture of pop art and anime, a description which actually perfectly describes the motley-but-coordinated stage costumes of the band: sequins, dyed-hair in shades of pink, white, and black, eyeliner on everyone while still allowing the band their individuality. Their sound was pop-rock with some synth looping things up and an interesting dark undercurrent provided by the scuzzy guitars and heavy basslines. And this is also one of those rare situations where I have seen co-lead-singers actually work well together: the pink-haired pixie keyboardist and the guitar-wielding, eyelined frontman pass off the mic with their pure, pop voices. The bassist almost exclusively played from a stance so low he was almost doing the splits, the black-clad guitar player had some sort of problem with her ax that recurred throughout the night but she didn't let it slow her down too much as she posed like Dave Navarro and made the most of the tiny stage they were working so hard to rock. The drummer lady was barely visible behind her monster rig. I didn't even realize she was a lady until the set was over. I bought their EP for another listen. Hope to catch them again sometime, hopefully on a bigger stage with a less apathetic audience: Dreamer's bad audience karma continues...
I'm writing this a few days after the fact so forgive the following impressions if they're a bit vague: Triple Cobra is what you'd get if you took a couple old west showgirls and incorperated them very fully into a traditional glam rock band. The girls, with their feathered costumes and coordinated dance-moves seemed to be the band's main attraction. The frontman, who sported conditioned hair and more glittery eyeshadow and lipstick then either of his female sidekicks. He looks kind of like an effemninate Lenny Kravitz and acts kind of like one too. He flings himself all over the place, virtually injuring himself in the spirit of rock. Bubble machines, strobe lights, smoke machines and flying feathers all testify to the sheer chaos of the show, but somehow it worked.
And I got to see my friend again. Three weeks left in SF and counting...
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Album Review: "The Red Album" by Weezer
(Had this sitting around on my computer for ages. Might as well throw it up here.)
Oh, Rivers Coumo. You're a world-famous rock star and you still stand behind the mic like you're self-consciously stalling until the REAL singer gets back from the bathroom. The only thing that keeps you there is sheer willpower.
But then that's your charm, and the charm of Weezer. These guys were nerdy before nerdy was chic, and it's reassuring to see that their sixteen years and millions in record sales haven't changed that much, even if, as this album suggests, the band is conducting some soul-searching and experimenting of their own.
The opening track "Troublemaker" is conventional enough: a youth-centered, adrenaline fueled thrill-ride centered around a kid declaring he's gonna be a rock star come fire, flood, parental disapproval or grounding. Five or ten years ago, this would have been a sure-fire radio hit and you would have heard boys and girls singing it in the locker rooms of high-schools all across the country. These days high-schoolers are usually too busy browsing myspace and listening to last.fm to care about what's on the radio, but it gets things off to an energetic start before the heavy stuff sets in. It's a song tailor made for and saved by Coumo's delicate but defiant vocal style, delivered as if he himself is desperate to believe he's actually telling the truth.
I know this album has been touted as "experimental" and a big example of why is song #2: "The Greatest Man that Ever Lived." This song is a self-conscious mix of styles which I am throughly too dull to even attempt to name. Just know there's a lot of them, and somehow, the song works anyway. It's a testament to how good of a hook-man Rivers really is.
Track number 3, "Pork and Beans" is a return to the theme of rebellion, and like Troublemaker it's a rabble rousing rock anthem given an almost desperate edge by Coumo's boisterous but frail character. It's catchy, it's fun, and it's already all over the radio. There is no escape.
Songs don't often give me goose-bumps and make me stop in my tracks, whatever I'm doing, to listen to it over and over again. Track 4, Heart Songs, did that. It's clear as a bell, slightly choral and plays like a hymn to a life lived in music. From the low-profile beginning to the revelation of a crescendo, I love every beautiful moment of this beautiful song.
Next up, "Everybody get dangerous." Again with the defiance, (yeah, get dangerous, fuck the system, yeah!) but with the twist this time that instead of writing about stuff he's done, instead Coumo is writing about stuff he hasn't done..... I think. He might never have tipped cows, but not much else is certain in this up-tempo, intense, very Weezer song. Wither it's real rebellion or vicarious imagination, the song is dark, wistful, and either a thrilling cautionary story or the fantasy of a good boy who sometimes wishes he were bad.
"Dreamin"' is a sonata. No really! It's got the four movements with the speed changes, the form, the up-tempo shifts, the slow dance movement, the quick finale...It's a friggin sonata as a rock song. Wether it's a good rock song, the answer is a resounding "maybe:" if you don't know what a sonata is, the song's shifts will seem random, maybe even disjointed. All in all it doesn't hold together as well as The Greatest Man that Ever Lived, but it makes my classical music loving geek happy, and it'll make you happy too if you're wondering how popular music format changes over the years. Or rather, how it does not.
Now things get tricky, because here something unprecedented has occurred.
Weezer has always contained two camps: one camp containing people named "Rivers Coumo" and one camp containing people NOT named Rivers Coumo. The Rivers make the rules. The Rivers write the songs, play lead, sing, and run the band. The Rivers is god. Don't question the Rivers.
Well the planets must have aligned somehow because holy crap, someone else let the Not-Rivers actually DO things! They are writing! They are singing! How it happened I don't know, but this is the kind of thing I love, because when creative people mix it up, that's when real magic can happen.
Brian Bell, second guitarist, is first to step up to the mic with "Thought I Knew," a cheesy little number with tightly constructed rhyming lyrics and a slight sci-fi folk-song flavor. It's inevitable that his voice will be compared to Rivers', so I'll just say Bell doesn't have that range, but as his voice scrapes the upper limits of his own register, he sounds both sardonic and heartfelt. It's not too challenging a song, but it's easy listening and there's a danger it'll get stuck in your head.
Definitely the most interesting song on the album comes from the bass player, Scott Shriner, and his "Cold Dark World." It's a blatantly romantic song, a man assuring a despairing but beautiful girl that he'll always be there for her, and here's the twist: the song is terrifying. The minor-key cords, the menacing bite the singer gives those sugar sweet lyrics (here Coumo's delicate voice wouldn't have fit) all add up to a rain-slicked horror movie of a song. It's like a glimpse inside the mind of a serial killer stalking his pray with his own sick kind of love, or it's from the woman's fear of strangers, but whatever it is, it's intense and dark and very, very cool.
After all that intensity it's nice to go back into outer space for another folk song for robots. Call me crazy but I like it. It's as mechanized as a robot, but it's a wistful robot with a beating heart and the slower, melodic pay-off is worth it. It's called "Automatic" and it features Patrick Wilson, Weezer's drummer sounding much more at-ease behind the mic then Rivers sounds banging away at the drum-kit. He sings like a singer and his voice has an echo of Coumo's in it's mix of rough and sweet.
Perhaps it's because my ears are attuned to the smaller soundscapes of the Not-Rivers, but when Coumo himself returns with the longing album closer "The Angel and the One," it's not him saying goodbye to a lady he can't stay around for. He gives the upper part of his range a work out as he begs the world not to leave, not to make him leave, and I could make an observation about fame in this time of two-minute attention spans...but I won't, because this lovely piece is so mellow. It's a fine send-off and a reminder that while the Not Rivers may be stretching their wings, there's a reason why this was his show for all those years.
There isn't a single bad song on this album: it's an incredibly varied collection and although it leaks some random parts, I'm awed by the creativity of the thing. As Weezer's forever awkward teenage nerds settle into their stable, comfortable adult lives and weather the music industry's turbulence on the cushion of their large fanbase, it's reassuring to know that just because you're an adult doesn't mean you can't keep dreaming.
Oh, Rivers Coumo. You're a world-famous rock star and you still stand behind the mic like you're self-consciously stalling until the REAL singer gets back from the bathroom. The only thing that keeps you there is sheer willpower.
But then that's your charm, and the charm of Weezer. These guys were nerdy before nerdy was chic, and it's reassuring to see that their sixteen years and millions in record sales haven't changed that much, even if, as this album suggests, the band is conducting some soul-searching and experimenting of their own.
The opening track "Troublemaker" is conventional enough: a youth-centered, adrenaline fueled thrill-ride centered around a kid declaring he's gonna be a rock star come fire, flood, parental disapproval or grounding. Five or ten years ago, this would have been a sure-fire radio hit and you would have heard boys and girls singing it in the locker rooms of high-schools all across the country. These days high-schoolers are usually too busy browsing myspace and listening to last.fm to care about what's on the radio, but it gets things off to an energetic start before the heavy stuff sets in. It's a song tailor made for and saved by Coumo's delicate but defiant vocal style, delivered as if he himself is desperate to believe he's actually telling the truth.
I know this album has been touted as "experimental" and a big example of why is song #2: "The Greatest Man that Ever Lived." This song is a self-conscious mix of styles which I am throughly too dull to even attempt to name. Just know there's a lot of them, and somehow, the song works anyway. It's a testament to how good of a hook-man Rivers really is.
Track number 3, "Pork and Beans" is a return to the theme of rebellion, and like Troublemaker it's a rabble rousing rock anthem given an almost desperate edge by Coumo's boisterous but frail character. It's catchy, it's fun, and it's already all over the radio. There is no escape.
Songs don't often give me goose-bumps and make me stop in my tracks, whatever I'm doing, to listen to it over and over again. Track 4, Heart Songs, did that. It's clear as a bell, slightly choral and plays like a hymn to a life lived in music. From the low-profile beginning to the revelation of a crescendo, I love every beautiful moment of this beautiful song.
Next up, "Everybody get dangerous." Again with the defiance, (yeah, get dangerous, fuck the system, yeah!) but with the twist this time that instead of writing about stuff he's done, instead Coumo is writing about stuff he hasn't done..... I think. He might never have tipped cows, but not much else is certain in this up-tempo, intense, very Weezer song. Wither it's real rebellion or vicarious imagination, the song is dark, wistful, and either a thrilling cautionary story or the fantasy of a good boy who sometimes wishes he were bad.
"Dreamin"' is a sonata. No really! It's got the four movements with the speed changes, the form, the up-tempo shifts, the slow dance movement, the quick finale...It's a friggin sonata as a rock song. Wether it's a good rock song, the answer is a resounding "maybe:" if you don't know what a sonata is, the song's shifts will seem random, maybe even disjointed. All in all it doesn't hold together as well as The Greatest Man that Ever Lived, but it makes my classical music loving geek happy, and it'll make you happy too if you're wondering how popular music format changes over the years. Or rather, how it does not.
Now things get tricky, because here something unprecedented has occurred.
Weezer has always contained two camps: one camp containing people named "Rivers Coumo" and one camp containing people NOT named Rivers Coumo. The Rivers make the rules. The Rivers write the songs, play lead, sing, and run the band. The Rivers is god. Don't question the Rivers.
Well the planets must have aligned somehow because holy crap, someone else let the Not-Rivers actually DO things! They are writing! They are singing! How it happened I don't know, but this is the kind of thing I love, because when creative people mix it up, that's when real magic can happen.
Brian Bell, second guitarist, is first to step up to the mic with "Thought I Knew," a cheesy little number with tightly constructed rhyming lyrics and a slight sci-fi folk-song flavor. It's inevitable that his voice will be compared to Rivers', so I'll just say Bell doesn't have that range, but as his voice scrapes the upper limits of his own register, he sounds both sardonic and heartfelt. It's not too challenging a song, but it's easy listening and there's a danger it'll get stuck in your head.
Definitely the most interesting song on the album comes from the bass player, Scott Shriner, and his "Cold Dark World." It's a blatantly romantic song, a man assuring a despairing but beautiful girl that he'll always be there for her, and here's the twist: the song is terrifying. The minor-key cords, the menacing bite the singer gives those sugar sweet lyrics (here Coumo's delicate voice wouldn't have fit) all add up to a rain-slicked horror movie of a song. It's like a glimpse inside the mind of a serial killer stalking his pray with his own sick kind of love, or it's from the woman's fear of strangers, but whatever it is, it's intense and dark and very, very cool.
After all that intensity it's nice to go back into outer space for another folk song for robots. Call me crazy but I like it. It's as mechanized as a robot, but it's a wistful robot with a beating heart and the slower, melodic pay-off is worth it. It's called "Automatic" and it features Patrick Wilson, Weezer's drummer sounding much more at-ease behind the mic then Rivers sounds banging away at the drum-kit. He sings like a singer and his voice has an echo of Coumo's in it's mix of rough and sweet.
Perhaps it's because my ears are attuned to the smaller soundscapes of the Not-Rivers, but when Coumo himself returns with the longing album closer "The Angel and the One," it's not him saying goodbye to a lady he can't stay around for. He gives the upper part of his range a work out as he begs the world not to leave, not to make him leave, and I could make an observation about fame in this time of two-minute attention spans...but I won't, because this lovely piece is so mellow. It's a fine send-off and a reminder that while the Not Rivers may be stretching their wings, there's a reason why this was his show for all those years.
There isn't a single bad song on this album: it's an incredibly varied collection and although it leaks some random parts, I'm awed by the creativity of the thing. As Weezer's forever awkward teenage nerds settle into their stable, comfortable adult lives and weather the music industry's turbulence on the cushion of their large fanbase, it's reassuring to know that just because you're an adult doesn't mean you can't keep dreaming.
Monday, May 25, 2009
The New York Dolls at the Grand Ballroom 5/24/2009
This is officially the most rock-filled week of my life. One would think I'd be rocked out by now, but hell, are you kidding me? The New York Dolls at a venue I wander by all the time? The New York Dolls? C'mon, of course I'm not gonna miss this one.
Me being me, of course I get the timing wrong and show up late: I missed the opening act and the New York Dolls were already 20 minutes into their set, so I grabbed a ticket ($30- more then I expected!) and went dashing directly into the ballroom.
The music hit me like a wave. This is a band that was built from the ground up for rowdy dancing. It's like time-travel: just like how B.B King offered a portal to the jazz dance-halls of the 50s, the New York Dolls will give you a glimpse of the New York rock clubs in the early 70s. You have to conjure the sticky floors, drag queens and drug dealers on your own, but you feel the mood.
And again with the bad audience karma. Round it goes, where it stops, nobody knows. The room was respectably about 3/4s full of mostly older white men and their mates. There were many Ramones-esque leather jackets in evidence. And the only people who were dancing were off to the left of the stage.
Well I sat through B.B's dance hall. Damned if I was going to sit through the Dolls. I also didn't want to be that dick who was jumping around amongst strangers who don't deserve it, so I needed to find some jumpers.
I finally found some in the very front row. That's how I ended up dancing with a goateed, handsome Russian boy who was very drunk and danced as badly as I do, so we were a good match. His sister arrived dressed in a self-made "Rock n' Roll Nurse" costume, which made me like her instantly. So I got my dancing in.
And I what a glorious soundtrack it was to dance to. This band is nothing short of fantastic live, and never let anyone tell you differently. So what if the drummer got ahead of the song on occasion? Train-wreaks are a Dolls tradition and no one does 'em with more flare. These guys strut, they pose, they preen, they wear gorgeous glammy trashy outfits and some stellar hats. David Johanson's throat is coated with sandpaper and honey, and with his heavy Staten Island accent and infinite swagger he can still kick your ass and look fabulous doing it. Technically speaking I think he's a better singer now then he was when he was young: age, smoking and tragedy have given his voice more texture and an edge of mortality that gives the slower songs their bite. He still dresses in low-riding jeans and women's blouses. He still owns the spotlight with the effortless charisma of a born star.
His partner in crime, the only other living member of the original Dolls line-up is rhythem guitarist Sylvain Sylvain: a short stout wiseguy with a vintage hollow-body and more enthusiasm for rock then a fourteen-year-old at a Jonas Brothers concert. the impression that he's a much better player then he chooses to be. He has got the technical goods, but for him style comes first, and his the bond between David and Syl is the beating heart of the band. David showed it too, always directing the spotlight Sil's way, declairing things like: "For this next song, Sylvain will play an acoustic guitar...and it will be so beautiful, that angels will come out of the walls and sprinkle angel dust upon everyone here." He was almost right.
Lead Guitarist Steve Conte (replacing the essentially irreplacable Johnny Thunders) wore a jaunty hat and his hair just so, and played his guitar like he could barely control it, even turned it upside down on one of the lights, rubbing the strings against the edge. The best thing I can say about him is he honors Thunder's memory while still having a kind of inept glory all his own. Sami Jaffa, the bassist, wore a pink waistcoat, a wide stance and a sneer. The drummer was bald, lofty, and aristocratic. They're as colorful a crew as you'll find anywhere.
It's hard to be objective about the Dolls. I have a soft spot for these guys so large it's not really a spot, it's like a huge bean-bag in my stomach.
When coming back onstage for the encore (orchestrated by Syl) David talked about how they'd never played this song live before. They were waiting for San Francisco, and I gotta hand it to the crowd: what they lacked in movement, they made up for in volume. He said to try and imagine what this song would look like. He said "This is an exorcism of despair!" and launched right into the rocking, which turned into "Personality Crisis," their single most recognizable tune/trainwreak and yes, it was magnificent.
Bruce Springsteen wrote that for a performer, your exhilaration is proportional to the void you are dancing over, and these guys (two of them at least) dance over the largest void imaginable everyday. These guys keep going out of love to their new band, as in synch with the spirit of the old group as you could wish. As important a group as they are (being the cradle of both punk rock and glam metal) they've never enjoyed the superstardom they deserve, and it's too bad because these guys are a masterful live band. Don't forget it.
Me being me, of course I get the timing wrong and show up late: I missed the opening act and the New York Dolls were already 20 minutes into their set, so I grabbed a ticket ($30- more then I expected!) and went dashing directly into the ballroom.
The music hit me like a wave. This is a band that was built from the ground up for rowdy dancing. It's like time-travel: just like how B.B King offered a portal to the jazz dance-halls of the 50s, the New York Dolls will give you a glimpse of the New York rock clubs in the early 70s. You have to conjure the sticky floors, drag queens and drug dealers on your own, but you feel the mood.
And again with the bad audience karma. Round it goes, where it stops, nobody knows. The room was respectably about 3/4s full of mostly older white men and their mates. There were many Ramones-esque leather jackets in evidence. And the only people who were dancing were off to the left of the stage.
Well I sat through B.B's dance hall. Damned if I was going to sit through the Dolls. I also didn't want to be that dick who was jumping around amongst strangers who don't deserve it, so I needed to find some jumpers.
I finally found some in the very front row. That's how I ended up dancing with a goateed, handsome Russian boy who was very drunk and danced as badly as I do, so we were a good match. His sister arrived dressed in a self-made "Rock n' Roll Nurse" costume, which made me like her instantly. So I got my dancing in.
And I what a glorious soundtrack it was to dance to. This band is nothing short of fantastic live, and never let anyone tell you differently. So what if the drummer got ahead of the song on occasion? Train-wreaks are a Dolls tradition and no one does 'em with more flare. These guys strut, they pose, they preen, they wear gorgeous glammy trashy outfits and some stellar hats. David Johanson's throat is coated with sandpaper and honey, and with his heavy Staten Island accent and infinite swagger he can still kick your ass and look fabulous doing it. Technically speaking I think he's a better singer now then he was when he was young: age, smoking and tragedy have given his voice more texture and an edge of mortality that gives the slower songs their bite. He still dresses in low-riding jeans and women's blouses. He still owns the spotlight with the effortless charisma of a born star.
His partner in crime, the only other living member of the original Dolls line-up is rhythem guitarist Sylvain Sylvain: a short stout wiseguy with a vintage hollow-body and more enthusiasm for rock then a fourteen-year-old at a Jonas Brothers concert. the impression that he's a much better player then he chooses to be. He has got the technical goods, but for him style comes first, and his the bond between David and Syl is the beating heart of the band. David showed it too, always directing the spotlight Sil's way, declairing things like: "For this next song, Sylvain will play an acoustic guitar...and it will be so beautiful, that angels will come out of the walls and sprinkle angel dust upon everyone here." He was almost right.
Lead Guitarist Steve Conte (replacing the essentially irreplacable Johnny Thunders) wore a jaunty hat and his hair just so, and played his guitar like he could barely control it, even turned it upside down on one of the lights, rubbing the strings against the edge. The best thing I can say about him is he honors Thunder's memory while still having a kind of inept glory all his own. Sami Jaffa, the bassist, wore a pink waistcoat, a wide stance and a sneer. The drummer was bald, lofty, and aristocratic. They're as colorful a crew as you'll find anywhere.
It's hard to be objective about the Dolls. I have a soft spot for these guys so large it's not really a spot, it's like a huge bean-bag in my stomach.
When coming back onstage for the encore (orchestrated by Syl) David talked about how they'd never played this song live before. They were waiting for San Francisco, and I gotta hand it to the crowd: what they lacked in movement, they made up for in volume. He said to try and imagine what this song would look like. He said "This is an exorcism of despair!" and launched right into the rocking, which turned into "Personality Crisis," their single most recognizable tune/trainwreak and yes, it was magnificent.
Bruce Springsteen wrote that for a performer, your exhilaration is proportional to the void you are dancing over, and these guys (two of them at least) dance over the largest void imaginable everyday. These guys keep going out of love to their new band, as in synch with the spirit of the old group as you could wish. As important a group as they are (being the cradle of both punk rock and glam metal) they've never enjoyed the superstardom they deserve, and it's too bad because these guys are a masterful live band. Don't forget it.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
NiN/JA Tour : Shoreline Ampitheater: 5/22/2009
This one has been The Big One for me for a good long time. Ever since I tripped on a twitter and fell headlong into Nine Inch Nails fandom, I have been waiting for this show.
The fact that it has Street Sweeper Social Club is a surprise bonus. One reason, two words: Tom Morello. That guy is everywhere. This has got to be something like his eighth band and normally I'd mock him for that but this time I totally don't care because every show needs more Tom Morello! It's the law or something.
Street Sweeper has really gelled since I saw their premiere in Seattle. Boots Reilly has got some seriously happy feet and watching him dance is fun just by itself, but with the volume turned up, his rapping's like a cold fast river. The Freedom Fighter Orchestra (now wearing different uniforms) have really come into their own. Carl Restivo especially flaunts that Gibson like HE'S the star, which is a big change since the first time I saw him, looking stoned and slightly vacant in the Filmore in SF way back in October 2008. This band has come a long way. My favorite song of theirs is STILL a cover (M.I.A's "Paper Planes") but they've proven themselves a real band, not a vanity project.
Nine Inch Nails of course were who I came to see: Trent Reznor and his crew of less-buff but equally pale side-kick/minions. It hurts me to admit that I think they got upstaged. Don't get me wrong, I ENJOY Nine Inch Nails music hugely and wore myself out jumping around to "1,000,000," "Discipline" and "Head like a Hole" (A song I was anticipating, "Survivalism" ended up sounding a bit like a train wreak) but...well, I donno. Something was just missing.
It wasn't Ilan Rubin: NiN's current drummer is 20-years of human-shaped whirlwind: all curly hair and flying sticks, and watching him get up from his stool to...I can only describe it as "scamper" over to the keyboard during "March of the Pigs" then scamper back to his drums was adorable AND rockin'! And that's an irrestable combination for me. Look out Jay Weinburg, you're not the only intensely talented percussionista prodigy out and about these days.
As for Trent Reznor himself, all I can say is that if ever a man was born to do a job, Reznor was born for this one. He's the Dark Prince counterpoint to Springsteen's sacred radiance, commanding the black fires of the underworld like no other performer out there. Modern times have produced no heirs. If he's serious that this is his last tour, then the music-loving world is about to suffer a huge loss, because his mix of rage, ironic tenderness, and genuine raw musical talent is worth seeing at least once in your life and I'm glad I can now say that I've done it.
It was pretty good. I was happy. Jane's Addiction, it turned out, would leave me happier, and not just because the two ladies in front of me were smoking a lot of weed. The show was a fantastic three ring circus with a more colorful lighting design and some surprisingly non-intrusive integration of a shadow-movie screen playing clips from Natural Born Killers and other films I've never seen.
Perry Farrel is easily one of the best frontmen I've ever seen. He makes the task of getting an audience to love you look effortless. Where Reznor kept himself to his brief speach about this "maybe" being his last tour (simultanius response is "boo!" and "Yeah right") Perry Ferrel chatted away like he was everyone's long-lost friend. Topics of his speeches included going easy on Obama ("Give him a chance, he can't be worse then what we had") his love of San Francisco ("We'd be your house band if you'd have us!") Bill Grahm ("I knew him, I know two of his kids, and his spirit lives on!") age ("I'm fifty, I hope I'm still going to shows like this when I'm 60!") and "faggy clothes" as an expression of freedom ("I'd rather die then give up my corset!"). The crowd adored him. His voice, though slightly distorted by a heavy echo effect, has an element of boyish sweetness that clashes with his decadent attitude. He's just a character, and he LOVES San Francisco. He should come back so we can elect him mayor.
Dave Navarro is always worth a second look. He seems to be frozen permanently in his mid 30s, and plays with his buff tattooed torso on full desplay. His stance is as wide as any classic punk rocker, and with his blistering, generally high-pitched guitar he sounded like a scar of sound, or a blinding flash of light. His playing is what gives the music it's teeth.
Perkins was playing in his underwear and hammering on two bass drums like he was two drummers glued together. He also couldn't resist mugging for the stage-camera to his left: he kept fixing it with deep stares, his head turned just so. Eric Avery, the original bassist and single reunion hold-out before now was the only one who didn't look like he was having an absolute blast. When Perry came to his side of the stage to bring the spotlight, Eric completely ignored him. He remained hunched over his bass, seemingly lost in the music and not really paying attention to anyone, even the audience until he decided to sit with his legs dangling off the stage. But he never lost the trademark Jane's Addiction deeply melodic groove, not even once, and it's easy to see how it just couldn't be the band it is without him.
The ignoring thing might have been in my imagination. Again, the ladies in front of me had a lot of weed. I left the venue feeling really good about the world.
This is being billed as Nine Inch Nails's farewell tour, and the comeback for the original Jane's Addiction (several attempts at replacing Avery have failed). Who knows what the future actually has in store for these two groups, but just this night, now was enough.
The fact that it has Street Sweeper Social Club is a surprise bonus. One reason, two words: Tom Morello. That guy is everywhere. This has got to be something like his eighth band and normally I'd mock him for that but this time I totally don't care because every show needs more Tom Morello! It's the law or something.
Street Sweeper has really gelled since I saw their premiere in Seattle. Boots Reilly has got some seriously happy feet and watching him dance is fun just by itself, but with the volume turned up, his rapping's like a cold fast river. The Freedom Fighter Orchestra (now wearing different uniforms) have really come into their own. Carl Restivo especially flaunts that Gibson like HE'S the star, which is a big change since the first time I saw him, looking stoned and slightly vacant in the Filmore in SF way back in October 2008. This band has come a long way. My favorite song of theirs is STILL a cover (M.I.A's "Paper Planes") but they've proven themselves a real band, not a vanity project.
Nine Inch Nails of course were who I came to see: Trent Reznor and his crew of less-buff but equally pale side-kick/minions. It hurts me to admit that I think they got upstaged. Don't get me wrong, I ENJOY Nine Inch Nails music hugely and wore myself out jumping around to "1,000,000," "Discipline" and "Head like a Hole" (A song I was anticipating, "Survivalism" ended up sounding a bit like a train wreak) but...well, I donno. Something was just missing.
It wasn't Ilan Rubin: NiN's current drummer is 20-years of human-shaped whirlwind: all curly hair and flying sticks, and watching him get up from his stool to...I can only describe it as "scamper" over to the keyboard during "March of the Pigs" then scamper back to his drums was adorable AND rockin'! And that's an irrestable combination for me. Look out Jay Weinburg, you're not the only intensely talented percussionista prodigy out and about these days.
As for Trent Reznor himself, all I can say is that if ever a man was born to do a job, Reznor was born for this one. He's the Dark Prince counterpoint to Springsteen's sacred radiance, commanding the black fires of the underworld like no other performer out there. Modern times have produced no heirs. If he's serious that this is his last tour, then the music-loving world is about to suffer a huge loss, because his mix of rage, ironic tenderness, and genuine raw musical talent is worth seeing at least once in your life and I'm glad I can now say that I've done it.
It was pretty good. I was happy. Jane's Addiction, it turned out, would leave me happier, and not just because the two ladies in front of me were smoking a lot of weed. The show was a fantastic three ring circus with a more colorful lighting design and some surprisingly non-intrusive integration of a shadow-movie screen playing clips from Natural Born Killers and other films I've never seen.
Perry Farrel is easily one of the best frontmen I've ever seen. He makes the task of getting an audience to love you look effortless. Where Reznor kept himself to his brief speach about this "maybe" being his last tour (simultanius response is "boo!" and "Yeah right") Perry Ferrel chatted away like he was everyone's long-lost friend. Topics of his speeches included going easy on Obama ("Give him a chance, he can't be worse then what we had") his love of San Francisco ("We'd be your house band if you'd have us!") Bill Grahm ("I knew him, I know two of his kids, and his spirit lives on!") age ("I'm fifty, I hope I'm still going to shows like this when I'm 60!") and "faggy clothes" as an expression of freedom ("I'd rather die then give up my corset!"). The crowd adored him. His voice, though slightly distorted by a heavy echo effect, has an element of boyish sweetness that clashes with his decadent attitude. He's just a character, and he LOVES San Francisco. He should come back so we can elect him mayor.
Dave Navarro is always worth a second look. He seems to be frozen permanently in his mid 30s, and plays with his buff tattooed torso on full desplay. His stance is as wide as any classic punk rocker, and with his blistering, generally high-pitched guitar he sounded like a scar of sound, or a blinding flash of light. His playing is what gives the music it's teeth.
Perkins was playing in his underwear and hammering on two bass drums like he was two drummers glued together. He also couldn't resist mugging for the stage-camera to his left: he kept fixing it with deep stares, his head turned just so. Eric Avery, the original bassist and single reunion hold-out before now was the only one who didn't look like he was having an absolute blast. When Perry came to his side of the stage to bring the spotlight, Eric completely ignored him. He remained hunched over his bass, seemingly lost in the music and not really paying attention to anyone, even the audience until he decided to sit with his legs dangling off the stage. But he never lost the trademark Jane's Addiction deeply melodic groove, not even once, and it's easy to see how it just couldn't be the band it is without him.
The ignoring thing might have been in my imagination. Again, the ladies in front of me had a lot of weed. I left the venue feeling really good about the world.
This is being billed as Nine Inch Nails's farewell tour, and the comeback for the original Jane's Addiction (several attempts at replacing Avery have failed). Who knows what the future actually has in store for these two groups, but just this night, now was enough.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Kings of Leon at Bill Grahm Civic Auditorium, San Francisco: 5/21/2009
Some things are all about timing.
I've seen obscure indy bands rock bars, playing to crowds that exist only in their starry-eyed dreams. I've seen veteran rockers raise the roof like they were born to do it.
I've never before seen a band like this one. They've been rock royalty for years now in places like England and Europe but an American breakthrough always eluded them, until now. Their 4th studio album finally produced their first bone-fide radio hit, and sent them on this current tour, their first head-lineing arenas across the country, and they clearly relish their new status as stadium rockers. They've finally made good, they're touring hard and partying harder, their crash is still pending. This is what a band at the very hight of it's abilities looks like.
It looks really good. Kings of Leon are what you would get if you threw southern swamp rock in a blender with gritty urban sleaze and just a twist of high technology. It's the restrained antidote to overblown flyover rock, and it's convinced me that West Coasters like me don't really know what we're talking about when we talk about "southern music." There's something dark and almost cosmic in their sound that's unlike anything else I've ever heard. In a world before the music industry collapse, they would have been headlineing eons ago.
Kings of Leon is a family band consisting of three brothers, plus one cousin, all named Fallowill. Caleb Followill is the lead singer, and as such did most of the interacting with the audience. He was falling-over drunk, but it didn't seem to slow him down or affect his now-famous, counter-intuitive old-man wheeze of a singing voice. He kept thanking the crowd, remembering how they played San Francisco a few years back... as an opening act. "We were always opening acts." And latter, "I know there's a lot of stuff you can spend your money on right now, so thanks for spending it on us." It was all very well-intentioned. He even mentioned that the group has the day-off tomorrow, so they might end up partying with some of us. Well not me: I'm heading off to see some NiN/JAs. But it's fun to imagine anyway.
But mostly the stage banter was disposable. He gets points though for saying "This one goes out to all those people sitting down...you guys in the front, you probably don't give a shit about this one." They were wrong. Everyone cares about "Sex on Fire." It's the stuff we came for. It's mind-blowing.
Have I mentioned the show rocked? Some groups, you see them once, and you know you'll be a fan forever. That's it.
Who knows what the future has in store for Kings of Leon, but they've proven there's at least one real band left in the world who made their fortune the hard way and now get to reap their reward.
I've seen obscure indy bands rock bars, playing to crowds that exist only in their starry-eyed dreams. I've seen veteran rockers raise the roof like they were born to do it.
I've never before seen a band like this one. They've been rock royalty for years now in places like England and Europe but an American breakthrough always eluded them, until now. Their 4th studio album finally produced their first bone-fide radio hit, and sent them on this current tour, their first head-lineing arenas across the country, and they clearly relish their new status as stadium rockers. They've finally made good, they're touring hard and partying harder, their crash is still pending. This is what a band at the very hight of it's abilities looks like.
It looks really good. Kings of Leon are what you would get if you threw southern swamp rock in a blender with gritty urban sleaze and just a twist of high technology. It's the restrained antidote to overblown flyover rock, and it's convinced me that West Coasters like me don't really know what we're talking about when we talk about "southern music." There's something dark and almost cosmic in their sound that's unlike anything else I've ever heard. In a world before the music industry collapse, they would have been headlineing eons ago.
Kings of Leon is a family band consisting of three brothers, plus one cousin, all named Fallowill. Caleb Followill is the lead singer, and as such did most of the interacting with the audience. He was falling-over drunk, but it didn't seem to slow him down or affect his now-famous, counter-intuitive old-man wheeze of a singing voice. He kept thanking the crowd, remembering how they played San Francisco a few years back... as an opening act. "We were always opening acts." And latter, "I know there's a lot of stuff you can spend your money on right now, so thanks for spending it on us." It was all very well-intentioned. He even mentioned that the group has the day-off tomorrow, so they might end up partying with some of us. Well not me: I'm heading off to see some NiN/JAs. But it's fun to imagine anyway.
But mostly the stage banter was disposable. He gets points though for saying "This one goes out to all those people sitting down...you guys in the front, you probably don't give a shit about this one." They were wrong. Everyone cares about "Sex on Fire." It's the stuff we came for. It's mind-blowing.
Have I mentioned the show rocked? Some groups, you see them once, and you know you'll be a fan forever. That's it.
Who knows what the future has in store for Kings of Leon, but they've proven there's at least one real band left in the world who made their fortune the hard way and now get to reap their reward.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
A Night at Benders
First off, Benders in San Francisco is a GREAT place to play gigs, get drunk, dance around and see live music. I've been in a number of bars, this is my favorite. And not JUST because their grill was still open at 11:30, allowing me to get meself a much-needed belly full of cheeseburger.
Really good vibes in this place. It's in a more residential part of the Mission district and it's got bike-racks, a low stage, tables, and the bar is right next to the door so that those who just want to duck in and get a beer don't jostle too much with those who are there to listen to the music and bounce around. The whole place just seemed like a happy place, and it was a good-sized crowd to, better then I've ever seen at Kimos, for instance. And people were DANCING.
I was there because I knew Inferno of Joy was playing again. I befriended these guys during one of their Kimos gigs, blogged about it here. They are still really good. They whip themselves into crazy sweats during their 40-minute bar sets. That frontman still wears the vest, the boa, the workshirt, the vinyl. Their dirty glam sound wouldn't have been out of place in the New York City the Velvet Underground and the New York Dolls inhabited, and I can't help it, I'm a sucker for a group that clearly cares so much about the show they put on. Guys, check these dudes out if you ever can.
There was only one other group on the bill called "He Who Must Not Be Named." This "He" was a shirtless, skiny guy in a Mexican wreastling mask who made a big show of being unable to talk in anything other then groans and squeals. This meant his band-mates, a female bass-player all in black with doc martins and two-tone hair, and a guitarist with an S.G, a cowboy hat, a cigarette, fine black leather loafers and a little black dress (Not a night out in San Francisco if there's not at least ONE man in a dress), had to translate his stage banter for him. It would have worked better if "He" wasn't suddenly singing coherent English after presumably having his will interpreted by his band-mates. But oh well. Also, the drummer was wearing a yellow afro wig made of These guys were a pretty straight up hard rock band: playing loud high on the fretboard and keeping up a pretty fast tempo for their entire set, which lead all the kids in what looked like a mosh. They even kicked over the drumset when they left. Rock and roll.
Short post, short evening. Oh well. Beddy time.
Really good vibes in this place. It's in a more residential part of the Mission district and it's got bike-racks, a low stage, tables, and the bar is right next to the door so that those who just want to duck in and get a beer don't jostle too much with those who are there to listen to the music and bounce around. The whole place just seemed like a happy place, and it was a good-sized crowd to, better then I've ever seen at Kimos, for instance. And people were DANCING.
I was there because I knew Inferno of Joy was playing again. I befriended these guys during one of their Kimos gigs, blogged about it here. They are still really good. They whip themselves into crazy sweats during their 40-minute bar sets. That frontman still wears the vest, the boa, the workshirt, the vinyl. Their dirty glam sound wouldn't have been out of place in the New York City the Velvet Underground and the New York Dolls inhabited, and I can't help it, I'm a sucker for a group that clearly cares so much about the show they put on. Guys, check these dudes out if you ever can.
There was only one other group on the bill called "He Who Must Not Be Named." This "He" was a shirtless, skiny guy in a Mexican wreastling mask who made a big show of being unable to talk in anything other then groans and squeals. This meant his band-mates, a female bass-player all in black with doc martins and two-tone hair, and a guitarist with an S.G, a cowboy hat, a cigarette, fine black leather loafers and a little black dress (Not a night out in San Francisco if there's not at least ONE man in a dress), had to translate his stage banter for him. It would have worked better if "He" wasn't suddenly singing coherent English after presumably having his will interpreted by his band-mates. But oh well. Also, the drummer was wearing a yellow afro wig made of These guys were a pretty straight up hard rock band: playing loud high on the fretboard and keeping up a pretty fast tempo for their entire set, which lead all the kids in what looked like a mosh. They even kicked over the drumset when they left. Rock and roll.
Short post, short evening. Oh well. Beddy time.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Chris Cornell at the Grand Ballroom: San Francisco 5/1/2009
I wasn't going to write this blog. But hell, if Hard Rock Chick can say it, so can I.
For those of you who have stuck with this since the beginning (thanks Dad!) you might remember that the first show I ever blogged about was Chris Cornell in Santa Cruz. I enjoyed it: it was loud, the band had fun chemistry, and Cornell's kid-friendly charm and effortless charisma carried the day. I hadn't heard much of his stuff (some Audioslave, some Soundgarden, and "You Know my Name") but I had a good time.
A lot has happened since then. "Scream" came out: you can read my opinion of it here. I ended up getting banned from Chris's forum for reasons still unclear to me (though some...'ahem, "spirited" debates might have had something to do with it.) But the most significant thing was that I've seen, in person, Chris's old bandmates. I've seen Tom Morello play three times. I've seen what a glorious monster he is. Pete Thorn and Yogi are excellent guitar players, but with their powers combined, they can't come close to the unholy might of Morello's infamous "Arm the Homeless" and when they play those Audioslave covers, damned if you know it.
And I saw Soundgarden. Soundgarden as a beast without a head, but a living beast. It was nothing less then astounding.
Chris played two of the three Tadgarden songs. They were fine.
Really, that's how I describe this show. To sum-up: it was fine.
Chris's backing-bandmates are more fused with each other and with Chris. They have the feel of a group with serious road-miles under their belt. They were fine too, but I couldn't help but wonder if, and why, they were jostling with Chris for the spotlight. Or why Chris would give it to them. They're HIS backing band, after all. I guess the respect-your-bandmates stage instinct hasn't entirely left him, which is to his credit actually but it makes for a confusing live experience: who are you supposed to watch? Why would you watch someone you didn't come to see? Who are these musicians anyway?
They deserve better. Yogi in particular is a lovely player with a fluid, effortless style and I hope that very soon he will have better gigs then this one.
Okay kids, today I am going to tell you about something called "Frontman Syndrome." Every music fan knows that you can't have a great band without having a great frontman: he's the face of the group, the one the audience is going to project onto. The best frontmen have charisma and personalities that become intertwined with the group's sound and identity.
When band's break up (happens sometimes) and those frontmen go solo, they often find they're suffering from the blessing and curse of being literally unable to open their mouths without conjuring the ghost of their old band. Or both of their old bands, in Chris's case. This is "Frontman Syndrome." It's nostalgia on such an unconscious level that it's often mistaken for something else, and the danger becomes when the singer himself doesn't know that he's cruising on someone's fond memories instead of current reality.
Chris Cornell has justified all the covers he plays by pointing out he wrote all the music for them anyway, but it doesn't matter who wrote them when that essential, insubstantial something is missing.
He'll keep touring. With each show he'll get more easy, more confident, more comfortable. And I suspect my love of the old stuff is strong enough to keep me comming back.
But don't go looking for rock fire here. It's like the brief, breathtaking pose that Cornell struck with his acoustic: legs wide, head down, hair flying as the band kicked in at the end of his solo acoustic set.
Seeing him in that pose, just for a moment, that acoustic is a skuzzy black Gibson. That hair is even longer. You see the shadows of Kim Thayil, standing a mile high, and Ben Shepard's cool swagger. You hear the ghost of Cameron's extra drums and flying sticks. And for a moment, a brief moment, you get the smallest glimpse of the stuff musical legends are made of.
Then it's gone.
What you're left with is just fine.
Also, those hecklers were back. You know, the ones from Tom Morello's show. I couldn't believe it. They started a goddamn fistfight right in front of me. Thank God they didn't recognize me. Dreamer's bad audience karma: will it ever end?
For those of you who have stuck with this since the beginning (thanks Dad!) you might remember that the first show I ever blogged about was Chris Cornell in Santa Cruz. I enjoyed it: it was loud, the band had fun chemistry, and Cornell's kid-friendly charm and effortless charisma carried the day. I hadn't heard much of his stuff (some Audioslave, some Soundgarden, and "You Know my Name") but I had a good time.
A lot has happened since then. "Scream" came out: you can read my opinion of it here. I ended up getting banned from Chris's forum for reasons still unclear to me (though some...'ahem, "spirited" debates might have had something to do with it.) But the most significant thing was that I've seen, in person, Chris's old bandmates. I've seen Tom Morello play three times. I've seen what a glorious monster he is. Pete Thorn and Yogi are excellent guitar players, but with their powers combined, they can't come close to the unholy might of Morello's infamous "Arm the Homeless" and when they play those Audioslave covers, damned if you know it.
And I saw Soundgarden. Soundgarden as a beast without a head, but a living beast. It was nothing less then astounding.
Chris played two of the three Tadgarden songs. They were fine.
Really, that's how I describe this show. To sum-up: it was fine.
Chris's backing-bandmates are more fused with each other and with Chris. They have the feel of a group with serious road-miles under their belt. They were fine too, but I couldn't help but wonder if, and why, they were jostling with Chris for the spotlight. Or why Chris would give it to them. They're HIS backing band, after all. I guess the respect-your-bandmates stage instinct hasn't entirely left him, which is to his credit actually but it makes for a confusing live experience: who are you supposed to watch? Why would you watch someone you didn't come to see? Who are these musicians anyway?
They deserve better. Yogi in particular is a lovely player with a fluid, effortless style and I hope that very soon he will have better gigs then this one.
Okay kids, today I am going to tell you about something called "Frontman Syndrome." Every music fan knows that you can't have a great band without having a great frontman: he's the face of the group, the one the audience is going to project onto. The best frontmen have charisma and personalities that become intertwined with the group's sound and identity.
When band's break up (happens sometimes) and those frontmen go solo, they often find they're suffering from the blessing and curse of being literally unable to open their mouths without conjuring the ghost of their old band. Or both of their old bands, in Chris's case. This is "Frontman Syndrome." It's nostalgia on such an unconscious level that it's often mistaken for something else, and the danger becomes when the singer himself doesn't know that he's cruising on someone's fond memories instead of current reality.
Chris Cornell has justified all the covers he plays by pointing out he wrote all the music for them anyway, but it doesn't matter who wrote them when that essential, insubstantial something is missing.
He'll keep touring. With each show he'll get more easy, more confident, more comfortable. And I suspect my love of the old stuff is strong enough to keep me comming back.
But don't go looking for rock fire here. It's like the brief, breathtaking pose that Cornell struck with his acoustic: legs wide, head down, hair flying as the band kicked in at the end of his solo acoustic set.
Seeing him in that pose, just for a moment, that acoustic is a skuzzy black Gibson. That hair is even longer. You see the shadows of Kim Thayil, standing a mile high, and Ben Shepard's cool swagger. You hear the ghost of Cameron's extra drums and flying sticks. And for a moment, a brief moment, you get the smallest glimpse of the stuff musical legends are made of.
Then it's gone.
What you're left with is just fine.
Also, those hecklers were back. You know, the ones from Tom Morello's show. I couldn't believe it. They started a goddamn fistfight right in front of me. Thank God they didn't recognize me. Dreamer's bad audience karma: will it ever end?
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