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.
Showing posts with label Kimos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kimos. Show all posts
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Another Night At Kimos
I broke my own rule with this one, because I'm typing it the day after. I was so exhausted by the time I got home that I could barely get my head on the pillows before I was unconscious.
It was a three-band night at Kimos last night, and seems the theme was pop-metal. The bands were good: I had a fun time bouncing around, but despite some really impeccable musicianship none of them were particularly memorable.
With the exception of the singer from The Backup Razor, the first band of the night. That guy alternately morphed between a Green Day type bratty whine, a hellish metal demon's scream, and a Trent-Reznor sinister whisper. He was three singers in one, sporting impressive dreadlocks and some one-liners lazily mocking the crowd for hanging around the corners of the room. That was partly their fault: they launched into a one-minute long song about beer with Ramones-style speed, not giving anyone any time to get to the front. Their music is fast hard rock that's almost metal, and it's good fun for the nodding-your-head crowd, but two days on, I couldn't tell you what my impression of their songs were.
Two Headed Spy were also a four-peice, except their frontman had a guitar, their bassist had technical difficulties, and their lead guitarist had a vintage Rage Against the Machine T-Shirt which explains the more hook-heavy nu-metal of this particular group. The two guitarists allowed for a more filled-out sound, and there was a cool part where the lead guitarist played a bongo drum for a couple minutes, and overall their sound was more complex and detailed then their opening act. They even covered for their poor fumbling bassist by launching into an impromptu jam-session on a song that they later told us was unfinished. I enjoyed the fact that their arrangements were more detailed and subtle then the preceeding act, and in that, I think, they showed the most promise. I can see them evolving into something really special someday.
I was sad to say, and maybe a lot of it was my own fault for being so dog-tired, but as the last band of the night Solcraft were putting me to sleep. It wasn't their fault, probably: the lead singer spent most of his time off the stage, dancing with some ladies who were clearly friends of the band, and at his absolute worst he was still a strong singer. That guitar player was the single most impressive player of the night: morphing seemlessly from metal to blues to hard rock and back to metal, often within the same song, and letting fly on cue with some seering high-on-the-fretboard solos. But for me, the interest just wasn't there. I was more then ready to leave by the time their set wrapped up.
Walking back towards Van Ness (or as I like to call it "Where the Taxis are") was kind of like walking through a ghost-town. So many "For Lease" signs. And the big Virgin Megastore downtown (the landmark I can always use to find my way to the Metrion) is going out of business so I went there and spent $90 on stuff and enjoyed their chipper British live DJ while he's still got a job.
Times is hard.
It was a three-band night at Kimos last night, and seems the theme was pop-metal. The bands were good: I had a fun time bouncing around, but despite some really impeccable musicianship none of them were particularly memorable.
With the exception of the singer from The Backup Razor, the first band of the night. That guy alternately morphed between a Green Day type bratty whine, a hellish metal demon's scream, and a Trent-Reznor sinister whisper. He was three singers in one, sporting impressive dreadlocks and some one-liners lazily mocking the crowd for hanging around the corners of the room. That was partly their fault: they launched into a one-minute long song about beer with Ramones-style speed, not giving anyone any time to get to the front. Their music is fast hard rock that's almost metal, and it's good fun for the nodding-your-head crowd, but two days on, I couldn't tell you what my impression of their songs were.
Two Headed Spy were also a four-peice, except their frontman had a guitar, their bassist had technical difficulties, and their lead guitarist had a vintage Rage Against the Machine T-Shirt which explains the more hook-heavy nu-metal of this particular group. The two guitarists allowed for a more filled-out sound, and there was a cool part where the lead guitarist played a bongo drum for a couple minutes, and overall their sound was more complex and detailed then their opening act. They even covered for their poor fumbling bassist by launching into an impromptu jam-session on a song that they later told us was unfinished. I enjoyed the fact that their arrangements were more detailed and subtle then the preceeding act, and in that, I think, they showed the most promise. I can see them evolving into something really special someday.
I was sad to say, and maybe a lot of it was my own fault for being so dog-tired, but as the last band of the night Solcraft were putting me to sleep. It wasn't their fault, probably: the lead singer spent most of his time off the stage, dancing with some ladies who were clearly friends of the band, and at his absolute worst he was still a strong singer. That guitar player was the single most impressive player of the night: morphing seemlessly from metal to blues to hard rock and back to metal, often within the same song, and letting fly on cue with some seering high-on-the-fretboard solos. But for me, the interest just wasn't there. I was more then ready to leave by the time their set wrapped up.
Walking back towards Van Ness (or as I like to call it "Where the Taxis are") was kind of like walking through a ghost-town. So many "For Lease" signs. And the big Virgin Megastore downtown (the landmark I can always use to find my way to the Metrion) is going out of business so I went there and spent $90 on stuff and enjoyed their chipper British live DJ while he's still got a job.
Times is hard.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Another Night at Kimos
This show was free, since I still had the wristband from the night before. My conscience didn't put up too much of a fight. I am a cheap bastard.
Going to this place on your own, if you're seeking to enjoy the music and not socialize, is a bit awkward. I gotta say, this place attracts some colorful characters, and not all of them are the types you want to talk to, but avoiding contact with them in a place this small? Not the easiest thing in the world. Still, no one was really threatening and it was relatively simple to set up a base camp where you could keep watch over your stuff and still check out the music.
It was a four-band night but I missed the first act. The last three were serrial nightmares, in ways both good and bad.
I am perceptive when it comes to art. I can usually read an artist's intention and subtext with reliable accuracy. JEALOUSY, the group, clearly operates on some level I simply cannot grasp.
One relatively-normal looking musician guy in a hat, playing with delay and reverb and a whole plate of effects pedals, doing some spoken-word thing so heavily echoed that I couldn't make out any of it, backed up by a woman in a 1950s style polka-dotted dress, red nylons, and some 1920s-1960s era porn projected on the wall upside down. That was their backdrop. A tall blond girl was also apparently part of the band?... She was so drunk she couldn't stand up straight, she almost fell on me while I crouched to get a better look at the spectacle onstage, offered me a sip of her drink as an appology, walked onstage, collapsed against the wall and, it looked like...fell asleep? Then got up, wandered over to the guy playing the effects-bass, threw her arms around him and warbled into his microphone. I assume she was..part...of...the show? I'm not sure. And there was a lanky drag queen in colorful cleft-palate style make up eating bananas while posing elegantly on a folding chair right there in front, right onstage. The bananas had been painted black. That was all he did. It was all very...artistic? Yeah. I don't even know. After that I hoped the next act would be a bit more straightforward.
It was, but only a bit. Aunt Dracula are a Philadelphia psychadelic band that suffers from a severe lack of a rhythem section. Two guitarists, one pale and red-headed with a striped polo shirt, the other with a silver plaid shirt and a hat that matched, and a long-haired guy who'd qualify as a giant bent over a PC clicking a mouse to produce bursts of drum noises. Guys.... you're great with the effects. It's all very trippy, but without a real rhythem section, the whole thing feels rootless. Not a very memorable set.
I gotta say this about The New Thrill Parade: they were memorable. They were also the most serreal nightmarish brood of the night. Think CAKE's rythems and diverse instrumentation, but with the tempo slowed to a funeral march and a singer who spends each song sobbing and begging and sucking on his microphone. That was when he wasn't wearing his pink pig gimp-mask. This whole line-up looked like the cast of some dark Wonderland type fable. The big percussionist on the floor, banging out on a pair of cymbols and a drum, actually rocked back in forth, miming like he was sobbing his heart out, dressed in a flesh-tone apron criss-crossed with strips of color, like some sort of color butcher throwing a tantrum. the saxaphonist was a girl in a hoody wearing what looked like a net made of torn gray sheets and a full-face gorrilla mask. A huge bass player had a fringed cape and a round old-man bubble mask. The keyboardist/violenist wore a cardigan and a steady expression, looking like a cousin of Steve from Blue's Clues and just as unphased about his unreal surroundings. The Guitarist stood out just because he was a guy in a t-shirt and jeans.
Guys, either everyone in the band should wear the crazy, or no one in the band should wear the crazy. When one guy is wearing homemade overalls and fashing his nipples while begging for his life through a pig gimp-mask, and one guy looks totally normal, it just dysrupts the band visual synch, and you SHOULD be visually in synch. Figure out the cast of characters you want and stick to it.
That said, this group will haunt me. I'm not even sure if I liked them or not, but I know they unsettled me. Which might have been their aim.
I gotta get better at this art thing, maybe.
Going to this place on your own, if you're seeking to enjoy the music and not socialize, is a bit awkward. I gotta say, this place attracts some colorful characters, and not all of them are the types you want to talk to, but avoiding contact with them in a place this small? Not the easiest thing in the world. Still, no one was really threatening and it was relatively simple to set up a base camp where you could keep watch over your stuff and still check out the music.
It was a four-band night but I missed the first act. The last three were serrial nightmares, in ways both good and bad.
I am perceptive when it comes to art. I can usually read an artist's intention and subtext with reliable accuracy. JEALOUSY, the group, clearly operates on some level I simply cannot grasp.
One relatively-normal looking musician guy in a hat, playing with delay and reverb and a whole plate of effects pedals, doing some spoken-word thing so heavily echoed that I couldn't make out any of it, backed up by a woman in a 1950s style polka-dotted dress, red nylons, and some 1920s-1960s era porn projected on the wall upside down. That was their backdrop. A tall blond girl was also apparently part of the band?... She was so drunk she couldn't stand up straight, she almost fell on me while I crouched to get a better look at the spectacle onstage, offered me a sip of her drink as an appology, walked onstage, collapsed against the wall and, it looked like...fell asleep? Then got up, wandered over to the guy playing the effects-bass, threw her arms around him and warbled into his microphone. I assume she was..part...of...the show? I'm not sure. And there was a lanky drag queen in colorful cleft-palate style make up eating bananas while posing elegantly on a folding chair right there in front, right onstage. The bananas had been painted black. That was all he did. It was all very...artistic? Yeah. I don't even know. After that I hoped the next act would be a bit more straightforward.
It was, but only a bit. Aunt Dracula are a Philadelphia psychadelic band that suffers from a severe lack of a rhythem section. Two guitarists, one pale and red-headed with a striped polo shirt, the other with a silver plaid shirt and a hat that matched, and a long-haired guy who'd qualify as a giant bent over a PC clicking a mouse to produce bursts of drum noises. Guys.... you're great with the effects. It's all very trippy, but without a real rhythem section, the whole thing feels rootless. Not a very memorable set.
I gotta say this about The New Thrill Parade: they were memorable. They were also the most serreal nightmarish brood of the night. Think CAKE's rythems and diverse instrumentation, but with the tempo slowed to a funeral march and a singer who spends each song sobbing and begging and sucking on his microphone. That was when he wasn't wearing his pink pig gimp-mask. This whole line-up looked like the cast of some dark Wonderland type fable. The big percussionist on the floor, banging out on a pair of cymbols and a drum, actually rocked back in forth, miming like he was sobbing his heart out, dressed in a flesh-tone apron criss-crossed with strips of color, like some sort of color butcher throwing a tantrum. the saxaphonist was a girl in a hoody wearing what looked like a net made of torn gray sheets and a full-face gorrilla mask. A huge bass player had a fringed cape and a round old-man bubble mask. The keyboardist/violenist wore a cardigan and a steady expression, looking like a cousin of Steve from Blue's Clues and just as unphased about his unreal surroundings. The Guitarist stood out just because he was a guy in a t-shirt and jeans.
Guys, either everyone in the band should wear the crazy, or no one in the band should wear the crazy. When one guy is wearing homemade overalls and fashing his nipples while begging for his life through a pig gimp-mask, and one guy looks totally normal, it just dysrupts the band visual synch, and you SHOULD be visually in synch. Figure out the cast of characters you want and stick to it.
That said, this group will haunt me. I'm not even sure if I liked them or not, but I know they unsettled me. Which might have been their aim.
I gotta get better at this art thing, maybe.
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