Live Reviews
FAT DAY, NEPTUNE
Great Scott
8/15/04
I’m really pleased to see this place actually looking crowded for a weird noisy show on a Sunday night! The first local band is Neptune, and their vast, impressive array of homemade instruments (even the guitars). Neptune’s sound is also not particularly melodic (except on their Go-Go’s cover), but their rich, metallic guitar and bass sounds really draw the ear, and the dual drummers, with their wide variety of interesting objects to hit, are endlessly fascinating. The vocals tend to be poetic, somewhat abstract spoken word, and the compositions are long and complicated, ebbing and flowing, dropping themes and then returning to them later. There’s some painful dissonance woven into one or two songs, but it’s a good, releasing sort of pain, like biting down on a dully aching tooth. Lots of boundaries are pushed, and very successfully. I like it.
Last up is Fat Day. They have these incredibly cool-looking helmets studded with little metal tabs that turn out to be synthesizer keys, so that all four of them can reach up and play keyboards on their heads! This looks promising. They insist that all the lights be turned off, and they play a four-part helmet-key song, with Christmas lights flashing. The harmonies and song structure are oddly traditional, even medieval, and it sounds like badly synthesized bagpipes. This goes on quite a while. Then they turn on blazingly bright lights at the back of the stage, pointed out into the audience, and play a rapid series of nearly identical half-minute punk songs while the vocalist shrieks and squeals and is barely audible. Then another long, droning helmet key thing, and then more tiny little screamers. Neither schtick is particularly compelling; I feel betrayed to have found them so promising.
MISSION OF BURMA
The Hot Tin Roof (Edgartown, MA)
7/10/04
Roll over Kurt Cobain, tell Ian Curtis the news, Mission of Burma (sans Bob Weston) play Carly Simon’s old club on the Vineyard to a crowd that was mostly still in pampers when the group broke up in 1983. (Full disclosure: I was never THAT big a fan, so now might be the time to reach for your revolver.) As tinnitus-afflicted Roger Miller dons his earplugs and firing range headphones, I can’t help thinking that the wages of din are deafness, and they don’t play as loud as they probably once did, but from Roger’s first guitar strums, and his pop-eyed glare at the crowd (he’s either got lasers for eyes or is wide awake behind something —he even polls the audience as to who’s on drugs), I’m glad to be here, half-pogoing along to their bombastic smart-punk, hard-headed militancy. Clint Conley’s faux-Brit accent sounds almost classic, and Peter Prescott’s tight pulsing drums remind me of how urgent it all once was—and still is, as when after “Academy Fight Song,” Roger tells everyone to give Bush the boot next November. If I detect a whiff of nostalgia, what’s wrong with nostalgia? They belt out the Dadas from “Max Ernst” until they look depleted. Roger’s hulky swagger (he looks like a beef-fed David Byrne) and ease along the fingerboard are the star of the show—and could be addictive. When he breaks into a noisy chicken-scratching Schoenberg-does-Ornette Coleman guitar solo, Clint follows, and that is when they really have their fun. (Donald Nitchie)
THE PILLS, BLEU, JAKE ZAVRACKY & THE
CYANIDE VALENTINE
The Middle East
6/18/04
I’m up front for Jake Zavracky & The Cyanide Valentine. The first song is a little dance-y for me, but Eric Barlowe’s bizarre orally modulated guitar part (guitar out to a tube taped to the microphone) keeps it interesting. And the next song is more of a rocker. In fact, as the set progresses, I hear a whole lot of different elements. This is post modern rock: pulling in snippets and patterns and stylistic quirks from all different periods of rock history and stewing them up together. So if “Freaks” is way too disco for me, well, there’s some of everything here, and the next song is different again. There’s one (it might be called “You’re The Focus”) which is very catchy, but he sort of already wrote it a couple of times as Quick Fix songs. Nevertheless, it gets a great huge roar of approval from the audience.
Bleu starts out with just a drummer, Matt, who does double duty with Bleu and The Pills tonight. Bleu plays simple guitar lines and some keyboard accents and sets them looping, then plays and sings over them. That part is really cool, and Bleu is an amazing vocalist, with a strong, clear, beautiful voice and serious range and control. His songs are cheesy as fuck: cloying, and kind of obvious, and catchy in a way that makes me wish they weren’t so catchy. But he sings them so well! After several songs, he’s joined by quite a talented band, and then by the Get Up Choir, a couple dozen backup singers who crowd in in front of the stage. I’ve never seen this before, and it’s a very interesting effect.
Finally, it’s The Pills’ last show. The sadness of this occasion is made bearable only by the fact that every Pills show is a joyous explosion of musical energy. The Pills’ marriage of rock ‘n’ roll guts with pure pop glory makes (or, I suppose, made) them, in one particular way, the perfect live band. The entire front line is consummate frontmen, yet there’s never a hint of ego or jockeying for position (Even when Dave Thompson introduces the unutterably gorgeous “Halifax” by wryly observing that it’s his wife’s favorite Pills song, and Corin wrote it.) and the harmonies available to three such accomplished singers are ridiculous. After practically a whole set’s worth of great rock, they start swapping in emeritus members:
Drummer Jamie Vavra flew in from LA just for this show! Then Clyde O’Scope comes in for Dave Aaronoff; his guitar style is a bit flashier, and it’s interesting to see the contrast. After a single song with The Pills original drummer (when they were still called The Penny Dreadfuls) John Walton, we get Matt AND Jamie, and Dave AND Clyde, for a six-piece Pills of unprecedented power. The last song has a sweet dueling drum fills section. It’s a hell of a show, and a great way to go out. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
THE HIDDEN, THE MIDNIGHT CREEPS, WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE
The New Wave Café (New Bedford, MA)
8/6/04
We’re All Gonna Die is a working man’s outfit that is perfect for New Bedford. Jim Healey sways his black axe, heavy, bald and wild eyed, stalking the left side of the stage, heaving a chugging throttle of howitzer blasts. He has a howling, disciplined voice and commands the room with an unrelenting sense of high violence. His brother Scott is controlling the drums, head down, drunk as hell on warm Schlitz, riding his cymbals intensely left to right, beating his skins in sharp time with Russ Boudreau, their first cousin, a Boston Irish bone-breaker, all business, chopping his bass up and down through the assault-riff rigors of “No Roof,” anchoring the barreling nuance of barroom metal with a bellowing low-end throb. On their technically well-executed Go To Hell LP, they swing a too close to Staind territory, but live, they’re an arching, blood-brother wrecking ball of 250 lb. pummel-fuck.
The Midnight Creeps bend next into the crux of a late summer witching hour. Jenny Hurricane shifts personalities through the three-song opener. In “Menstrual Institution” she snarls the snarl of too many anonymous London flats and Midwestern living rooms; a small city queen late in her rule, waiting for the axe to fall, costumed and smeared, cold sweat glistening on the white of her fishnet thighs. The band looks tired, uprooted, testing another new guitarist for a cross-country jaunt. He’s young and intimidated but feigns a Johnny Thunder’s backstep kick to break the panic. Jonas Parmalee is almost physically absent on the bass, but still firmly tied in. Jeff Creep, the wiry, ex-con sometimes spokesman, thrashes happily in the back, keeping a swell of kick-and-tom swagger snapping around the room. They close on “Dancing With Myself”; the Hurricane douses herself with expensive bottled water, for lack of lighter fluid, and rubs herself all feline off and down into the back room to a den of cigarettes and accolades while her boys change over the stage.
The Hidden rise up out of the ashes of 1:00AM to close the night. The outfit is a cerebral horror-punk blank-out; a menacing and archaic slipstream guillotine of mathematical minor chord progressions swelling over swinging, labored percussion. Kevin Grant is a rarity; a true, unhinged front-man, but on this night, he starts out stiff, seemingly waiting for the gears to click into red and detonate. His lyrics are cryptic, neo-gothic sermons, elaborately spit with a roaring intensity. The brothers Brockman, Daniel and James, share 6-string duty behind him, bathed in hues of red and green light. Daniel plays through a freshly broken leg, leaning on a stool, wincing admirably while he and his brother lay down a back-and-forth momentum of high-end deathdream riffery. At times, The Hidden are a bit compositionally over-reaching, but on more driving songs like “The Goat” and “Kings Make Slaves,” they prove to be a crushing power-pulse of hammering ego and cutthroat Black-Mass malice. They finish in forty minutes and crawl back to the dank underbelly of The Wave, lost in the blue-collar din of another New Bedford night. (Paul Hullabaloo)
DEAR LEADER, COUNT ZERO, THE FLY SEVILLE
The Middle East
6/24/04
Tonight is a Rock For Kerry benefit. The first band I see is The Fly Seville. (I’m told I missed a great opener, UV Protection.) The only other time I saw The Fly Seville, they were opening for the Throwing Muses reunion show, so I just desperately wanted them off the stage, and they were sick, besides. They’re much better tonight. Their songs are catchy, melodic, mid-tempo indie-pop, with a certain gravitas to them. The playing and singing are good, with nice keyboards and really pretty, delicate harmonies. Alas, there’s a fairly severe Mid-Tempo Rocker Problem. They never break out, and never really venture far from their one groove. So it gets kind of boring. Good, but boring.
Count Zero are anything but boring. Spastic, eclectic, and bizarre, yes. They open with “Sham Maker,” which was written for the first President Bush. (You know, the one we ELECTED?) It’s a raucous start, but the set mellows with some newer, slower numbers, complete with challenging rhythms and instrumentation. This is a band that folds a lot of weird samples into their mix without coming out sounding like a synthesizer band. And one keyboard player also plays lap steel (as well as plain old guitar). Four different people sing at various times, but Peter Moore is the frontman, who sings lead on most songs, and is the one who dazzles with his vocal gymnastics and shifting personae. They finish with a Devo cover (on which the bassist lets some old guy at the side of the stage do his strumming for a few bars), and leave the stage to truly wild cheering.
Dear Leader is an odd band for me to try to review, since they have Paul Buckley, one of the best drummers in Boston. So, I know that there’s guitars and bass and vocals and songwriting, all the standard elements, and in fact Aaron Perrino is a well-known and beloved Boston frontman, but I’m totally focused on the drums. So, briefly, Aaron still has a way with a pop song and a jangly shoegazing wash of guitar, his voice is a little pinched and nasal for me, and he sounds great when he screams. The drums are a little conventional for the first two songs, and I worry that maybe Pauly is toning it down for this project, but he breaks out on the third song with a magnificent succession of cool, innovative patterns and blazingly wonderful fills. He pretty much never looks back, and I’m grinning like a fool for the rest of the set. For me, I swear, the point of the rest of the band is to get him booked and playing. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
THE FIGGS, THE CANDY BUTCHERS, THE RUDDS
T.T. The Bear’s
8/6/04
Local favorites The Rudds lead the evening off with a set of very catchy pop songs from their 2003 debut CD and from their soon-to-be-released follow up. The crowd is jam-packed with Rudds fans who know all the lyrics. Lead guitarist Brett Rosenberg’s playing is tastefully powerful, never overblown, a perfect compliment to the sugary vocals of front man John Powhida. The rhythm section is tight and professional, never flashy, but never missing a beat. Somehow, though, Powhida’s neo-Todd Rundgren vibe just doesn’t work for me. While I enjoyed them much more live than on CD, I still couldn’t help wishing that I was seeing The Brett Rosenberg Problem instead.
Following The Rudds are The Candy Butchers, which consists, at least tonight, of Mike Viola on vocals, acoustic and electric guitar, and keyboards; Pete Donnelly on bass; Mike Gent on lead guitar; and Todd Foulsham on drums. Even with 50% of their lineup being comprised of 66.7% of The Figgs, The Candy Butchers still sound 100% like Mike Viola. They come down decidedly on the pop side of power pop, more Squeeze than Cheap Trick, more Crowded House than The Knack. Viola’s a low-key front man, but so comfortable and natural-seeming on stage that he is able to hold my attention without any flamboyant showmanship. I like The Candy Butchers enough that I buy their new CD, Hang on Mike.
And now The Figgs take what was already a very good night up to the next level. This is absolutely perfect rock ‘n’ roll. I keep having flashbacks to The Cavern Club in 1962. Not because they sound like The Beatles, but because they own this audience, and because they play loose and natural, and are completely genuine. The three members of The Figgs—Gent, Donnelly, and Pete Hayes—are all impressively talented. By adding Mike Viola to the line up, and by switching instruments every once in a while, they are able to create a variety of moods, all of them fun. I honestly don’t know when I’ve seen a better rock ‘n’ roll show. If I never see another live rock show ever again, at least I’ll know that I saw the greatest band on earth. The Figgs rule! (Brian Mosher)
GATSBY, MERCURY CHARM OFFENSIVE,
THE SPOILERS, THE DRAGS
The Middle East
7/1/04
I half expected to hate The Drags. This is probably related to Richie Hoss having once said to me, “You’d hate us.” As it turns out, The Drags are a solid, basic rock band and a rollicking good time. It’s true that Richie’s sandpaper voice—and this is no 20-grit, either; we’re talking extra-coarse—doesn’t really emphasize the melodies in these songs. But the bass is mixed way high and has a clear, strong tone, and he often shadows the melody in the bass line. Between that and the backing vocals, it sounds pretty good. There’s also a whole lot of serious riffage going on, and a great drummer. Oh, and a song called “Detox Bitch”! You can’t not love that.
The Spoilers are a punk band. They play very fast and very simple. They shout, “Oi! Oi! Oi!” They are cheerful and snarling and kind of sloppy. They obviously love what they do, and that, combined with their hooky, oddly upbeat songs, makes for a dumb fun experience. One song even asserts, “We’re punker than you. Fuck you!” I’m not arguing the point.
Last shows are always sad. Either sad in a Ramones-farewell-tour-“That’s-just-sad” kind of way, or (when a band goes out at the top of their game) sad because they inspire a band to take risks and pull out all the stops, and draw a large and affectionate crowd that pull yet more energy from the band, and you’re left thinking, “This is so great; why are they breaking up?” The last Mercury Charm Offensive show is the latter kind of sad. The songs are good, poppy rock songs with astounding two-, three-, and four-part harmonies. Everybody plays really well tonight, and the mix is great. I can actually hear what the keyboard is adding to several of these songs, and it’s good. The set starts out really high-energy, then shifts to a bunch of slower songs. After a while, I wonder if they’re really going to end it all on such a relatively quiet note, but they close the set with “Back Door Betty,” a fierce bass-and-guitar-and-screaming extravaganza. It’s sad, but it’s a good sad.
Not a lot of people stick around for Gatsby. I have to figure that they’re inconsolable over the loss of MCO, but still, they miss a good set. Gatsby songs range from fast to very, very fast, with intense, driving 4/4 drum lines, but they all have a weirdly calm quality to them. There’s an immersive wash of jangly guitar that’s very rich, but simultaneously sharp, like lemon meringue pie. I suppose the sweet topping would then be the lovely, passionate vocal melodies, but there’s such a thing as stretching a crappy analogy too far. Besides, there’s nothing flaky about the bass. (I’m sorry.) (Steve Gisselbrecht)
FAST ACTIN’ FUSES, BURY THE NEEDLE,
SHANGHAI VALENTINE
The Middle East
7/22/04
It’s 9:45 on a humid Thursday night and a crowd of around 75 is getting juiced. The whip comes down and the crowd is face to face with Shanghai Valentine—a nice volume-driven band with a bassist/lead vocalist, guitar/second vocalist and a standout drummer. It’s always a plus when you get multiple singers. Gotta give the soundguy credit tonight for bringing the beast out of this band—as the two lead vocalists alternate songs—like a loophole lawyer working two weeks before tax day—there was absolutely no break in the momentum. By the time the 25 minute set was done I was fully enjoying the Minor Threat/Naked Raygun vibe of their music. Good harmonies in the studio may break this band. Good luck!
10:15 brings the crowd a slightly louder unit who go by the name Bury the Needle. A power trio fronted by a high octane screamer with an echo box, sportin’ some major left arm ink—seem to have the crowd’s attention from start to finish. Seeming to be in his own world, the singer effectively puts his personal stamp on a hard rock sound and leaves flavored by touches of Unsane, Drive like Jehu and the Jesus Lizard. Although there was isn’t much band/ audience interaction tonight from Bury the Needle, there is no posing either and ya gotta love ’em for it. Some bands have got a hidden agenda but Bury the Needle just wants to melt your face off.
At 11:15 the opening chords are struck and the crowd’s eyes are transfixed on the best act of the night: The Fast Actin’ Fuses. Their sonic assault, as pleasing to the ear as your first m-80, reveals a well-rehearsed and cohesive boogie-blues unit too big for this stage which is comprised of Scott Montropolis (awesome wah-wah player) and Greg Hoffman on guitars, Andre on bass, battery Craig on drums, and wildman Dave Unger on vocals. These cats do incinerated chicken right. There is potential for greatness here. The band features a great lead singer and excellent songwriting. Sounding like a cross between early Stooges and recent Bad Wizard, choruses of “Everybody wants to feel alright!” and “Here’s mud in your eye!” ring true. On a night in July with humidity levels soaring, these three bands helped show that Boston’s righteous hard rock scene is still climbing the thermometer. (Austin Rutledge)
HO-AG PANIC BAND, ROBOTVOICE
The Midway
6/28/04
Robotvoice are your typical drums/bass/noise/noise combo. The vocalist has a little homemade box that converts her screams and yowls into thickly distorted, vaguely robotic sounds, while Donna Parker adds her modulated feedback wizardry over a powerfully thick, sludgy rhythm section. The bass is mixed way high, but since it’s the main melodic element in all of this, that’s not such a bad thing. There’s a plodding quality to the rhythms that works well in this context. The most extreme part is the song with guitar. Deb unplugs her mic from the robo-box and plugs in a guitar lead, then climbs on the guitar and starts humping the neck. You’ll often hear “masturbation” used as a metaphor for a guitar style, but this is no metaphor. My joy is complete when I learn that the title of the song is, (wait for it!) “An Axe To Grind.”
Ho-Ag start their set in a new configuration they seem to be calling “Ho-Ag Panic Band.” The regular drummer is offstage, and the keyboard player is playing a reduced drum kit. They play a few songs this way, and they are, for the most part, punkier and simpler than regular Ho-Ag songs. Not simple, mind you, but simpler. There are some extreme technical difficulties getting all the many PA systems here tonight to talk to one another, and a dead guitar, but Matt soldiers on with a five-stringed six-string. Then their regular drummer takes the stage, and they revert to the high-performance precision brutality of a regular Ho-Ag show. They even sort of sing a bit, and the guitars are gorgeous, with the keyboard adding sweet accents. Best of all, for me at least, there is a two-drummer song, with unison and interplay sections; there’s nothing I love like more drums! (Steve Gisselbrecht)
BEEFY DC, SUGABOMB, THE OTHER GIRLS
The Beachcomber (Wellfleet, MA)
7/30/04
First up on this gorgeous night on the Cape is The Other Girls. Tonight, two of their regulars are unable to attend due to other obligations, so the lineup is supplemented by Jim Janota (The Bags and Uppercrust drummer), and the prodigiously talented lead guitarist Charles Hanson (Ross Phasor). I don’t know how hard they rock with the usual lineup, but tonight they rock plenty hard indeed. Lead singer Andrea Gillis (also of The Andrea Gillis Band) is an energetic, almost manic front-woman, with a ballsier voice than most guys in working bands today. Bassist Michelle Paulhus (also of The Dents), and rhythm guitarist Melissa Gibbs (Heavy Stud) sing plenty of harmonies and provide a solid foundation. They play all covers, from a wide variety of sources, including David Bowie, Joan Jett, Quiet Riot, and Billy Squire. In fact, they even made me enjoy hearing Squire’s “My Kinda Lover.” First time for everything. You can bet I’ll be checking out The Other Girls again in the future.
Next is one of my favorite bands, Sugabomb. Tonight is the last performance for bassist Sandy with Sugabomb. When I spoke with her, she seemed quite confident that she was making the right decision, and that she has had enough. The rest of Sugabomb are certainly sad to see her go, however. In any event, tonight Sugabomb play a loud, fast-paced set of their patented raunch ‘n’ roll, sandwiched between two stellar covers, Smokey Robinson’s “Get Ready” and Deep Purple’s “Highway Star.” Singer Vikki Sixx and guitarist Dee Stroy are both dynamic performers, with a boatload of rock star bravado, and the rhythm section of Sandy and Dave is rock solid. My only complaint: the set’s too short! I wanted to hear “Sewing Circle”!
Finally, the headliners, AC/DC cover band Beefy DC. Led by singer Beefy Scott, a behemoth of a man, they sound more like AC/DC than AC/DC does nowadays. Beefy looks like your typical truck driving, steak eating, Budweiser drinking, 400 pound, NFL fanatic. But when he opens his mouth to scream “It’s a Long Way To the Top,” you’ll think Bon Scott has come back from the dead. In fact, I believe it’s possible that Bon is actually alive and well and living inside of Beefy. There’s certainly plenty of room. Remember, you heard it here first. Beefy’s number one sidekick is lead guitarist 100% Pure Angus, who starts out wearing an approximation of Angus Young’s school uniform getup. He quickly loses the jacket, tie and shirt, but mercifully retains the shorts. There’s just enough between song banter from Beefy to let you know that they’re not taking this cover band thing too seriously, even though they are obviously huge fans of AC/DC. It’s not exactly a joke, but it is plenty of fun. (Brian Mosher)
LADY OF SPAIN, CARLISLE SOUND, THE PISCES
Charlie’s Kitchen
7/5/04
The Pisces is a pretty minimal project: two strings, one voice. (Well, six strings, but they’re spread out among three different instruments and only two get played at any given time.) The two-string chords prove to be surprisingly interesting, with lots of fine, crunchy distortion layered on top for good tone. Elio has a nice voice, low and warm and smooth, but he sounds very nervous for the first several songs and the guitar completely overpowers his singing. He does relax after a while, but the mix is still off. (Turning the guitar down for part of one song helps a lot, then it’s turned back up and resumes drowning out the singing.) We get a lot of covers and a few originals, and the songs themselves sound good, though again, it’s hard to hear the vocal melodies.
Carlisle Sound are a strange band. Their configuration is a standard four-piece, and any given part of a song has a mellow, pop-rock sort of sound. Several people mention The Byrds as a reference point. The thing that makes it odd and sets it apart is that these are sort of Frankensongs; each one seems to comprise chunks of several different mellow, pop-rock songs jammed unceremoniously together. The transitions are very abrupt, and not all sound entirely intentional, but the jarring effect keeps them from seeming bland or predictable. I also like the way one guitar tends to shadow the bass line in octaves, while the other wanders around in between.
Up last are Lady of Spain. Ironically, in a place with no sound person, no monitors, and nearly no sound system, they have the best mix I’ve heard from them. I can hear everything. The virtuoso dual lead vocals, whether sung with delicate vulnerability or screamed with terrifying intensity. The wonderful, dissonant guitar washes and the weird, spikey leads that occasionally cut through them. And the rhythm section, rarely obtrusive but always tight and supple, and often driving and fascinating. There’s not a lot of melodic hook to these songs, and often they don’t give me a sense of going anywhere. And usually, that aimless feeling bothers me, but with this band, it’s more like being in a dark, smoky, comfortable space and being content to lie around there, at least until the drums pick up and get all urgent again. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
THE DECEMBER SOUND
The Paradise
8/6/04
It’s great hearing the Sound in the Paradise back room with its kicking sound system. The addition of Jimmy on keyboard and second guitar and Zack Sarzana’s prolific songwriting are keeping the shows fresh. “Overflowing” starts things off with Zack’s quick, rippling guitar melody. Then some newer songs, one with Jimmy’s ethereal, effects-heavy guitar accents over a driving, sinister bass line. There’s a dark, simmering energy in their set tonight that is mesmerizing the crowd. I especially like a new one with Drew’s muffled drums sounding more like a mood than a beat. John kneels as he plays bass as if to get closer to that mood. The vocals are delicate and soothing; someone comments that this song reminds him of Slowdive. The set ends in a noisy bit of chaos with keyboard distortion and a punishing beat, certainly a new direction for the band. (Laura Markley)
(DEAR OLD) STOCKHOLM SYNDROME
Gallery 108
6/27/04
Probably one of Boston’s best-kept musical secrets is the eclectic, improvisational collective known originally as Stockholm Syndrome, now forced to alter their name somewhat, due to some aging west-coast jam band who trademarked the moniker. Damn those hippies! Gallery 108 was SRO as D.O.S.S. packed the house, backing up poets Mike County (ex-Outlets, Ninety in Ninety), and Jim Dunne. The band’s rotating cast of musicians include several ex-Nisi Period and Abunai members, including Kris Thompson (The Lothars) on theremin and Dave Y (Ninety in Ninety) on guitar. Rounded out by free/ freak-jazzers Andrew Hickman on sax and Todd Watkins on drums, their eclectic sound went everywhere from quiet, Godspeed-like hypnotics, to full blown noise attacks, helped along by poet/ musician John Mulrooney, playing a strangely tuned lap-steel. Luckily, pretentiousness is nowhere to be seen as the quintet consistently make self-deprecating remarks and smiles laughingly at the captivated audience. These guys (Okay, well, not always—Thalia Zedek has played clarinet with D.O.S.S. in the past) don’t play out often, but if you’re a fan of avant-rock, post-jazz, or whatever the kids are calling it these days, you won’t be let down by checking them out. (Chris Pearson)
FORGIVEN
Marlborough VFW (Marlborough, MA)
7/10/04
Forgiven is a “Christian rock” band. Something completely different for me. I will be as objective as humanly possible. Hopefully I won’t be struck by lightening for my opinions. Here goes. When I think of this genre, I think of Stryper. The flash, glitter, toothy smiles, and free bibles. Forgiven is none of that. All we have here is music and a message. I can truly say the singer has the voice of an angel. Wonderful harmonies and heartfelt, honest lyrics set to a blues-rock backdrop. Some originals are written and dedicated to a former band member who committed the ultimate sin (drug overdose). Anyway, they then attempt to liven things up with Neil Young covers. I may be wrong, but I don’t think of Neil Young when I think of Christian music. See these guys for yourself. I’m not crazy about the lack of stage presence, but the talent is there, and the message is definitely there. In fact, they play so LOUD you can’t help but here the message. I feel blessed just being here. I hope the band likes this review, but if they don’t, I know all is Forgiven. (Sue O.)
THE COLLISIONS, SPITZZ, LILAC AMBUSH,
RICK BERLIN
The Abbey Lounge
7/14/04
Rick Berlin is alone with a keyboard tonight, doing the freaky queer surrealist chanteur thing. These are half-songs, half-stories, with very odd poetic digressions and very lush, languid (not to say loungey) piano parts. They’re fascinating excursions, and frequently hilarious, and if I can’t always follow them, it’s generally interesting to try. His voice is sounding a bit ragged this evening, but that works well with these pieces.
Lilac Ambush are morose drum-machine goth. I can’t really offer anything like a review, since I am unable to get past the drum machine. Drum machines anger and sadden me, and as I grit my teeth through their set, I am angry and sad.
After that, Spitzz are a welcome shot of punk rock adrenaline. The lead singer breaks a string with his very first note, but makes it through two whole songs before he needs to change guitars. They’re very tight, and their set is heavy on the shouting and youthful energy, although there’s a little bit of harmony thrown in as it progresses. Likewise the guitars, which start out simple and strummy but get more adventurous in the later songs. The drummer drifts the tiniest bit; if you weren’t obsessively rhythm-focused (as I am), you’d never notice it. They have a really fun, infectiously jolly stage presence.
The Collisions have an amazingly full sound for a three-piece, so much so that I occasionally forget that Bo is the only one playing guitar: he just seems to be doing more, and more interesting, things than one should be able to do while also singing so passionately and well. I love their songs, which are catchy and intense, and kind of quirky but not cute. “Gasoline Can” actually sounds like a Primus song to me. The whole band is very strong, and Dave’s high harmonies are really sweet and lovely, but the live Collisions experience is dominated by Bo’s extreme rock wildness. He’s a madman, jumping around on and off the stage, kicking over at least three different beers, body-slamming the audience during his guitar solos, and just generally going over the top and putting on a show. They’re flying without a set list tonight, (“Have we done ‘Pablo Picasso’ already?”) but it’s a familiar set of songs, and they bring it home smoothly. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
THE SPACESHOTS, THE BEATINGS
T.T. the Bear’s
8/7/04
The Beatings hit the stage looking nothing like their name. In fact, bassist/ vocalist Erin Dalbec looks like a high school English teacher about to mildly let loose, and guitarist/vocalist Eldridge Rodriguez reminds me of a young Roger Miller. In this case, you can judge the book by its cover, which, here, is an entirely good thing. The songs definitely have a literate feel to them and the shifting dynamics and explosions of noise do remind me of Mission of Burma. When Erin sings, it reminds me of Victory at Sea, and I hear some Dinosaur Jr, back when they were on SST. Some of the guitar noise becomes a little monotonous as the set progresses, but overall, it’s an impressive set.
While definitely intrigued by The Beatings, I’m ready for something with some hooks. Unfortunately, it appears as though I’m in the minority. Spaceshots’ bassist Joe McMahon walks over, looks at my notebook, laughs and says, “Write down that it’s 12:00, and there’s nobody here.” In fact, there are only about 15 or 20 people still mulling about, at least one of whom has a wicked case of gas. The band surveys the scene, notices it’s nothing but friends and family, and decides to play it loose. On one hand, this leads to a couple of sloppy moments, but on the other, it leads to a willingness to step out of the standard verse-chorus-verse thing, most notably on the extended outro to “Blues Driven.” In the end, though, it’s still power pop. It’s all about the hooks, and the crowd bops its collective head to nuggets like “Angelesque” and “Mercy.” (Kevin Finn)
VAN ELK
T.T. the Bear’s
6/22/04
Van Elk is a new project comprising Valerie Forgione and Ken Michaels. They both sing, with Valerie doing most of the lead singing, so you know it’s got to be good. Her voice is as angelic and her stage presence as friendly and lovable as always. Both play acoustic guitar on some songs, and Ken plays bass on others. The songs are pretty, mellow, and somewhat folky. The melodies are lovely, the harmonies are astonishing, there is nifty counterpoint, and their voices blend beautifully. They are, in short, a Simon & Garfunkel for the new millennium. And I mean that in the best possible way. Ken seems to doubt that he’s a really good singer, but after some of the tricky harmony lines tonight, I’m sure he’s the only one in the room that does. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
CHRIS EVIL & THE TAINTS
The Safari Lounge (Providence, RI)
6/01/04
Hailing from New Bedford, Chris Evil & The Taints blow into The Safari Lounge, distilling an antagonistic punk sneer and an insidious ’50s high school dance band undercurrent to derive the sacred scum and sweat sound of fast girls meant for shallow graves, delivered with the echo of an adolescent drooling whine. The Taints resurrect orthodox 3-minute rock ‘n’ roll songs that smear like teenage blood across the lips with a frenetic, heavy melancholy sound, ripping trucker highway blues breakdowns into a seedy harangue of basement dungeon dual guitar clamor. “Do You Wanna Go Home With Me” bashes a rusty toolbox full of scrap noise into a cocksure hormonal skinhead boot stomp, while “Gimme Love” is the preternatural offspring of essentially anything from The Ramones catalogue merged with The Misfits Static Age LP, complete with a bold recycling of the riff from She which has been sharpened, revealing its nervous twitch. The Taints then segue into “Night of the Vampire” a glam-goth, Hammer Horror cut from cult minister of underground psychedelia Roky Erickson’s bag of tricks and then rip “Gotta Get Away,” a caustic railroad chug anchored by a teeth chattering N-N-N-NA-NA tension. The Taints viscously cleave through the late night rumble for a little less than thirty minutes and finish to 24 hands and a couple of distracted howls. They then quickly collapse their equipment and escape back into their black hoods, shuffling back to the edges of the squat bar and eventually to the steam drain cobblestone streets of a whaling city at 3:00AM. (Paul Hullabaloo)
CAGED HEAT, ANTI-LOVE PROJECT,
STARLA DEAR, STARR FAITHFULL, RACHEL CANTU
T.T. the Bear’s
7/8/04
Rachel Cantu is playing when I arrive. She is a solo singer/songwriter, very good but very folky and mellow. I came here more to be rocked, so this is not what I signed up for. But there are a fair number of people here, and they really seem to love her. Her voice is pretty, and the songs are pleasant. One picks up a bit of speed near the end, and she makes some self-deprecating jokes about being on a rock bill. (“I play an electric guitar. That counts, right?”)
Starr Faithfull are a very different act. They actually start out pretty restrained, for them, but that still entails a lot of Jodee’s pitch-perfect gravelly screaming. I love that combination of clear and sweet with dirty and raw, and the bassist provides lovely harmony vocals on several songs. The guitar is also low when they start out, but she turns it up after a few songs and starts to really shred. Good old-fashioned hard rock virtuoso guitar wankery. This isn’t rocket science, and if you were determined to dislike this you’d probably say something like “derivative,” but fuck that. These people simply know how to rock. Late in the set, we get their “shameless self-indulgence,” a long, wordless, classic blues with solos all around entitled “Three Sore Thumbs.”
Starla Dear are a four-piece that play a kind of sweet indie-pop. They are almost very good, but they’re marred by persistent small inaccuracies. The drummer drags a lot, and rushes a little; this always grates on me, and it’s hard to get past. There are also some sour chords, and the lead singer doesn’t always land squarely on her note. (Though, interestingly, she doesn’t have this problem during the one song when she’s not also playing guitar at the same time.) But there are a lot of good elements present: the singer’s breathy little-girl voice is kind of appealing, both guitarists have great tone and some very fine leads, there’s some good harmony, and the bassist is rock-steady and skilled. I expect they make a very good record.
Anti-Love Project is playing their first show with a new drummer. He’s not quite there yet—he makes kind of a lot of mistakes, and they’re big obvious ones—but he has a solid sense of rhythm, and he never messes up anything easy or straightforward. These are complicated songs with difficult drum parts, so I anticipate very good things with a bit more practice. (In fact, he’s great for the last couple of songs.) The rest of the band is really wild tonight, with Jenn screaming her voice raw and Matt breaking strings to begin and end the set. (The bitchy by-play among band members to fill the time while a string is changed is fairly amusing.) And the spiky, challenging intensity of these songs is undiminished. In fact, “One Wish” is played much faster than I’ve heard it before, and makes a powerful set-closer.
It’s getting late, and a lot of people clear out during Caged Heat’s set, which is wrong. The phenomenal concentration of skill that they bring to their rootsy, blues-inflected rock romps deserves a wider audience. Asa Brebner has joined them on guitar, taking most of the leads and making it look easy, although Jill Kurtz has at least one serious solo, and the best are their forays into dual lead, with interlocking line sections and rip-roaring call-and-response parts. Jill’s lead vocals are kind of ravaged and ravishing, and Bo sings sweet harmony on the choruses. Perhaps the main attraction, though, are the harmonica solos, and the one in the endless, deathless last song is gloriously fierce. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
THE BEATINGS, ALOUD, DUST BUFFALO
The Middle East
7/17/04
To my chagrin, I get to the Middle East just in time to miss Dust Buffalo completely, but the room doesn’t show signs of having been blown away. Overheard standing in line to buy my ticket: “I think they’re done; I think it’s safe to go back in.” The mp3 for “Timeline” at dustbuffalo.net is interesting, if a bit long; “New Way” seems lacking in personality. I’ll reserve judgment.
I’m going to make enemies now, so I should point out that Aloud are over the first bar. They have nice-sounding gear, are reasonably tight, and have two above-average singers in Jen De La Osa and Henry Beguiristain (well-rehearsed harmonies, too). Their crowd is sizable, but more polite than enthused—there is even a young woman sitting cross-legged in front of the stage for a while. Aloud doesn’t have the sort of commanding stage presence or virtuosity that makes good material unnecessary, so they could benefit from sharper writing. Avoiding those “too easy” chord progressions (or voicing them more creatively), fewer choruses, and more bridges would help. Most importantly, more tempo variation would take them a long way toward “good” from “okay.” On the plus side: one of the new songs is one of the best.
The Beatings singer/ guitarist Tony Skalicky plugs into his Marshall. It goes “kchhhhh.” “Does anybody have a guitar amp I could borrow? Greg, that solder didn’t work.” Fivehead’s Beaty Wilson drags his Fender Super Reverb onstage, and about 30 seconds later The Beating are roaring into their opening number. Afterwards bassist Erin Dalbec asks if the sound is okay: “We didn’t get a sound check,” she explains. These problems could sink lesser bands, but not the Beatings. They’re tight in a way that doesn’t rule out anarchy, they’re both loud as fuck and pin-drop quiet, but what really sets them apart is their command of musical tension—even on the rare occasions they fall into a predictable set of changes, rhythmic and textural shifts threaten to make the tune explode. The audience demands and gets an encore even though they end late. (Doug Mayo-Wells)
B-LITE, UV PROTECTION, HORSE SINISTER, DONNA PARKER & KATE VILLAGE
The Midway
7/20/04
Donna Parker plays electronically modulated electronic feedback. Kate Village, kicking it more old school, plays electronically modulated electroacoustic feedback. It is a match made in heaven. They start out with growling, pulsing electronic feedback and squalls of nothing very note-like from the guitar, which builds slowly and fades slowly to a single, piercing tone and a fake ending before roaring back. This second part is much more active: swooping, cascading weirdness from Donna, while Kate attacks the guitar and plays like Thurston Moore ate the brown acid. There’s a transcendent moment where she’s entirely off the floor, standing with one foot on the wah pedal and one on the distortion pedal and playing the noise by teetering. My one complaint, and it’s a serious one, is that they don’t play NEARLY long enough. Maybe ten minutes, tops; after teasing me with that level of awesomeness, it’s just cruel to cut me off so soon.
Horse Sinister begin by variously sitting and lying down on the stage, before threatening to put us to sleep. It’s a threat they very nearly carry out. This is in part because I’m pretty tired, but their take on improvised noise is mostly very, very mellow and quiet and low-key. Things get briefly interesting when one of them starts poking at his guitar with a pencil, for a cool chimey effect. I think you might enjoy this a lot if you were looking to chill out in a very extreme way, but I mostly feel that it’s been a very long time since I’ve been stoned enough to get into this.
UV Protection are much more interesting. Musically, I more or less hate everything they stand for, but they put so much effort into putting on a show, and achieve such a bizarre effect, that I’m thoroughly bemused and occasionally enthralled. There are five women, a three-piece band and two dancers, each wearing a variety of textured foil headgear, collars, and cummerbunds. (There are numerous wardrobe malfunctions as the set progresses, and I am charmed when one of the dancers, unable to repair her collar, removes it and immediately removes the other dancer’s collar as well, so they’ll continue to match. Attention to detail is so important.) The music is radically simplistic synth-pop, but all three musicians are solid at what they’re doing, and the lead singer’s soaring, obviously operatically trained voice is a powerful treat. The dancers’ affectless postmodern hand-jive is fascinating.
Last is B-Lite, the Blind Rapper. He’s not really blind. He raps goofily about how, blind as he is, he’ll still steal your stuff and fuck your woman, accompanied by pre-recorded drum machine and keyboard tracks and a series of hilarious videos in the form of slide shows (which include the lyrics, which I otherwise wouldn’t be able to make out) showing B-Lite inserted Zeligiously into various scenes, ob- and otherwise. It’s really, really funny. However, there’s just the one joke, and after four songs, I’ve heard it. Since I hate the backing tracks quite a lot, and I feel like I got what I’m going to get out of it, I leave. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
LYRES, ERIC MARTIN & THE ILLYRIANS,
THE CLASSIC RUINS
Kirkland Café
7/3/04
The second Kathy Duff tribute party (although Mickey Bliss is calling it “the Jeff Conolly Rent Party”) gets underway early with the witty, laid back barroom rock of The Classic Ruins. Carl on bass and Matt on drums have honed their rhythm skills doing double duty in Kenne Highland’s Vatican Sex Kittens, while guitarist/ singer/ songwriter Frank Rowe is a respected veteran of many Boston bands. He’s also the man who wrote the classic song “Geraldine” which has been covered by Lyres. “Heart Attack,” “Nyquil Stinger,” and others are delivered with Frank’s unique throaty vocal and nimble guitar playing.
Eric Martin & the Illyrians take the stage and rock out with their soulful, blues based songs. There’s a mid-tempo, REM like song in the middle with falsetto vocals that I like. I’m not sure who the Illyrians were—maybe a tribe related to the ancient Greeks. So I raise my glass of retsina to this timeless Boston band, soldiering on after so many years.
Unfortunately, two Lyres are MIA tonight. Jeff reports that bass player Rick had some kind of boating mishap while no mention is made of guitarist Dan’s whereabouts. But rather than cancel the show, on the spur of the moment Jeff enlists Frank Rowe on guitar and Frank is a little hesitant but game. Jeff plays Rick’s bass parts on the organ in addition to the melodies—pretty impressive—while Paul holds up the beat on drums. So the show is salvaged and even danceable, as Brett Milano, Margaret from Mr. Airplane Man, and I cut the rug up front. [Addendum: Lyres played an energetic “Help You Ann” and “Don’t Give It Up Now” at Little Steven’s International Underground Garage Festival last weekend. It was an amazing, 12 hour outdoor extravaganza on Randall’s Island in New York featuring about 40 bands. Headlining were The New York Dolls and Iggy & the Stooges. Also representing Boston were Muck & the Mires (co-winners of Little Steven’s National Battle of the Bands) and The Charms.] (Laura Markley)
We get lots of calls from bands asking for coverage of their live shows. Please be advised that shows are never assigned for review. Noise writers cover what they choose to attend. It’s logistically impossible to honor or acknowledge these requests. The Noise has always had its ears closest to the ground in greater Boston. If you’re doing something even remotely exceptional, we’ll be the first to tell the world. If you’re horrible, same thing.
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