TWO VIEW REVIEW
THE DRESDEN DOLLS
(CD Release),
COUNT ZERO
The Paradise 9/26/03
It’s The Dresden Dolls’ CD release show, and anyone who didn’t already know can tell from the street that this is no ordinary band–The Paradise’s awning is adorned with hanging vines, and the throng outside is a churning kaleidoscope of satin, feathers, body paint, and geometrically impossible haircuts. Some of the ceremoniously festooned are just smoking or catching some air, but many are hoping for tickets; this event is sold out, babycakes. Inside, girls in shimmery ball gowns mince around with ultra-mod Hecubus-thin boys. The balcony’s crimson mood lights flash against Borg-like face piercings. Living statues, painted faces, surreal art installations, performance art, a comedian, and naked people are among the attractions in this sideshow-meets-rock event that Amanda Palmer and Brian Viglione have created.
Count Zero, for the first time with the ubiquitous Izzy Maxwell on bass, take the reigns of the room’s energy and steer it right into a frenzy. Peter Moore, ably assisted by the confident Wil Ragano, is the consummate showman, and the pair lead this outstanding band through a too-short set of edgy progressive rock. Swirling easily from spacey jams into straight-ahead rock grooves, Count Zero prove once again that intelligence and risk taking are valuable commodities if you want to stand out.
Dresden Dolls employ the delayed gratification tease to great effect, making us wait a good long time before the lights dim and Brian and Amanda take their place at drums and keyboard respectively. Assisted on some songs by guest musicians, the Dolls meander, bolt, and scream through every song on the much-anticipated CD. Handsome white-faced Brian tickles gentle brushwork or has it out with the cymbals as needed. Amanda captivates and titillates, shifting gears from manic wails to whispers so quiet that a reverent hush envelops the entire sold-out room. Legendary. I buy a poster on my way out, because Dresden Dolls will be eligible for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2028. (Lexi)
THE DRESDEN DOLLS, COUNT ZERO
The Paradise 9/26/03
It’s The Dresden Dolls’ record release ball. This means that, in addition to the bands, we get art installations (one of which is showing the amazing video for “Girl Anachronism” that they’ve just finished shooting) and slapstick raunch-Dada from The Daredevil Chicken Club. Bananas are fellated, the audience is berated, and a sex doll’s role is complicated. It’s also the best-dressed audience I’ve ever seen at a rock show. By the time Count Zero go on, the room is packed. I’m a huge Count Zero fan, and I expect them to go over well with a Dresden Dolls crowd, but people mostly seem impatient for the main event. This is a shame, as CZ put on a great show. If there’s a problem, it’s that they front-load with older and slower songs. This is their first show with new bassist Izzy Maxwell, but if I didn’t know that I’d have no way to tell from his playing. He has tremendous stage presence, leaping over the monitor when the bass enters in the middle of “Bachelor #3,” plays difficult lines beautifully, and they actually play “Indulgences,” with its insanely hard bass part. We also get “Good News,” which always makes me happy, as Peter Moore’s vocal gymnastics on this song are inspirational.
After an odd interlude from a standup comic (!) and more Daredevil Chicken Club, the Dolls come on to thunderous applause. They play all the songs from the new album, several of them in a four-piece arrangement with added guitar and bass. There are some sound issues early on–the mic on Brian’s floor tom buzzes horribly–but they’re worked out by mid-set. Brian and Amanda are both really on tonight, and seem to feed off the intense adoration from the audience. They close the set with a version of “Truce” that has violin and cello, and it’s gorgeous. For the encore, we’re treated to a scream-along cover of “Add It Up,” followed by “Girl Anachronism” (minus one verse), and they are dragged back onstage by an insistent crowd for one newer song. Amanda’s voice holds up well through a long and arduous set. It’s a beautiful night for them, and the album looks and sounds fantastic. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
THUNDERTRAIN
T.T. the Bear’s 8/23/03
I walk into T.T.’s excited to see Thundertrain for the very first time. This is the reunion tour of Boston’s premier underground hard rock band of the ’70s, equally beloved by punks and metalheads at The Rat, where they reigned. The train is already off the tracks, with stand-in drummer Jeff Bishop pounding out a long, dramatic intro on a huge bubble pattern kit. They launch into “Frustration” and I am blown away. I was expecting cheesy hair metal but these guys are the real thing, 100% unadulterated rock and roll, playing with the energy and conviction of teenagers. Mach Bell puts the “front” in “frontman”–he’s wearing an outrageous get-up of shiny black pants tucked into cowboy boots, a big plaid jacket with rhinestones and bug eyed sunglasses. His blonde hair’s flying as he bounces off amps and lets loose with his powerful voice (he also sang with the Joe Perry Project). “Forever and Ever” is a mid tempo boogie rock number with slide guitar from original axe man Steven Silva, who sports long hair under a cowboy hat, denim and tattoos. Brothers Gene and Ric Provost on rhythm and bass provide a rock solid foundation for Silva’s squealing yet never self indulgent solos, Mach’s throaty wails and the intense drums. Mach does an amusing rant about how electro music is the new disco, then does a “Disco Sucks!” chant, taking us all back to the dog days of that sorry musical decade. Then they wow us with “Hot For Teacher” (not the Van Halen song) and “Cindy is a Sleeper,” and the crowd is lapping it up. This is definitely one of my top live shows of the year. (Laura Markley)
AD FRANK, MAX HEINEGG
T.T. the Bear’s Place 10/13/03
Monday night, and I am once again on The Other Side of the Bear. And the Red Sox are once again sucking all the life out of the room, so Max Heinegg begins playing for four of us. I don’t like his voice to start with, but as his set progresses, he warms up and it sounds much better. I’m quite liking it by the end, but these songs don’t really grab me. They’re kind of hollow, somehow, and I get a sense that I might like them much better with his band, The High Ceilings. I’ll have to check them out. It also doesn’t help that he, too, seems more interested in what the Sox are doing than in what he’s playing.
There are some more people here by the time Ad Frank plays, though it’s still a slow night. The one advantage of this is that we get a very loose, interactive set, with lots of requests. My own request, “If I Find Another One of Your Bobby Pins in My Bed, I Am Coming By to Shove them Up Your Ass,” is a surprisingly (considering the title) lovely, gentle piano song of sheer heartbreak. The piano is lush and gorgeous tonight, and I’m really mystified when Ad switches to guitar, saying he’s been sucking on piano. I can’t imagine what “good” would sound like. The guitar songs are more upbeat and raucous, (and include, yes, a U2 cover) and he turns the evening the rest of the way around when he closes with the optimistic rocker “A Little Devotion,” another favorite of mine. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
BIOPOP, THE DENTS, GIMANTIS
The Abbey Lounge 9/24/03
Gimantis opens on this particular Wednesday night to an indifferent roomful of people who have no idea what this band is all about. But a few measures of their first song is all it takes to order the patrons to rapt attention for the entire set with their full-speed-down-the-runway brand of gruff but melodic punk. To be certain, this town has its share of punk bands, but this four-piece distinguishes themselves with an unexpectedly pleasing warm and rich guitar tone amidst the crunchiness, not to mention gravelly yet tuneful vocals.. Think jet engine with a hum. Gimantis never eases up on the throttle; at the end of the set, people cheer wildly for the thrill ride from out of the blue. Wow, what a flight.
The Dents-a last minute fill-in–take the stage next. Watching this band is like finding out–and smiling because it’s awesome–that both the pilot and co-pilot on your flight are women. This four-piece is fronted by the bass player and rhythm guitarist–both women–who play straight-ahead Ramones-style punk from a female perspective. They sound bratty and dignified, raw and refined, as well as smooth and crunchy all at the same time (and remind me of my very dignified but fierce cat, Maggie). Their voices harmonize into a remarkably gratifying timbre while the lead guitarist–a guy, by the way, who deserves as much attention as the women–rounds out the punk sound with some first-class solos. Interestingly, women in the audience, relatively inconspicuous for the other bands, come out of the woodwork to be right up front for The Dents. But both sexes alike give them an equally enthusiastic fist-pumping ovation.
BioPoP follows with their rock-star fabulousness. If they were an airplane, they’d be that legendary custom Boeing 720 that all the big-name ’70s bands used to charter on tour. Tonight is the final night of their month in residency playing a set of ’70s influenced glam rockers. This band even performs and dresses like they are rock stars. The very tall and skinny vocalist is replete with long straight black hair and fabulous leather pants that lace up the legs. The bass player has all the exaggerated moves and gyrations down pat. However, BioPoP treats their ’70s glam-punk influences with affection and irony and thankfully avoid sounding trite or dated by coming out with their own fresh guitar rock sound. The singer announces that it’s their new bass player’s first show; you’d never know. (Robin Umbley)
CORKSCREW, TERATISM, GUT, MEDICINE 4 TIM
O’Brien’s 10/10/03
Medicine 4 Tim is pulling a last minute fill-in show tonight. It was so last minute that they’re shy one guitarist. As a result, they’re missing the mystical, Eastern polish usually provided by their absent six-stringer, leaving just the Western brutality. But M4T is very aware of that missing man and play the brutality card. They’re working hard, channeling that full blood moon in the sky above O’Brien’s, their braggadocio blasting out into the room. There’s no denying the beauty of the massiveness and focus being displayed upon the stage, but the memory of their 10/6 Red Sox victory show at Bill’s still haunts my perception. Despite my bias, I’m still taken by the exponential growth in this band’s heaviness from show to show. Brandishing his bagpipes, Tim leads the band through their trademark “Rattlin’ Bog,” its prettiness contrasting sharply with the deliberate brutishness of their parting song to the room.
It’s been too long since I’ve seen Gut. Mark the bassist tells me it’s been too long since they practiced. I’ve seen Gut in the past when they claimed to be out of practice, but tonight’s pre-show warning must have been a joke. They drop into their set with the same severe precision I recall of yore. Within minutes it’s obvious how much Gut misses playing out, even reluctant, emergency drummer Brian O’Neil. They’re playing as if their performance is responsible for the lives of millions, as if every note and beat were shaping a world. And as they play, it becomes a world of ferocious exactitude, sludgy highs, inspiring lows, and jazz, metal and R&B; colliding in a curious mélange that eventually produces a quintessential version of AC/DC’s “Live Wire,” full of lead singer Brian’s bestial roar. The O’Brien’s audience response is positive and very vocal.
Teratism’s unique brand of barrage metal follows. Double kick decimation, dual whir-buzz guitars, hold the bass (they’re still looking). The drummer could power Boston for an hour if properly harnessed. The vocals are gravel-mouthed Cookie Monster meets Tolkein ringwraith. The rise and fall guitar lines backed by exploding Deathstar drums is hypnotic, and I wonder how many demons this music summons in a standard performance. At least a couple. The buzzwhir of it all gets really overwhelming at times, and when they start throwing in the wacky time changes it turns into an amusement park ride, tottering the room on precarious precipices and hurtling us all through blazing walled abysses and halls of bubbling anarchy. By the end of their set, I feel as if I’ve been cleansed by the flames of chaos, and the audience is screaming for one more. Teratism has no choice but to oblige.
Corkscrew’s sound is another type of ride. This is more of a desperate spiritual journey without end than Teratism’s gauntlet of summoned demons. As straightedge as lead vocalist Lee takes it, these guys can’t get away from that Tool influence, though. Not a bad thing in my opinion, and they take it in their own direction. That direction is largely directed by the singer and the bass player, whose, watery style really stands atop this band. He’s the hub around which Corkscrew’s sound revolves. Brian from Gut of course gets up there on stage at one point and helps Lee kick out a massive version of “Territory.” Another guest singer gets up there with a hellgate mouth, and Corkscrew become a pipeline delivering angst and disenfranchisement to the O’Brien’s crowd. Time runs out and the residual energy oozes out into the streets of Allston, looking for something to do. (Joe Hacking)
THE GRAVEL PIT, THE KINGS OF NUTHIN’, THE RAGING TEENS, THE KONKS, LAST STAND,
THE SO AND SO’S, THE CHARMS, MISTLE THRUSH,
AD FRANK & THE FAST EASY WOMEN, AARON PERRINO, THALIA ZEDEK,
MARY LOU LORD, LAURIE GELTMAN, PAULA KELLEY
T.T. the Bear’s 9/19/03
Tonight is T.T. the Bear’s 30th Anniversary Party! In celebration of this grand occasion, they’ve booked 14 bands to play short sets, waitresses circulate with trays of hors d’oeuvres, and for the first time ever there are T.T.’s T-shirts. And Bonnie is SUCH a class act that, even though it’s her night and her party, it’s a benefit for Ethiopian widows and orphans. I arrive during Paula Kelley’s last song. She has two keyboards, guitar, drummer, horn, and violin. The sound is well-crafted, and the violin is particularly good, but it’s hard for me to get past her high, whiny singing voice. This is just a personal preference thing, and I’m happy to see the room more than half-full before 9:00.
Next is my discovery for the evening. All these years I’ve seen her band on bills that I didn’t make it to, and I’ve never heard Laurie Geltman play. What I’ve been missing! In two songs she rocks the room, screaming, wailing, fucking her guitar on stage, and cursing during one song that she’s not really an acoustic rocker, she plays with a band. I can’t wait to see that.
Mary Lou Lord brings it back down a bit. She plays three pretty, quiet songs, one a fairly countrified number and one a paean to rockers who’ve died too young, which she says is mostly about Jimi Hendrix.
Next up is Thalia Zedek, whom I find deeply and enduringly cool and really want to like. I keep trying; unfortunately I find her recent material really boring. But she plays it well, and sings it well, with a rich, gravely whiskey baritone, and she, too, has a great violin player.
Aaron Perrino plays a short solo set, accompanying himself on guitar. I actually think his songs work a little better in this setting than with a full band, since one doesn’t necessarily expect him to rock out this way. And he shouts for a bit in one song, which always helps me enjoy him more.
Next is Ad Frank, the first of a cluster of acts I came to see. He’s got his Fast, Easy Women with him, including Mike Quinn on keyboards. Ad is full of fire tonight, and the band sound great. The guitar leads are extra fine. Paula Kelley joins the band for one number, which gets my hopes up for the guilty-pleasure disco romp “The Ticket Was Non-Refundable,” but instead they play “Future Imperfect.”
I’ve been curious about Mistle Thrush, since drummer Todd Demma is out of town. The remaining three members simply play without him, with Valerie adding tambourine, and the sound is remarkably full. Valerie’s voice is, of course, a work of art all by itself, and they open with “All Mirror Thing,” Scott and Valerie’s beautiful duet.
The Charms play short songs, so they have time for four. Their performance is all-out, as always, and while the vocals are mixed too low, the genius guitar leads come through loud and clear. (And loud.) The new drummer just keeps getting better, and Ellie wins Sexiest Bitch of the Night (and I mean that in the best possible way) with her soldier-fetish outfit. It’s around this time that the cake is served, a huge, gooey, gorgeous confection.
The So and So’s manage to fit only two songs into their ten minutes, but make them count. Meghan Toohey plays smoking leads and sings gorgeously and passionately. Both of the other string players sing backup, and the effect is wonderful. I want more, but it’s that kind of night.
We’re on to Last Stand, who play a goofy, melodic kind of punk. It’s very fast–the drummer impresses me, as I don’t think she lets up that punishing rush for the entire ten minutes. There’s not a lot of depth here, but the surface is fun.
The Konks play a more screamy and tuneless kind of punk, which I find less fun. The guitarist isn’t bad, but I’m afraid I don’t find the whole effect very musical. This is the beneficial side of the ten-minutes-a-band format.
The Raging Teens have selected a genre, it seems, and they’re sticking with it. They play absolutely straight-up surf guitar rock ‘n’ roll that would not have surprised anyone in 1962. They do it well, and it’s actually pretty amusing for the three songs that we get from them, but I can’t imagine wanting to hear an entire set of it, and it makes me wonder why one would choose to sound so thoroughly dated.
The Kings of Nuthin’ are mining a very similar vein, only their chosen genre is swing. It’s a manic and punky kind of swing, but still. (The big swing revival of the previous decade was, for me, one of the most annoying events ever in popular music. I wish those who loved it well of it, but I don’t want to hear it.) They get the award for Most Personnel Schlepped Onstage For A Ten-Minute Set, with a vocalist, a drummer, a guitarist, THREE sax players, an upright bass, and an actual upright piano! At least they leave the piano onstage for our headliners to use.
Apparently, The Gravel Pit were the band that the folks at T.T.’s wanted to have headline tonight. There is, as they say, a lot of love in the room. I was never a big fan, myself, but they put on a fine set. The guitar and piano are damn good, and if Jed Parish’s growl takes some getting used to, he at least knows how to write for it. The songs are okay, but I think at this point I’m just all rocked out, and I leave during the encore. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
RANDOM ACTS OF VIOLENCE, ONE WAY DOWN, ACCURSED,
SHATTERED EXISTENCE, ONE SICK THOUGHT
Boston’s Dead O’Brien’s 10/2/03
One Sick Thought start it off with a thick, toxic, sludgy, Sabbathy sound. Compositions resemble the mighty Birmingham metal grandfathers, but this drummer has more of a Megadeth-ish sound, the bassist a deeper reach, the guitars rooted in something blacker, more primal–something that once was the core of hard rock/heavy metal. For most of the set, there are no lyrics, just this lead heavy stampede driven by the drums and steered by the guitars. When the vocals do come, they’re lost in the overflowing cup of distortion. OST’s simplicity is their strength, yet there are times they wax complex, with the stampede becoming a stumbling charge of an army of Tolkein’s orcs. There’s a simple rock ‘n’ roll sensibility here augmented by a brutal death metal psychosis/ethic in the vein of Stormtroopers of Death. The audience likes.
Shattered Existence are getting a much more ethereal sound tonight, more Zeppelinesque than Pantera. The trance-like power of “Kashmir” meeting the boxy chunkiness/crankiness that is their trademark. Hard rock values tempered by heavy metal thrash bash. Erupting volcano sonic outbursts with Gabe the vocalist running up and down the neck of his guitar with sinister precision. Metal-hooved gallup like a chaos wall raised upon the O’Brien’s stage. Old school metal idiom seeping from every one of their pores. Again, I have to commend the adeptness of the drummer. All the madness really begins with him. Heavy waves crashing, controlled release, like some pharmaceutical designed to unleash chaos over a five minute period. It’s a shame that technical difficulties have limited the sets to half an hour tonight, because Shattered Existence are just getting broken in by the time they have to leave the stage.
Next up, Accursed is producing a very busy type of metal. Speed is the name of the game, but it’s very intentional, sophisticated, decipherable with a careful ear. The compositions are frantic, but they know when to dismount the crazy machine they create with each song. There’s old metal in these guys, brought to a musical/spiritual path that the old metal never chose. They’re taking the best from first generation metal and plugging it into the ideas of the current thrash metal wave. This is a surgical strike, a carpet bombing, a merciless, deliberate collision. The changes come faster than life in a third world country after a coup de tat. It’s like watching a magic act, their hands are quicker than the eye. By the end of the set, they’re a whirring blender of buzzing guitars and hyperactive drumming. The discipline they display is inspiring.
One Way Down starts out their set with an incredible cover of Pink Floyd’s “In The Flesh.” They amplify the pomp and bombast of the original and inject it with all the punk angst and desperation that Roger Waters was trying to compete with when he wrote it. These guys have already won me over. With memories of my stoner high school parking lot days still ringing in my head, they launch into a brutal thrash set full of hammering drums that underlie every sound this band makes for the next 20 minutes. One Way Down represent the harsh, cruel world in musical form, and their set passes just as quickly as life itself. No one in the audience is glad to see them leave the stage.
The kinetic energy of Random Acts of Violence befits the headline slot. The hummingbird wingbeat guitar lines crank like the blades in an industrial rock crusher. The drummer is like an actual human version of Animal from The Muppets, taking the thrashcore thing into a new realm. This is what Megadeth was trying to do before they turned into heavy metal. The O’Brien’s crowd is getting caught up in their set, the room exploding with cheers after every song. RAOV takes that adulation and cranks it up from song to song until, by the end, the now packed bar is a huge human circuit linked by the band. By the time Random Acts close it out with their cover of Iron Maiden’s “The Trooper,” (which they swore they weren’t going to cover anymore), the room is a madhouse of mirth and good spirits. Simply one of the best Boston’s Dead nights ever! (Joe Hacking)
PUG UGLIES, DIAL M FOR MURDER, BIOPOP
Charlie’s Kitchen 10/13/03
“BioPop”? I’m expecting guys in lab coats playing synths, or some offshoot of Freezepop. Instead I get four guys dishing out some serious guitar riffage, busy bass and strident vocals. The melodies are catchy although the vocals are hard to hear, I think it’s just Charlie’s sound “system,” as this is a problem all night. But it’s nice and cathartic for sure, even though a lot of people are glued to the Red Sox game. The guys mess around a lot between songs (technical problems?). I’m not sure but I THINK they cover Sweet’s “Action” and they sound a little Cheap Tricky, too. Their last song, “You’re Nowhere” rocks hard and I notice a punk standing in front with “Born to Lose” tattooed on his arm.
When the “Born to Lose” guy straps on a bass guitar I realize that Dial M for Murder also worship at the Church of Johnny Thunders. They’re loud, sloppy, and occasionally out of tune but totally rocking and pushing all the right old school, street punk buttons. A few songs have quick tempo changes and one even has a Jam sounding melody. The singer’s a long haired freak wearing a striped shirt, a Star Wars tie and some sort of silver eagle, um, crotch ornament on his black jeans, definitely a fashion statement I’ve never seen. I remembered their show at the Abbey where he sang with his back to the audience about having smelly feet and somehow he made this sound compelling. Last: “a song from the grave,” a garagey, dirge like monstrosity ending in squealing, distorted guitars. It perfectly complements the Halloween decorations not to mention the spiderweb and skull tattoos on those in the audience. I’m surprised they even let me in to Charlie’s since I’m 100% tattoo-free.
Last are the skinhead looking guys in Pug Uglies but after two 20 oz Oktoberfests on a work night, I wimp out after two songs and go home. Their monotone, barked out vocals and quick-change tempos are taken straight from the mid eighties hardcore guide book. They’re kind of like The Pogues gone Oi! But I get the feeling that young as they look, these guys are vets of the scene and crowd favorites–legions of the ink laden are bopping their heads and tapping their toes. (Laura Markley)
AUDREY RYAN BAND, TRISTAN DA CUNHA, STARR FAITHFULL,
FRANCIS KIM BAND
T.T. the Bear’s 10/8/03
Fucking Red Sox! This is perhaps the most tragically underattended show I’ve ever been to, so people can watch grown men play with balls and sticks? Please.
Opening up, for me and about half a dozen of their friends, are Francis Kim Band. Initially, I like them. They have a kind of dated, soft-rock sound that’s fun for the first song or two, and their lead singer is excellent. He’s a tiny little guy, (they have a song called “5-foot-4”) but he’s got a huge voice, and he uses it really well. Their drummer is also strikingly good; just always that little bit more complicated than he needs to be. I like that. There is also good harmony. But after a few songs the safe, polished, radio-friendly sound starts to get me down. Genuine talent, but not my thing.
Fortunately, I’m here to see Starr Faithfull, and they give me the ass-kicking I came here for. Those ridiculous baseball players are still trying to suck all the life out of the room–at one point there are three of us in the audience–and the band could let this get to them, but they go all out. I make a concerted effort to pay attention to the rhythm section this time, and they’re really good. The bassist plays a five-string and sings really beautiful harmonies. The drummer plays a fairly large kit, guides the band ably through some fairly interesting changeups, and also sings harmony on a couple of songs. But really, it’s all about Jodee. First, the girl can sing. She’s got a great voice with a clear, thick tone, and she can growl and scream like Joan Jett’s dirty little sister. And her guitar solos! Imagine Eddie Van Halen’s raw skill, with better tone and bends and musical ideas worth spending that skill on. She introduces the bluesy romp “3 Sore Thumbs” by saying, “We’re gonna blow off a little steam now,” and I wonder how they could have any steam left.
Truly a tough act to follow. As it turns out, Tristan da Cunha are my new favorite band. They make me think of Devo faithfully covering the double-trio lineup of King Crimson, and that’s just the first song. And they’re a three-piece. Fuck math rock; this is n-dimensional topology rock. I count 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8, IN ONE SONG. And, oh yeah, they’re really good, too. They don’t just hang on for these wild rides, they sell them. The guitarist has Sonic Youth, Shellac, and (above all) The Boredoms under his belt, and can sing a delicate high harmony at need. The bassist does most of the singing, and he’s really good, with a strong voice and a dramatic style that really connects with the (scant) audience. The drummer is a finely crafted machine. And just when I think the bag of tricks must surely be empty, the guitarist and drummer switch places for the last song, and damned if they’re not wild and weird and excellent on those instruments too.
Where can this evening possibly go from here? All to hell, as it turns out. I panic when I see the vibraphone come out, but I try to keep an open mind. Nope. It’s a wimpy jam band. Ridiculous, pointless vibe solos; minimal, thoroughly boring drumming; aimless, noodling guitar solos; and Audrey Ryan’s shrill voice to add an actively bad element to the painfully bland. I make it through my regulation Three Songs, barely, and bolt. (Oh, and the damned Red Sox won.) (Steve Gisselbrecht)
MEDICINE 4 TIM, DISENGAGED, RAVAGE
Bill’s Bar 10/6/03
Landsdowne Street is madness this evening because of the big Red Sox/A’s game. Fox keeps showing Jillian’s (right next to Bill’s) on their broadcast whenever the Sox do something right. This show is charged with the aura of the spiritual center of Boston baseball.
When Ravage takes the stage, things are still even with the Sox game, and they pull a good crowd away from the televisions for their set. It’s obvious that the members of Ravage are scholars of 80’s metal. Their songs bespeak a fan’s knowledge as they unfold upon the stage. Each piece is like an almost impossibly dense concentration of classic metal, a synthesis of Maiden, Helloween, Metallica, Queensryche. They’ve taken only what works from all of these bands, the hooks, the runs, the dual, harmonizing guitar leads. The singer reminds me of Helloween lead singer Michael Kiske and Maiden’s Bruce Dickinson at the same time. And this doesn’t mean that Ravage sound like a ripoff. Quite the contrary. Having lived in the ’80s metal scene, they actually sound better than the majority of metal acts that comprised the scene back then. Crowd appreciation is immense.
Disengage take the stage and the Sox have made it a nail biter. Inspired by the recent panning of their disc in The Noise, Disengage erupt from the stage in a cacophonic fireball ignited by the lead singer. He is as thoroughly unintelligible as The Noise reviewer accused him of being. Perhaps even more so. But I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s trying to do up there, and he’s doing it well. Fueled by the singer’s rabid fury, the band’s flailing, chunky, heavy, sound uncoils smoothly from the amps. Then everything really hooks up, and the lead guitarist digs in and blows everyone’s doors off in the audience. Total fret shredding as the rest of Disengage locks in behind him, holding him atop the sound. Seemingly in response to this musical, metal voodoo, the Sox finally shut down the A’s as Disengage’s last song ends.
Landsdowne Street is sheer fucking madness between bands. Thousands of people are doing laps around Fenway Park. Tim of Medicine 4 Tim joins the mayhem in the street, blasting away on his bagpipes before the TV cameras before re-entering Bill’s and climbing the stage to lead his band thorough a spirited version of “Rattlin’ Bog” with the lead singer of the Pug Uglies/Models out front. M4T then launch into a gargantuan set driven by elation over the Sox’s triumph. There’s a victorious brutality going on here tonight. It’s like they’re already working on the next dark spell that will help foil the Yankees. An almost supernatural quality permeates the set, largely driven by the guitarist playing the Les Paul Gibson. They’re covering “Mountain Song” by Jane’s Addiction, and it’s like the Red Sox fans descending the mountain of their woe. Definitely one of M4T’s best shows to date. (Joe Hacking)
LILIA HALPERN, CLAYTON SCOBLE, JULIE CHADWICK
T. T. the Bear’s 10/6/03
Julie Chadwick soundchecks with a little extemporaneous song of apology for distracting us from the Red Sox, then launches into a short set with just acoustic guitar and voice. She does a mix of Helicopter Helicopter songs, (her own and Chris Zerby’s) and her own non-H2 material. I’m a big fan, so I’m kind of surprised and disappointed to learn that I don’t think her voice stands up well out in the front like this. It’s great in a noisier setting. I also miss her completely demonic electric guitar leads, and she struggles to remember chords for one song. (Chris shouts a suggestion from the audience.) But the songs themselves are just so damned good–upbeat and energetic, with gorgeous, interesting melodies and lyrics that manage to be goofy and fun without being at all dumb–that I’m sad the set’s not longer.
Clayton Scoble plays electric guitar and sings in a warm, gruff baritone that I like very much. His songs are much more down-tempo and mellow, which works well on the Other Side of the Bear. He, too, struggles to remember the chords for one song, but mostly the guitar playing is noticeably good, with a few tastefully used effects and a lot of odd, cool chord combinations. He plays one cover (which I don’t recognize; it might be called “Lonely Is As Lonely Does”) which fits so well with his songs that I have no idea it’s not his until he tells us.
Last up is Lilia Halpern. The audience is becoming increasingly distracted by the Red Sox game playing soundlessly in the corner but, as Ad Frank points out, rock music is better than baseball. I’m initially frightened by her speaking voice, which is high, thin, breathy, and nasal. Then she starts singing, and even though it’s the same voice, somehow she really makes it work. Her lower register is particularly lovely. The songs themselves don’t really do it for me; they’re very simple and almost too pretty. But she sings them well, and her guitar has a really solid, meaty sound. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
OFFICER MAY, THE MODEL SONS (CD Release), REVERSE, THE INFORMATION
The Middle East 10/3/2003
Unfortunately, being in the right frame of mind for this massive onslaught of rock and/or roll meant taking a leak that kept me out of the room until about halfway through The Information’s first number, a pretty little ditty called “Breaking Me Down.” Synths dropping ’80s style all over a spaced out landscape of guitar shaken by the earthquake of a pounding rhythm section. These kids have got it together. The songs are driving, dark and danceable, the stage layout is striking (boys to the left, girls to the right, singer and drummer form a column in the center) and their energy is up a few notches tonight. Vocalist Max Fresen has a keen command of the room and a frenetic force I’ve not seen before from this lad. Way to warm up the crowd. The keyboard and guitar interplay does some fucked up shit to my head.
Okay, I miss Reverse’s first song because I’m smoking a cigarette. Smoking a cigarette OUTSIDE a BAR in the COLD. Why, I oughtta… well, quit smoking, I guess. Inside, Reverse is playing a set of earth-shattering new tunes tonight, with only a few oldies thrown in so obnoxious brats like yours truly can air-guitar and sing along. Ian Kennedy’s guitar (Telecaster) peters out at one point and he borrows a Les Paul from The Model Sons–the difference between those guitars is pretty devastating in the hands of Mr. Kennedy. I have a feeling he’ll be considering a switch. Overall, I suppose this wasn’t the tightest Reverse set I’ve seen, but that’s like saying “Joplin could have been a little drunker tonight” or “Freddie Mercury isn’t quite so randy this evening.” Drummer Mike Piehl is the god of thunder and Reverse is his hammer.
The Model Sons are, of course, the toast of the evening. Most of that toast winds up on their shirts and faces, per tradition, but the feeling is there nonetheless. We pour beer on the band, and they pour on the loudest and brashest punk rock of the night, careening about the stage and soaking up the ample adoration of the crowd. Singer Ian Vogel waxes humble with “Why the hell did we stack the bill with bands that beat the fuck out of us onstage?” but from an audience’s perspective these guys OWNED the stage tonight. They owned it, they used it, they soaked it in beer, and they left it for dead. If the show wasn’t enough, they give away the new EP to anyone who signs the mailing list as a reward for showing up. And on Monday they’ll go back to programming video games. Jesus Christ.
Now, that’s a goddamn hard act to follow, so it’s a good thing we’ve got Officer May on deck here… sounding like an angrier Nirvana (with a better bassist… sorry, Krist) they tear through hard-hitting number after hard-hitting number, raining fire, smoke and vitriol-soaked rock that peels your ears from your head and throws them like little frisbees into the back wall. High energy again, near-perfect execution and charisma to boot, and the singer finally got a haircut (that long, curly thing just wasn’t doing it for me). A fine set from a fine band. Post-show, I feel exhausted. Truth be told, I wasn’t moving all that much, but when four bands are this determined to leave their blood and sweat on the stage that’s what happens–they pull your energy out and use it to feed the fire. ‘Twas a rock show to remember. (Shithead)
SIAMESE TRIPLETS, MOOSE AND THE MUDBUGS,
THE LAST ONES
Ralph’s 10/4/03
The good people of Ralph’s in Worcester apparently tried to hide the place, so that no one would ever discover it, but I am too clever for them! I find the stage in time to catch part of The Last Ones. In truth, I’m not that impressed: their sound has all the two-chord, whump-whump simplicity of The Ramones, without their oddly sunny and insanely catchy buoyancy. And their one attempt at a ballad is misguided; the sloppiness can read as punky energy when they play fast, but slowed down it’s just sloppy. The guitar leads aren’t too bad, though, and they make a decent first band on the bill.
And now, the man, the myth, the freak of nature, Ed “Moose” Savage. Tonight is Moose’s record release party for a live double album comprising one disc from Moose and The Mudbugs, his mid-’80s band, and one from Siamese Triplets, his late-’80s/early-’90s combo. Each band plays one set tonight, and as far as I can tell, they have the same lineup, with different names. But there are, I think, subtle differences in their music.
I’m haunted by the knowledge that it may be impossible to convey the experience of Moose in words. I think it’s probably important to start with the fact that Moose’s voice is nobody’s idea of euphonious. If you need pretty tone, find another review. But hiding in that tone is actually a really good, wild, jazzy sense of pitch, and he loves to perform, and writes fun, catchy, intensely surreal songs about vinyl siding and vermin. And food. You’ll shake your head in amusement the first time you hear him, but the songs really stick with you. The room is nearly empty when they start, as the Red Sox fail to get eliminated from the playoffs, but slowly fills up with drunken people who dance and whoop. The band is actually really good–his drummer, in particular, seems able to hold it together through absolutely anything–and Moose and his guitarist hit a high point with a dueling-banjos-style call and response on guitar and kazoo. Siamese Triplets play some druggy covers (“I Am the Walrus,” and a double-time “White Rabbit”) and close, incongruously, with a somber song that seems to reference the genocide of the Native Americans. And the crowd goes wild. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
AARON SHADWELL
The Kendall Café 9/28/03
Aaron Shadwell is one of the best singers working in Boston today. And with the Kendall–this perennial favorite of the Boston music scene–rumoured to be transferring to new ownership and become a restaurant, I figured what better way to commemorate the passing of this great little stage than to see Aaron sing his songs of love and longing.
If you’ve not heard Shadwell, you’ve a musical treat awaiting you. In his easy and personable way he took to the stage and briefly introduced himself, and out of no-where three video camera-people emerged to capture the moment. He opened with a lonely and unhurried guitar line from which emerged a mournful, poignant love song (Short Breath). Shadwell’s voice just reaches into your soul and right from the beginning he’d visibly captured everyone’s attention. The next song, “This Is It,” is almost a prayer exposing vulnerability ready to risk everything to hold onto love. His lyrics tell the stories of peak moments in relationships where things can go either way. Shadwell’s guitar-work is solid and his voice and vocal melodies can rival Coldplay’s Chris Martin for angel-like delivery and heartfelt, wistful melancholia. The next half hour passed in an instant and included some audience foot-stomping participation, some laughs and many more great songs. When he’d run his time-slot, the audience wouldn’t let him leave the stage. Shadwell obliged us all with an encore. If talent is rewarded and with a little luck, soon this man will be playing to much larger audiences. Go see him now. (DKIRK)
AESOP ROCK, EL P, MR. LIF & AKROBATIK,
S.A. SMASH, HANGAR 18
The Paradise 10/1/03
The Paradise is sold out. The long line to get in offers me the opportunity to surmise the demographics of the show: average age, 22; preferred attire, white belt and/or trucker hat; race, white. Everyone is white, with the exception of the performers and their entourage. I thought the audience for this show would be diverse, but I’m totally wrong.
There are two opening acts–the first, Hangar 18, is great. The band is confident; their rhythms are dead-on and they get the audience hyped up and bouncing around. The other is S.A. Smash, whose set falls flat; his rap is off time, the audience is indifferent towards him, and halfway through his set his frustration begins to show.
There is barely a break between acts all evening; it’s not like these guys have to set up a drum set or tune their guitars, so once one guy’s done another hops up on stage–boom, boom, boom. I go out for a cigarette and by the time I come back Mr. Lif and Akrobatic are already commanding the place. Mr. Lif is scrawny and brainy-looking; Akrobatic is built, and really good-looking. Mr. Lif hops and squirms; Akrobatic prowls. Their combined stage presence fills the room, the roof, the hallway; their chemistry is intense. The kids are going NUTS. Every time Akrobatic freestyles the room just explodes. Their rhythm is so smooth it sounds effortless. They pull off political rhymes without sounding preachy. The DJ seems to be hot-wired directly into their brains; there isn’t one stutter, one rough spot, one false note throughout the whole set.
I escape to the balcony because the smell is starting to overwhelm me. Every act is enthusiastic about “hands” being “in the air”; only thing is, in this packed, sweaty room, the last thing I want to be surrounded by is armpits. I’m getting impatient waiting for the main act, Aesop Rock. Some short guy in a denim jacket comes out and starts rapping away; he was like Archie Bunker at 22 years old. I can barely understand any of the words, his voice is muddled like he can’t keep up with himself. I poke my boyfriend and ask “Who’s THAT guy in the jacket?” “That’s El-P!” says my boyfriend. Whaat? This guy sucks!
Aesop Rock finally comes out and he and the short guy start rapping together. Aesop’s sound is quirky, squeaky, angular; his stage presence is exactly like his voice. He and El-P seem to be blowing through songs like they’re chain-smoking; there are entire melodies and choruses missing from the songs, key samples are played once and discarded. Aesop and El-P’s rhythms never quite gell and they sound rough and off-time in places.
The thing that bothers me the most about Aesop’s set are the hangers-on. For some reason, the opening bands are just milling around on the stage, yelling “Ho!” or something every few minutes. They’re distracting, the stage looks cluttered; I know this isn’t exactly a business meeting but it feels unprofessional. After El-P addresses the crowd as “party people,” which every single act has said over and over all night, I tell my boyfriend that I am not a “party people,” I’m a “sleepy people,” and I’ve really had enough for the evening.
We weave our way out through the white belts and trucker hats and ironic T-shirts. Aesop Rock may have been the headliner for the evening, but the stars of the show were undoubtedly Mr. Lif and Akrobatic. It reminded me how Boston is teeming with innovative, forward thinking musicians of every genre, and we’re so lucky to have them. (Donna Parker)
VOODOO SCREW MACHINE
Bill’s Bar 10/3/03
It had been a while since I’d staggered out of Bill’s Bar covered with blood, but it was well worth waiting for the unholy spectacle that is Voodoo Screw Machine. Billed as “Schizophrenia Unleashed” or somesuch tantalizing title, VSM treated Lansdowne street to a combination Black Sabbath/ Alice Cooper homage that kicked today’s scrappy Nu Metal hordes squarely in the ass and sent them tumbling back to the suburbs. Both sets were gorgeously sexy and diabolical, but I was so drunk and giddy by the Cooper set that I found myself flailing at the foot of the stage, sucking blood from a chalice and spewing it back on to frontman Thermos X. Pimpington. Backed by an inspiring cast of metal maniacs, Pimpington is everything your mother ever warned you about. I know I was bitten by something, and I fear I may be pregnant with some unholy spawn. But I’d do it all again–and I will, next time VSM brings out their original material. If they can do justice to our metal forefathers in such a manner, I can’t wait to see what they come up with on their own. (Nixie)
BROKEN RIVER PROPHET, SHARK MOUNTAIN
O’Brien’s 9/30/03
Due to an unexplained cancellation and an explained delay (forgotten equipment), no one plays for quite a while after my arrival at O’Brien’s. Eventually, Shark Mountain apologetically take the stage. I have an odd reaction to Shark Mountain. I find myself continually surprised to really like them. You may have seen those psychological illustrations where they show you the minimal set of lines and curves that you need to perceive a word. This is like that for rock. Half the songs don’t have vocals at all, and the ones that do have minimal singing mixed low and occasional amelodic screams. The rhythms are really quite interesting, with lots of unusual sixes and twelves, but the drumbeats themselves are actually very simple. The guitar parts usually consist of one phrase repeated many, many times, which should get boring, but they’re always really good phrases, and the guitarist plays with subtle modulations and timbre changes. The word is “protean.”
Broken River Prophet is apparently Adam, the vocalist and lead guitarist, and whoever else is playing with him this week. Currently that’s Brad from the Also-Rans on drums, Ken from Apollo Landing on bass and a little guitar, and Valerie from Mistle Thrush on theremin, vocals, and miscellany. The songs are all kind of down-tempo, and this leaves time for a lot of interesting stuff. The lead guitar is particularly fine, and Valerie adds crazy, spacy texture with the theremin. Adam’s not the strongest singer–his voice has an appealingly furry tone in the lower register, but his pitch isn’t great–but when he and Valerie harmonize it’s beautiful. The last song threatens to get kind of jammy and slow, but it has a propulsive, Fripp-ish bass line and Brad pulls out this magnificent long, slow accelerando that pulls it through. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
THE STEREOBIRDS, THE CAUSEWAY,
BLUE LETTER DAY, GRAND EVOLUTION
The Skybar 9/27/03
Grand Evolution are playing as I arrive at the Skybar. I like them; they have a cheerful, power-pop sound and I like the lead singer’s voice, to the extent that I can hear her. They’re not pushing any boundaries, but it goes down easy.
Blue Letter Days rock out a bit more, and the crowd is getting thicker. The sound here is very Hüsker Dü, from the melodic shouted harmony vocals, to the interesting, jagged guitar leads, to the fast and faster tempi. It’s all very good, except the drummer, who just can’t seem to play that fast. He’s fine for the first couple of songs, but as he fatigues, he starts to drag really badly by the middle of each song. He may be new–I didn’t quite catch what the singer said there–so hopefully he’ll get better with time. They pad the set by calling a friend onstage for an ill-conceived Guns ‘N’ Roses cover, but the audience seems to love it, and the friend’s Axl Whine is tragically accurate.
The Causeway seem to be the band that everyone’s here to see. The crowd is dense and rowdy by this time. This band utterly fails to do it for me: everyone’s fine at their instruments, but they do nothing inspired, and the nasal, nigh-tuneless screaming lead vocal is actively annoying. The drummer’s really cute, but that’s just not enough. Ironically, the one song that someone else sings is much better, but the lead singer seems firmly ensconced. I’ll emphasize that mine is clearly the minority opinion here, and the crowd seems to love them and their heavy/punky energy.
About 90% of the crowd leave at this point, and those few of us who remain are treated to a kick-ass set from The Stereobirds. Their sound is country-rock, which isn’t really my thing, but the lead singer can wail like nobody’s business, and her lyrics and stage presence are all fire and sass. The lead guitarist could be less restrained in his leads, but he does take one really fabulous wah-wah solo. My favorite parts, though, are the harmonies between the singer and bassist; their voices wrap around each other and make a great new whole. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
THE FRANK MOREY BAND, EILEEN ROSE, HUCK
The Lizard Lounge 10/15/03
Huck’s repertoire tonight consists of jangly, sometimes charming, sometimes completely unpalatable pop songs. The trio is clearly talented, able to write strong melodies, and harmonize nearly angelically at times, but a few things are missing from the performance that make it fall short of engaging. The drumming is incredibly weak; simple drumming can work marvelously when used as understatement, but Huck’s drummer plays simplistically. Fills and rhythmic patterns are needed to provide the band with something more than an anthropomorphic metronome. The boys could definitely use a visit from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy for some wardrobe and grooming advice. It sounds trivial, perhaps, but they look like they just woke up from a nap. The band is strongest on its last song, which rocks harder and has better structure than anything that came before it. With more rigorous songwriting standards and a little sprucing up, I think these guys could be genuinely likable.
Having seen Eileen Rose a year ago, and finding her dreadful, I’m curious to see if she’s improved at all. She’s got five guys in her band, trombone, violin, accordion, keyboards, electric and acoustic guitars, bass, and drums. Unfortunately, all the accompaniment in the world can’t cover up the fact that she’s still dreadful. Boring and entirely devoid of humor or irony, she does mostly torchy blues pieces. She tries to convey emotion with her deep, husky voice, but comes across as affected and plaintive, rather than soulful. Her stage presence is strangely flat, and when she covers Pink Floyd’s “Nobody Home,” it’s all I can do to keep from laughing out loud. In fact, the only irony in the entire performance is the fact that such a singularly non-ironic, humorless chanteuse has chosen a piece from The Wall, rock ‘n’ roll’s monument to witlessness, and she doesn’t even get it. Poor thing.
The Frank Morey Band, I’m relieved to say, saves the day. With Frank on guitar, vocals, and harmonica, Joe from The Fever Monument on stand-up bass, and Scott from The Shods on a drumkit ornamented with an impressive array of percussive accessories, this band delivers a set of New Orleans flavored folky blues suited as well to the revival tent as to the Cambridge nightclub. Frank’s guitar style swings from quick finger-picking to slide, and he plays it all authentically and beautifully. His melodic gravel voice is complemented by the harmonies performed by the other two guys, and the songs accomplish what neither of the other two acts on the bill tonight could: engaging the audience with humor, soul, and musical release. The small post-Red Sox crowd at The Lizard is energized by the performance and everyone can now go home feeling like they’ve got their five bucks’ worth. (Laura Slapikoff)
MERCURY CHARM OFFENSIVE, QUICK FIX, GATSBY
Great Scott 9/28/03
Tonight is a benefit for Allston/ Brighton Free Radio, and all the bands seem pleasantly surprised by how many people are at Great Scott on a Sunday night. Gatsby are playing when I arrive. I’ve never heard them before, and I like what I hear. The singer/ bassist has a good voice, the harmonies are good, and many of the songs have an almost Feelies sound, with their chiming guitars and rapid-fire grooves. However, they can also slow it down and still hold my attention. I want a slightly more assertive guitar lead here and there, but I think some of that may just be a mix issue. I think I want to see this band again.
Quick Fix get the crowd up close and rowdy. Frontman Jake seems to really love an appreciative crowd, and feeds off our energy. They start out with a whole bunch of new songs, and they keep apologizing for that, which seems odd to me: I love new songs. All but one of them are really good. (One is kind of a horrible, thudding disco number, but you can’t win ’em all. Four out of five’s a lot better than most bands manage.) Last time I saw them, drummer Brian was BRAND new and not quite up to speed, so I’m very happy to report that he’s settling in nicely and much, much better. After the new songs we get some older material, with three of my favorites right in a row. (“Sick,” “Adrenaline Junkies,” and “Suicide Tuesday”)
Last up are Mercury Charm Offensive, with Brian STILL on drums. Fortunately, these songs are a little slower, so he gets to breathe. They’re a five piece, with keyboards, and they have a little more of an old-school, rock ‘n’ roll sort of sound. The vocals are sound good, with nice harmonies, (All three bands tonight can really harmonize! I approve.) and the songs aren’t bad, but I’ve had a long day and I’m not going to make it to the end of the set. (Steve Gisselbrecht)
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.
