BLEU
The Norva
Norfolk, VA
4/4/02
I’m looking around the club as Bleu begins his E-band set. There seems to be a mostly older crowd in attendance, and they’re confused. Who is this guy with the headphones? But when Boston’s favorite catchy songwriter starts playing the beats on his handy CD player, confusion turns to joy. Seriously. I feel like I’m in church during “Searchin’ For the Satellites,” as the lady in front of me waves her hand in the air in true hallelujah fashion – for the whole song. “That’s Life” gets some hollers from the back of the club, and I swear I hear some muffled sobs behind me as Bleu belts “Somethin’s Gotta Give.” His great tunes and goofy banter onstage are an instant hit in his home state. Remember me saying the crowd looks older? For some bizarre reason, after the set, Bleu is surrounded by young, female autograph seekers. Those sideburns must be beacons for pretty young things. (Meri Birdwell)
ANNETTE FARRINGTON, COUNTESS, SPARKOLA
608
4/5/02
Sparkola are the “stunt doubles” for Countess members Adam Buhler, Steve Powers, and Jason Sakos. In Sparkola, Adam and Steve switch up their Countess bass and guitar roles, and Steve sings lead. The trio delivers a set of slightly funky, slightly jazzy rock that draws people forward from the bar area. These guys are strong musicians, and they put on an energetic show. Though I like the songs, I can’t help wanting a bit more funk, more punch in the bass, and some crowd-pleasing hooks in the songs. They almost win me over, but I want to hear more.
Countess takes the stage like a dog that grabs you in its teeth and shakes you mercilessly for 40 minutes. The sound is loud, angry, and wholly cathartic, relenting only for “Pony Up,” apropos for the vacuous parody of a pop song that it is. The stage is in chaos, crawling with camcorder-wielding men, rubber outfitted nurses, a sleazy industry exec glued to his cell phone, and two perfectly syncopated blonde-wigged dancers in skimpy pink leather. The audience is riveted, and some lucky adorers are rewarded with licks of sugar frosting from Cynthia von Buhler’s fingers. As “Alicia,” Cynthia is a stalking, writhing, screaming priestess, the rock temple’s pythia channeling the god of music-industry disgust. Bass player Izzy Maxwell is an angelic dervish in boxer shorts and converse high-tops who, with “TOFU” written on his chest in black marker, turned me vegetarian on the spot. This is Countess’ last Boston show, and they go out in style.
I wouldn’t want to play in the band that headlines when Countess is one of the opening acts. In fact, I would say that Annette Farrington is the closing act for Countess. During an excruciatingly long soundcheck about 2/3 of the audience leaves the club. Then Annette’s band plays a monotonous set that puts me in mind of what Tanya Donnelly might sound like if backed by The Banshees. What’s left of the audience talks through the whole thing. The highlight of the act is the guitar player’s monk outfit from the Holy Order of St. Calvin Klein, revealing glimpses of his black boxer briefs through a side slit. Well, that and the synth guy’s pleather T-shirt. We all want to know where to get one of those. (Laura Slapikoff)
CHANDLER TRAVIS PHILHARMONIC
Midway Cafe
3/28/02
A friend comments, “I’ll never forgive him for stabbing Sharon Tate,” referring to the bearded, pajama-clad bandleader. Hey, I like the guy: he’s fun to watch, and he offsets the ponderous audience of thirty-somethings, doing their best Overly-Ernest Goes to Camp routine and frequently blocking my view. I’d start with the elbow jabs, but some of them look like lawyers.
An occasional aural Communism notwithstanding, when the C.T.P. is successfully integrated, the hinted genres-dixieland, klezmer accents, brass chorales-twist and mate over solid songwriting, dopey lyrics lightening the anthems that the group skates dangerously close to performing. It’s a driven, locomotive power that lifts me after the atonal ruts, the gestalt of a compassionate sadist: a short dose of tympanic pain, soon relieved by a honking, “give-me-the-willies” kind of song that I wish I’d written. Next time I’ll get drunk, so I won’t feel embarrassed about hoisting my lighted Bic. (The Duke of Atterbury)
KARATE, THE IVORY COAST, FIN FANG FOOM
The Middle East
3/9/02
The worst part about going to a show by myself is that I invariably run into the another guy who’s there by himself, who wants to tell me all about his latest surgery. Tonight is no exception. This is why beer is called social lubricant by so many; without the innovations of Capt. Pabst, I could very well seize-this guy by the throat, that is.
The only thing more intolerable than my new best friend is the flaccid, uninspired set by the Ivory Coast. They’ve got barely enough onstage energy to lightly toast a slice of bread, and their original material sounds like bad Sebadoh covers. I can’t take my eyes off the lead singer’s wrinkled shirt-I guess nobody told him he was playing a show tonight.
Karate then take the stage, exuding a cool confidence, and rightly so; clearly most of the audience is here for them. Almost all of their set is new material, which is jazz-tinged, to say the least. Unfortunately their confidence at times gives way to too-cool smugness, and by the sixth guitar solo, I’m ready to pack it in. However, before I can squeeze out of the crowd, Karate launches into what I later find out is 1/2 of their new 2-song EP, which might not sound like Karate, but it’s still good music. (Jesse Thomas)
THE ROLLING TONGUES REVIEW, JEDEDIAH PARISH & THE MOTHER TONGUES, CHARLIE CHESTERMAN
The Lizard Lounge
4/10/02
At 9:30, it looks like a slow night at the Lizard. Due to a babysitting SNAFU, Chaz & the Motorbikes didn’t make it to the club, but Charlie Chesterman steps up in the spirit of going on with the show, and performs a solo set of decently enjoyable folk songs. Flipping through his journal to pick out songs to play, he admits that he hates listening to guys with acoustic guitars, and hates listening to guys with crib notes even more. He gives the song “New Bluebird Tattoo” a folk-punk treatment, and finishes his set to a full house and hearty applause.
Jed Parish & the Mother Tongues come out and play an in-your-face set of songs from both of Jed’s solo albums. On CD the songs are thoughtful and spacious, but Jed growls them out loud and hard live. It’s Jed’s birthday, and someone hands around bottles of bubble soap. The audience blows bubbles, giving the club a nouveau Lawrence Welk Show ambience. With Lori Perkins (Seks Bomba) on backing vocals, the trio delivers a gorgeous rendition of The Velvet Underground’s “Candy Says.” During the Mother Tongues’ “smoke break,” Jed plays a Ray Charles cover, accompanying himself on the keyboard. When the break ends, Lori comes out with a “sexual” birthday cake built from Twinkies and mini-donuts covered with candles, and we all sing “Happy Birthday.” The second half of the set includes a powerful “Monkey Blues” and a slinky version of the whimsical “Clawfoot Tub.” Jed IS the Silver Gorilla. Go see him.
The real treat of the evening is a closing set of Rolling Stones covers from The Rolling Tongues Review. The Review consists of Jed and his Figgs/ Gravel Pit compañeros in a variety of combinations, flawlessly performing Stones gems from the early ’60s through the late ’70s. I’m a huge fan of the Stones from this period, and I’m going out on a limb to say that these guys do a better job with these songs than the Stones themselves do anymore. Mike Gent is the spitting image of a young Bill Wyman, lending an eerie authenticity to the experience, and he plays a mean bottleneck slide guitar. Throughout the set, the musicians change instruments frequently which adds to the fun, and the audience sings and chair-dances to every song. It’s Jed’ s birthday, but The Rolling Tongues Review is an unexpected gift to everyone who had the sense to show up tonight. (Laura Slapikoff)
THE JUMBLIES, HIP TANAKA, MISSION CREEP
Midway Cafe
3/22/02
Mission Creep are a duo-one guy on drums, one on vocals and hardware store. Okay, guitar, keys, computer, hand-held thingamabobs and a couple milk crates of other stuff I don’t recognize. And they sound great. It’s kinda like if electronica, prog, improv, techno/ house/ trance/ dub/ blah-blah, radio static, found sounds, home noodling and sheer luck all fell under one heading. Actually, I guess they do now. Gallantly straddlin’ that fuzzy-ass line between dance music and shit you can actually listen to, it’s highly engaging cut-n-paste-with-a-beat type stuff that thousands of lesser acts have failed miserably at. And the chickadees love it. Maybe the key is that they don’t kill you with samples, volume or forced aggro nonsense in an attempt to sound hip. It’s just…enjoyable. Think about this for a sec. Enjoyable music. How’s that for a fuckin’ concept?
You might as well forget everything I ever said about Hip Tanaka and how they keep reinventing themselves, ’cause the dirty fuckers went and did it again. Since the only predictable thing about ’em is their unpredictability, it makes writing about it pointless-whatever I tell ya ain’t gonna happen next time out. This time, let’s see, they lost the keys and lead vocalist, added a guitar, kidnapped the late Innerpink’s drummer, wrote a bunch more twisted, fabulous shit, completely retooled some of the old stuff, and found some new funny hats. My favorite thing about ’em is the beer money I save, because they always make me feel punch-drunk after about two songs. Without rehashing my whole spiel, let’s just say that A) anyone else trying to do the insidious/ precise/ shambles thing should just hang it up now, and B) I spend way too much time wondering what these mad scientists are up to in the lab every night. They’re a flame, you’re a moth, and that’s the beauty of nature.
During The Jumblies’ set, someone actually turns to me and says, “I could jerk off to this.” I assure you this doesn’t come from any bullshit navel-bearing antics or “Do Me Baby” lyrics, ’cause there aren’t any. Rather (and I completely agree), he means that you can get so completely sideswiped by the beauty of this music, that your entire memory can go blank for a while. I rarely use terms like life-affirming, but there’s peace and strength and reassurance and womb-like warmth and safety and all that cosmic crap here, and with all that comes, yeah, a major orgasmic floaty feeling that does scream for release. Which isn’t to say they don’t have some icier tunes or can’t rock out, but the overall effect is easily as good as any drug or blowjob I’ve personally had. And since I can’t do drugs and don’t get blowjobs anymore, I’m pretty fuckin’ grateful for this band. (Joe Coughlin)
PORNBELT, THE TAKERS, GRAND ISLAND, MUTANT MESSAGE
Midway Cafe
4/12/02
In defiance of this magazine’s strict word counts, I offer the following in hopes that this policy will change.
Mutant Message do skinny-white-guy rap with cello, which is more than mutant enough a message for me. It tanks.
Grand Island scream lotsa loud nonsense over clumsy, clanging non-riffs. It tanks.
The Takers sound like an actual rock band (or for that matter, music at all), and fairly seize the moment. This seems to piss off the artsy crowd, who are here to support their artsy friends in the other bands, so they stand around pretending they’re cooler than this. They’re not.
The only few bearable seconds of Pornbelt’s appearance is before they start, when the bass player pops her top. What in the ungodly fuck does it say about a band when punk rock kazoo has actually been done a million times better? This has to be some kind of milestone in evolution, or a sign of the apocalypse. Perhaps the shrillest, most painful and pointless cacophony I’ve ever witnessed, and I’ve seen some real train wrecks. I’m outta here. (Joe Coughlin)
DROP DOSE, THE RUMBLETONES, MOVING BUILDINGS, KRISTIAN MONTGOMERY BAND
Midway Cafe
3/29/02
Perhaps I was a tad harsh on Kristian Montgomery in a recent CD review-which isn’t to say I’m not a genius, or that I like the record. I also hear they got fucked outta their alleged time slot tonight, so props to ’em for even sticking around, if that’s true. Must be those Anger Management classes I’m taking, but the fact is, every year, some yuppie-friendly bar band like this gets lucky. And they’re undeniably great at what they do, they move tons of product, and everyone leaves happy. I guess it all depends on if you wear your Hootie comparisons as praise or an insult. I mean, it’s not like they sound like they do by accident. I have no use for what these guys play, but I’m fairly shocked at the sincerity they’re putting out here. I still think it’s for Extremely Average Puds, but this is America, and the Puds are allowed to rock, too.
I like bands that confuse the Puds, so lucky for me, Moving Buildings are on the bill to fuck everything up. Opening with the wonderfully screwy “Treehugger,” they fearlessly fling notes into the air like those Ninja Star things, dippin’n’doodlin’ from polyrhythmic pomp into stone-free Hendrix territory, sometimes within the same passage. They switch instruments around and make it all look easy, with lyrics jumping from the intriguingly arcane to the traditional “Huh?” They’ve trimmed the more extreme jazz and goofball elements from the set tonight, but are no less busy, agile or interesting for it. They’re one of the few bands for whom I’ll waive my usual “Only Cover ‘Em Once” policy, as they never fail to surprise me, and more often than not leave me googly-eyed and rethinkin’ my very tastes, even after all this time. The Puds look lost. I’m happy.
Swerve #3: The Rumbletones start with some boogified, near-metal covers of like, 50’s tunes and stuff (“Sea Cruise”?!?!) that work so perfectly, it’s almost disturbing. I’m reminded of long-gone locals Heavybilly (need I explain?). Similar idea, different results. There are subtleties here that have no right to be called that (you figure it out). Couple’a blues-tinged numbers follow, something I usually ignore, but they’re played with such obvious heart, I can’t look away. There are some anthem-type rah-rah things and a few more of those spray-painted cover jobs, and I’m thinking, this is the kinda Big Dumb Fun you’d go see when you were 22 (in 1980) and still lived in Winchendon-yet it’s so self-confident, it outsmarts 95% of the precious city-slicker shit we all wring our hands over. They’d be right at home playing a biker pig roast, and that to me is a lot rock’n’rollier than whoever’s on the cover this month. Jeez, whaddaya know-The Puds Are Alright!
Speakno’which, remember these two words: Drop Dose. I’m so glad someone is doing this, “this” being… um, modern classic rock, or something. They look more “then” but sound as much “now,” even though they ain’t exactly either. I can see ’em winning over fans of, say, Bad Company as easily as fans of (insert current dirtball arena act). And dare I say, these factions can learn from each other? (Namely, I hope we can learn new phrases for stuff like, “They brought the rock,” even if it IS the truth.) Anyway, it’s the old retro-versus-timeless argument, and you know who’s winning that one here. Some of the material has a little ways to go, but their blueprint’s a ding-dong doozie. And “Thicker Skin” carries an obscenely simple, super-glue riff that has infected my every waking moment for about six weeks now. It’s unshakable to the point of serious derangement. In other words, the very thing I live for. Is there like, a Pud Army fan club I can join? (Joe Coughlin)
COLD COFFEE
The Kendall Café
4/11/02
It’s interesting to see a clamorous garage-punk band adjust their sound and style to fit into the folksy Kendall. Cold Coffee pulls this modification off successfully, as evident by their cool, laid-back Velvet Underground-ish set. It dawns on me that ‘punk’ is an attitude and a technique, much more than it is a certain sound. Guitarists Sean Dillman and Noel Ventresco know this; they take turns at the mike, spattering out a trash bag full of skewed, jagged originals that connect best with fans of the first-wave underground, or any Lou Reed fan for that matter. The sweeping, sonic shiver of “My Last Place” calls to mind the Benzedrine-soaked trip-tones of Television’s “Carried Away.” Other choice brews include the folk-tinged “Waiting For The Fun” and a decaffeinated version of “Living in the Shadow of the Big Block.” (Steve Prygoda)
MIRROR MIRROR
Pub 30something
Tyngsboro, MA
4/13/02
Don’t let the name of this club fool you. There are some “barely legals” here along with folks that are old enough to be my parents. This shows that the band appeals to a wide array of people. With that said, I must also add that the sound quality here is excellent. Mirror Mirror specializes in hard rock, and each table is thumping with their driving beat. The drummer is so fierce, he needs a kit twice the size of the one he’s playing on to sustain his fury. Each member displays a remarkable talent with the exception of the rhythm guitarist. In the few songs he sings, his vocal range is poor, and his guitar is actually out of tune. He also sports a mullet haircut. Ouch. I do enjoy myself though, and the atmosphere is friendly. (Free cake!) As long as the band can cut down on the cheesy cover ballads and fine tune that guitarist (literally), I see great things. (Sue O.)
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