SXSW (Thursday): Flower Love Traveling Band, Wavves, Max Tundra
Various; Austin, TX
- {Flower Love Traveling Band}
With an hour to kill between my next scheduled show, I had the great fortune of stumbling upon Japan’s Flower Love Traveling Band at Smokin’ Music. I always forget that, along with irritably exuberant pop and soul-crushing noise, Japan is also the world’s last bastion for compelling prog-rock. Flower Love Traveling Band constitute all the qualities of great prog-rock: virtuoso technique, epic sonic explorations that ride just shy of overlong, and, perhaps most importantly, a critical self-awareness that you are a prog-rock band and that it is totally ridiculous and glorious all at the same time. FLTB’s wah-heavy, almost backwards-sounding licks were cranked out on a surfboard-sized eight- or nine-string guitar, while the dread-headed lead singer screeched an ear-piercing falsetto. Rollicking drums, touches of keyboard, and submerged bass rounded out the whole proggy mess, but of course the real stars were the singer and the guitarist, leaving FLTB’s sound somewhat of a combination of Damo Suzuki chanting, Syd Barrett-era Pink Floyd guitar licks, and Henry Cow or Soft Machine playfulness. The funniest part about FLTB was whenever someone began a solo -- whether it be the guitarist, drummer or keyboard player -- the rest of the band would surround the soloist and just smile and groove along. Most people knock prog-rock for taking itself too seriously and not having enough fun, but any signs of such joyless pedantry are nowhere near the light-hearted complexity of Flower Love Traveling Band.
- {Wavves}
So apparently Wavves is getting run through the SXSW hype machine big-time. He's playing approximately 953 showcases, as he so bluntly pointed out when I saw him at The Music Gym, so I guess he’s the festival’s golden boy and “breakout” star. Even the drummer from Psychedelic Horseshit had a shirt on that said “Wavves Suck,” and of course when you’re catching the ire of your fellow artists, you’ve truly made it to the top. I just figured he was an above-average punk rocker in the same vein as Times New Viking or No Age, which I guess in itself leads to intense media attention. All the hoopla had obviously taken its toll when Wavves hit the stage last night. He opened the show by griping about how many showcases he had to do and that this set would be a short one. After his announcement that his show was going to be half-assed, he half-assed his way through the highlights of his new record and said goodnight 20 minutes later. I understand that he has lots of shows to play at this week and is probably getting sick of it, but isn’t that why you don’t overextend yourself in the first place, you know, in case you end up phoning it in and coming off like some entitled jerkoff to a crowd of 150 people who really just wanted to enjoy your music? Plus, he was wearing a St. Louis Cardinals t-shirt and a Red Sox cap! What the fuck is that shit about?!
- {Max Tundra}
Any ill will I had towards mankind’s instrument wielders disappeared once Max Tundra (pictured) took the stage next. After the house cranked Appetite for Destruction during the interim for about as long as Wavves played, Max Tundra, in the most adorable-looking cardigan you could ever imagine, jerked and giggled his way through a synthy celebration of life. I have a feeling that when Lord Xenu or the Free Masons or Lemmy intelligently designed the Earth 6000 years ago, along with all the bullshit, God created Max Tundra to serve the world as a beacon of absolute joy, a silly little British man assigned with the crucial task to inundate this desolate world with rainbows and high fives and raspberries and little puppy dogs through song. Tundra feels most at home when his voice is at its highest register with his three or four synths heading out on totally different but expressly joy-related journeys. When he sings at a baritone level, he seems like he’s almost mad at everybody just because he doesn’t sound like the happiest man on earth for a few measly bars. But aside from that small vocal criticism, it’s impossible to hate on the exhilarating synth-pop of this tiny, tiny man. He holds in his hand the key to mankind’s ills, all the life-affirming charm of Vince Clarke and disco-era Sparks dressed in a jester hat and tinkling on a synthesizer.
Whew! So much stuff! Where shall I go tonight! Find out tomorrow! Or don’t! It’s cool!
SXSW (Thursday): The Carrots, Eat Skull, Brimstone Howl, Psychedelic Horseshit
Various; Austin, TX
After spending the lighted hours of Wednesday schlepping my stankin’ ass across the greater half of creation from free showcase to the next, I decided that today would not be yesterday, as is normally the case. The daylight would be for shade, sausages, and suds, a proper festival feast. The streets are rife with top quality dogs (holla atcha, Best Wurst and Beezlebuns), and I found a breeze and beer at the upstairs deck at Flamingo Cantina for the Team Clermont Official SXSW College Party. Along with the surroundings, I found the company to be most agreeable, which included TMT’s own Mario Speedwagon and other very nice people from the Athens, GA area. Playing inside were, amongst others, Casiotone for the Painfully Alone and Mirah, but the meteorological conditions indoors were not unlike those of an opium den, so unfortunately I missed all those neat groups.
No matter. I more than made up for my daytime flippancy in the evening. I started the night waiting in line for the Sub Pop showcase at the Radio Room. A band that I enjoy, No Age were kicking the night off, and being the type of chap who enjoys watching things he enjoys, I queued up. It turns out, though, that everybody else at SXSW enjoys No Age and enjoys watching bands they enjoy, and thus the queues stacked and stacked and grew and grew while the club doors remained mercilessly shut. I had developed a pretty tight schedule for the night and didn’t want to No Age’s overhyped asses to cock it up (I say that out of bitterness, not hate), so I took a gander my schedule to see who else was playing at this hour.
- {The Carrots}
“The Carrots are playing at fucking Emo’s Jr. right now? Fuck No Age, I’ma see the motherfucking Carrots!” I pondered soberly in the shimmering eventide. The Carrots’ Brill Building bop is quite a leap from No Age’s fuzzed-up punk, but I definitely made the right decision when I hopped out of the Sub Pop queue and booked it to Emo’s. Even though The Carrots (pictured) aren’t the most dynamic live act, their deliciously spunky tunes fill in the gap left by a lack stage dives or audience-covering parachutes. Even though they do little more than bob their heads along with their time-trapped pop, that’s exactly what the audience is doing, too, so what does it matter? How could they not tap a toe or two during a song like “Say It Ain’t So” (no not the Weezer tune)? Despite The Carrots’ slight musical retread of Phil Spector-era lovey doveyness, their songs are so tight they needn’t be overtaken by other modern genre innovations. Unlike the punkitude of Blondie’s first record or the disco-ification of The Pipettes, The Carrots are a delightfully straightforward recapture of girl-group pop’s golden age.
- {Eat Skull}
Alright, enough of this sunshine and lollipops bullshit, on to the punk rock! I caught Portland-based Eat Skull at Soho’s Lounge next, making yet another leap into a completely different musical area code. Being a fan of last year’s Sick to Death, I was pleased to hear Eat Skull retain that same hissy incoherence live. Just like on the record, the lyrics do little more than bob to the surface as waves of blighted guitar and synth wash over. But even though Eat Skull’s tunes sound more like early Guided by Voices than My Bloody Valentine, their live presence is more akin to MBV’s woodiness than GBV’s garishness. Static and rather emotionless, Eat Skull plodded through one song after another with little animation. Since I’m already a fan of their music, it wasn’t something I minded much, but I could just listen to the record for the same experience.
- {Brimstone Howl}
Next up was Nebraska’s own guitar heroes Brimstone Howl. I haven’t seen Brimstone Howl in some years, but even though they’ve ditched their once-signature makeshift turbans, they haven’t lost an ounce of their manic guitar power. The tunes themselves are okay -- simple and fast punk tunes with few mind-blowing hooks -- but the real treat about Brimstone Howl are the guitar solos. Oh my, the solos. Along with a standard drum and bass rhythm section, Brimstone has two guitarists that switch from lead and rhythm duties seamlessly. Short, blistering Angus Young-style solos can pop up from either one at any moment, giving their so-so tunes much needed weight. Such unpredictable fretwork keeps Brimstone Howl exciting and full of anticipation for the next big payoff.
- {Psychedelic Horseshit}
I kept my punk streak going with another trip to Soho’s to see Psychedelic Horseshit, a splendidly named outfit from Columbus, OH. One thing that surprised me right off the bat was how composed and well-ordered Psychedelic Horseshit’s set was. I’m only familiar with the unfettered chaos that I’d heard on PH’s ’08 LP Magic Flowers Droned, a record that showed them living up to their namesake to a T. But in concert, they performed distinguishable tunes and had a set of bongos (or was it a tabla?) and even a saxophone with intentions melodic rather than anarchic. I don’t think Soho’s was really ready for such a bevy of sound. There was barely any bass coming from my side of the venue, leaving the whole show with a noticeable lack of bottom, not to mention the near absence of the bongos/tabla or the sax. The best part of the show occurred when a Soho’s employee told PH they had two minutes left, so in response they tore into a five-minute noise assault. The employee eventually came back all hopping mad and told them to cut it out, leaving everyone with smiles. I only wish the whole show would have been so uninhibited.
[Photo: Elizabeth Skadden]
SXSW (Thursday): Found Magazine and Quackmedia Day Party
RED 7; Austin, TX
I showed up at RED 7 just in time to know I was about to be in big trouble. David Letterman comedian {Andy Kindler} tried out his brand of cheesy Jewish humor on the audience, who were not having it, but I've got my own personal reasons for thinking the guy is kind of awesome, so I fought the boos with about 15 other people.
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- {The Hard Lessons}
The Hard Lessons are from Detroit, MI, a kickass husband-and-wife team made up of guitarist/vocalist Gin and keyboardist/vocalist Koko Louise. They also might have the hardest-working drummer in the business, because The Hard Lessons' freight train of solid rock ‘n’ roll doesn't allow for a single breather. Ripping through a 30-minute set, the electricity between Gin and Koko was palpable, as the room swelled to capacity. Gin ended the set hanging from the rafters, playing his guitar with the cord looped over a metal rod. The crowd lost it, because who doesn't love some good rock show theatrics?
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- {Lucero}
The room's demographic slowly changed from neon-clad hipstahs with geometric haircuts to slightly older folks with kids, who had obviously come to check out Lucero, from Memphis, TN. Ben Nichols' raspy croon manages to bring an element of sweetness to their hard-drinking sound, most notably stirring up the room with live favorite “I Kissed the Bottle” from Dreaming in America. For a band on the brink of its first major-label release (Universal), Lucero give the most down-to-earth, grin-worthy set I've seen thus far, delivering with a beery gusto and certain joy that even country music haters can't dismiss.
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- {The Hold Steady}
The Hold Steady's live shows have grown to epic proportions, and it's definitely a mixed bag, as their crowds have grown much larger (awesome) but for some reason decided that circle pits are a good idea (not awesome). After getting punched in the face, I retreated backstage to watch from a safer vantage point and marveled at the effortlessly tight powerhouse the Hold Steady's set has become. Craig Finn spits out his nasty little novels over guitarist Tad Kubler's measured mayhem, backed by sweet harmonies and keys from Franz Nicolay and the rock-solid rhythm section of bassist Galen Polivka and drummer Bobby Drake. Giving the sweaty, exuberant crowd an even sampling of old and new tunes, they closed out with the arresting “Slapped Actress” from 2008's Stay Positive.
SXSW (Thursday): Primal Scream (Sponsored by BlackBerry!)
Cedar Street Courtyard; Austin, TX
Before Primal Scream starts, self-importance hangs over this event like a black cloud. The social hierarchy breaks down thusly: ticket holders vs. wristband holders vs. badge holders vs. VIPs vs. artists — these groups are favored for entrance and seating. This class system emerges in a way that’s tragically familiar to us well-dressed beasts. We all fall into our roles, bow our heads, and do as we’re told.
I’m surrounded by marketing majors who aspire to be yuppies. The scene is grim, dear readers. We are lost. But hopefully soon we will be found. Primal Scream will revive our tired souls, born into a bondage of which we are only partially aware.
Primal Scream is pure, transcendent holiness. Bobby Gillespie is modest, delicate, ugly, and completely illuminated. A radiant grey-hair in a sport coat offers me a joint and says, “This is what we did in the ’60s!” I respond, “This is what we do now!” And it’s a really fucking sweet moment.
Bouncers periodically have to literally leap from stage to audience to pull some dancing crazyperson from the gentle mosh pit that has materialized in the middle of the floor. AT LAST, I’m at a show where such a magical scene could take place.
SXSW (Thursday): Found Magazine and Quackmedia Party, Thee Oh Sees
Various; Austin TX
Hindsight being 20/20 and all that, it would have been a smart idea to have set out today with some sort of game plan. Alas, "smart" doesn't often figure much into my constitution. Today ended up being a rewarding yet frustrating (see my second recap later today), proving that not all is sunshine and smiles at SXSW. I also came to the realization that SXSW is a lot closer in spirit to Mardi-Gras than it would like to believe. Having said all of that, the day couldn't have started any better.
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- {Thee Oh Sees @ The Beauty Bar Patio}
Oh dear, intelligent TMT readers! I hardly have to mention how good Thee Oh Sees were, do I? I will anyway, because when it comes to masters of manic and intense, too much information doesn't come into the equation. Playing a midday set under the packed Beauty Bar tent, John Dwyer, Dammit!, Mike Shoun, and a keyboardist I did not know (sorry) tore into their songs with the intensity of a starving badger. The group was truly in a punishing mood, giving more attention to their low-end chuggernauts than to their dronier psychedelics. With Dwyer chewing up the mic and violating his Burns guitar and the band shooting the same intensity back at him on the floor, to say this was the opening shot everyone needed is a massive understatement. By the time they struck their last chords and skins, the band, the audience, and the walls were covered in a welcome start-of-the-day sweat.
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- {Found Magazine and Quackmedia Party @ RED 7}
{The Entrance Band}'s leader, singer, and guitarist Guy Blakeslee gives new meaning to the word "skinny." As he danced around his mic during the power trio's songs, I couldn't help but think of Steve Vai's Crossroads appearance. Blakeslee's playing probably helped cement that image also, as he worked his paisley guitar with much-applauded skill and emotion. As cool as Blakeslee was, the bassist and drummer were equally enthralling. I have never, ever seen a girl play the bass like Paz Lenchantin does. Whether convulsing and contorting or dropping to her knees to belt out heavy-stringed notes, she snatched the audience's attention from her frontman every few seconds. Not to be outdone, drummer Derek James was a whirling dervish of limbs as he belted away on his kit. Playing a blues-based brand of psychedelic rock, this was not the most spectacularly novel-sounding event, but it was certainly one of the most energetic shows I have seen in awhile, and The Entrance Band managed to drive an adrenaline needle into the heart of what is often a lifeless heavily-stoned sound.
While certainly no fashion plate myself, I simply have to take a couple of lines to describe what I saw at {The Magic} (pictured) show. I realize it was still early in the day and I had been recently rattled by an Oh Sees roundhouse to my senses, but what kind of mystical world did I enter where a stage can be inhabited by a cast consisting of a ginger-haired high-school jazzbo, a 4th grade dodge ball student, a wedding band rebel (tuxedo shirt, sleeves cut off), an ice-cool keyboard femme fatale, and a frontman that looked like prime 1980s era Edwin Collins, but wearing skin-tight sparkly-pocketed cut-offs, suspenders, white patent leather loafers, and argyles? This amalgamation of weirdness' sound could only be placed in that emerging unclassifiable class of electro stutter-step disco pop that was bizarre and incredibly catchy.
After shocking the crowd from their afternoon stupors, most of The Magic took a back seat and played behind {Human Highway}, featuring Nick Thorburn from Islands and The Unicorns and country troubadour Jim Guthrie. When Thorburn took the mic and said, "I hope you like slow dancing," he wasn't kidding. Playing a soft set of creepers and weepers culled from their debut disc, Moody Motorcycle, the duo and support staff had the crowd in a happy, mellow mood, although a little lulled. While it was easy to get taken away to sleepy town during Human Highway's show, it was also near-impossible to not get wistful or even misty-eyed listening to the melodies created by the two singers, recalling earlier, easier times when male singing duos ruled the world.
I was going to ride out of Red 7 and into the Austin sunset until I was stopped by the arty, dream rock of Detroit's {Javelins} (pictured). It is difficult to put a finger on what they do so well. Is it straightforward, well-executed pop songs? Is it the canvassing of styles and patterns (pop/rock, dance, herky-jerky) to make a unique whole? Is it the singing drummer invoking made-up memories of a skinny, good-looking Phil Collins with hair? Whatever it is, it works. I would have gotten kicked out of my journalism program if I ever used the term "really pleasant" to describe something that clearly deserves better, but I cannot think of anything that describes Javelins better. Maybe it is best not to think too much about formulas for success and go with the most tried-and true formula of all: simplicity. I was interested, but not captivated, by their album (Heavy Meadows), but I think a revisit is in due order. But for now, it is time to recharge.
SXSW (Wednesday): Austinist Party / Austin Music Awards / Dananananakroyd @ The Dirty Dog
Various; Austin, TX
- {Austinist Party @ The Mohawk}
Following a most unfortunate encounter with {The Von Bondies} at Red 7, we headed to The Mohawk to catch {Akron/Family}, but they still hadn’t hit the outside stage. So instead of listening to the excruciating hippy-rific sounds of {Elvis Perkins in Dearland}, we sought louder refuge at the inside stage, only to find who else but {The Mae Shi}, AGAIN! Oh sweet fortune, thank thee for thy bounty! Honestly, I could watch The Mae Shi all day. They did the same songs, save for a 30 second rendition of “I Get (Almost) Everything I Want,” played the same electric autoharp, threw the same parachute over a similarly raucous crowd, but who cares! They play with a puzzling conviction that ranges from near-weeping emotionality to TPing the principal’s house gaiety, so it’s always a treat to marvel at their versatility as well as to wonder about what the heck they’re gonna do next.
Earlier in the day I asked guitarist Brad Breeck a question in a half-assed attempt to sum up the group: There are two kinds of punk bands, those who listen to “Institutionalized” by Suicidal Tendencies and really identify with it, and those who laugh at how stupid it is. Which camp does The Mae Shi fall in? He replied, “Both. It’s important to feel those things and say them, but you have to laugh at yourself too, because you’re ridiculous.” I think I may have actually sort of kind of succeeded... maybe.
Off to Akron/Family we traipsed following another enchanting set with The Mae Shi. After ages of sound-checking and finagling with instruments, they began at last. My initial thoughts were that Akron/Family could be a far better band if they would just forget the verses and just go straight into the chorus. All too often they would stick with a tinkered out drum melody and breathy vocal for too long, only to finally arrive with a beguiling melody long after my patience left the station. They’re at their best when their tunes kick into full gear and they start to float off script, but like scores of jam bands before them, they often get caught in the snares of pedantic sentimentality in exchange for daring.
All this happened before their penultimate shamanistic trance jam that just left me feeling uneasy. The trio added on four new members, each with his or her own drum, pounding along with the others a hypnotic melody that couldn’t help but send some into a swaying Woodstocky dance. Everyone on stage was obviously having fun by themselves, but I wasn’t having much fun in the crowd. Although a lot of the audience went under the spell, I couldn’t help but think this pulsing jam was more for the band themselves to get lost in instead of taking the audience, or at least me, along with them. But who knows, everyone else seemed to be having a good time. Their last tune was a dull one that reflected none of the cultish danger of the jam, and I left scratching my head towards the nearest Mexican restaurant.
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- {Austin Music Awards @ Austin Music Hall}
We headed to the Austin Music Hall after dinner to see the reunion show of Austin punk legends {The Dicks}, featuring Scratch Acid and The Jesus Lizard’s own beloved madman {David Yow}. This was by far the most disappointing performance of the day (my TMT buddy agrees). The Dicks were preceded by two exceedingly bland Austin groups, {Suzanna Choffel, Ruthie Foster and Carolyn Wonderland} and {Bob Schneider and the Fire Ants}. We endured the muzaky display in hope that The Dicks would hit the stage soon, but unbeknownst to us, this showcase doubled as the Austin Music Awards Show. It had all the long-winded, self-gratifying trimmings of Oscar night, only with uglier people. The Dicks came on a half-hour late and played for only 20 minutes, most of which was spent with the bass turned up so loud that a dude in a hovering Harrier jet would tell the sound guy to turn it the fuck down. David Yow sang on one measly tune, and even though it’s cool that I can say I saw The Dicks, they were old and weathered and just going through the motions instead of trying to recapture their sound.
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- {Dananananakroyd @ The Dirty Dog}
We wisely ended the evening with {Dananananakroyd} at the Dirty Dog. I didn’t think I would see a better punk band after The Mae Shi, but I daresay Dananananakroyd is better, if not easily more boisterous and life-affirming. Comprised of one lead singer, a drummer that floats between drums and performing dueling lead vocals, one permanent drummer, two guitarists and a bassist, Dananananakroyd is a lot to take in. They’re the happiest kids in Scotland, and they just want to play with you. From their anthemic tunes to their unbelievable manipulation of the audience into a “wall of cuddles,” Dananananakroyd are as joyous punk gets this side of Andrew W.K. But where AWK clings to simple three chord standbys, Dananananakroyd include all the expert musical intricacies of a band like Hella in their songs. At the end of their set, the two lead singers headed into the crowd and exclaimed, “We did it! We did it together!” as they high-fived the hell out of everyone within reach. We sure did do it.
A fine end to a really, really packed SXSW. I doubt any further entries on my part will be so extensive as this one.
