Yann Tiersen / Asobi Seksu
Logan Square Auditorium; Chicago, IL
You almost have to feel bad for someone like Yann Tiersen. Much like samba hero Seu Jorge, Tiersen is a brilliant musician and composer of the avant-garde grain, with international popularity. Like Jorge, Americans will remember him best for doing a soundtrack to a quirky but popular movie, in this case the pretentiously titled Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain, also known as Amélie. Of course, having such a legacy leaves a double-edged sword when it comes to touring in such a country as this one: A lot of fans will come to your shows, but many of them will be expecting you to play songs from that soundtrack. You can choose to fully placate them (and make yourself a sideshow), partially placate them, or just ignore their demands and play new material. Tiersen went with the last option (to the best of my knowledge), and yet pulled off an amazing show nonetheless.
Openers Asobi Seksu don't carry the weight that Tiersen does: the most they can claim is having their music on single episodes The L Word and Skins. Yet they still had a lot to push. Continuing their tour in support of February’s release and shift in direction Hush, the dream-poppers were playing a larger venue from what they were used to, having only been at the Empty Bottle nearby a month before. Coming out, they started with safe shoegazing fare, such as “Thursday” and “Strawberries” off the acclaimed Citrus, before venturing on to the new album with single “Me & Mary” and opening track “Layers.” If they were known for being shoegazers, they certain weren’t acting like them tonight: throughout their set, guitarist James Hanna and bassist Billy Pavone deployed some amusing antics with their amps. Frontwoman Yuki Chikudate, whose willowy voice should make J-Pop idols like Utada bow their heads in dishonor, attempted to headbang towards the end of “Transparence” and was otherwise rocking out the entire time. They were enjoying themselves, and it translated well in their performance. Switching between albums never seemed strained, with layers intact from Citrus tracks and stronger synths apparent in tracks from Hush -- and all the while, Yuki’s vocals were stronger and clearer. They may have dropped interest in future shoegazing, but they still got something to show for it.
What brought many people in was Yann Tiersen, but what shocked many people was Yann Tiersen as well. Many people expected him to jump on with a piano, accordion, maybe a violin, and play some Amélie tracks. They got the violin, but they also managed to receive an avant-garde combination of shoegaze-layering and post-rock insanity. Some were obviously stunned, but overall the crowd reacted well and enthusiastically. The set mostly contained songs from more recent albums that have taken this rock direction, in particular Le Ratrouvailles. As per the band itself, they may as well had been playing to a sold-out crowd at Paris Olympia, as most players were enthusiastically bouncing around during the performance, switching roles from time to time. In particular, the lead female, with a striking resemblance to previous collaborator Elizabeth Fraser of the Cocteau Twins, split her time between vocals, reciting French poetry, playing the flute, sitting on the stage, or messing with the Moog. But then there was Tiersen himself, who at mid-point played one song as a violin solo, in a manner so intense hairs started snapping off the bow (this particular piece brought the crowd to a frenzy). He continued using it, with horsehairs flailing about, through the rest of the set, without batting a lash. If nothing else, Yann Tiersen’s performance was a reminder to people that he is not just that guy who wrote the Amélie soundtrack.
The Dead Weather
Bowery Ballroom; New York, NY
As much as Jack White would like to be just another band member, he will always remain the center point, even when he plants himself behind a drum kit. The Dead Weather, his latest side project, played its first public show (the group performed a private show in March for White’s new Third Man Records building) to a sold-out audience at New York’s Bowery Ballroom and, of course, the draw was most certainly to see what Mr. White would be pulling out of his hat this time. What the fans saw was the sleaziest guitar-driven rock to come out of White’s arsenal yet.
Comprised of White on drums, singer Alison Mosshart (The Kills), guitarist/organist Dean Fertita (Queens Of The Stone Age), and bassist “Little” Jack Lawrence (The Raconteurs), The Dead Weather performed a 12-song set of songs from its forthcoming record, Horehound, due in June.
Leather-clad, the band tore through a set of finely-tuned bluesy garage rock. Singer Mosshart fiercely stalked the stage, chain-smoking and with her face obscured by a bird’s nest of hair; she commandeered the audiences’ attention away from White as de-facto group leader -- that is, if you were brave enough to stare directly at her. Opening with “60 Feet Tall,” The Dead Weather instantly made believers of those in attendance. Perhaps they heard an opening heckle from an audience member of “Impress us, bitches,” but it's more likely that the band’s performance was a testament to its skill and musicianship. Oh, and guess what? Jack can totally drum!
The band’s songs were all similar in style, with room-shaking bass and White’s signature guitar sound (only not played by White) that sounded like it came from rock’s yesteryear. White did, however, emerge from behind the drum-kit to play guitar and duet with Mossart on “Will There Be Enough Water?” The two shared a mic and sang face to face in close enough proximity that each breath mussed the other’s hair; the mic pairing made for a provocative moment that left many wondering, myself included, if you can fake that sort of tension. The lyrics “Just because you caught me/ Don’t mean it’s a sin,” didn’t help matters much either.
By the time the group played its final song, a pulverizing cover of Bob Dylan’s “New Pony” from Street Legal, The Dead Weather had proved they are a unit entirely of themselves. Even if Jack whatshisname is in the group, too.
Cloud Cult / Margot and the Nuclear So & So's / Ice Palace
Black Cat; Washington, DC
If I could go back to this show and change one thing, I'd simply cut out the second band. Ice Palace, the first group, were clearly friends of Cloud Cult: they play melodic pop with plenty of instruments from the orchestra pit. Gleeful and engaging, Ice Palace managed their elements in such a way that highlighted their songs’ complexities without losing sight of needed structure. Perhaps all that needs to be said is that I bought their album after their set. The youngest portion of the room shrieked as soon as band #2 Margot and the Nuclear So & So’s took the stage. After a couple songs, I couldn’t understand why. The only energy they exerted was a result of the sheer number of instruments onstage, which left songs sounding messy and confusing. This band plays self-serious pop, and it didn’t work. My friend, in his infinite wisdom, decided the only thing worthwhile about MNS&S was their “really hot keyboard player.”
Cloud Cult’s set started off rocky, with some sound malfunctions stemming from a cable that didn’t connect to anything, but as frontman Craig Minowa said, “I can feel this is going to be a great show. They’re always great when the beginning doesn’t work.” The band soon proved him right. After a couple songs, they were swooped into a fantastic energy flow, reinforiced by the audience’s rapturous attention and enthusiastic singing. They played songs exclusively from their last three albums and focused particularly on their latest, 2008’s Feel Good Ghosts. They've clearly tightened up their live chops since the last time I saw them (TMT Interview) -- strings took an appropriately prominent role and each member was attuned to every other, the perfect formula for doing justice to their profoundly humanizing music.
As we walked outside, my friend said he was pretty sure he saw God during the final minutes. I wouldn’t go that far, but I would agree that Cloud Cult’s set was nothing short of breathtaking. I rode the Metro home feeling proud to be alive, which is probably the best thing a show can leave you with.
The Drones
Pianos; New York, NY
Even if you write off their more somber numbers as too subtle, The Drones have great songs to draw on when planning a set. The high point of this evening, though, is not a spirited rendition of "The Minotaur" or a crowd-pleasing trip through "Shark Fin Blues"; it's "Six Ways To Sunday," a mainstay of The Drones' live oeuvre that dates back to their first independent release in 2001. It's a little more rough around the edges than the stuff they're releasing in 2009, but that's all the better in a live setting. The backbone of the song is guitar noise over a simple bass groove, which the band periodically cuts out, leaving two beats of plain old silent space that will actually make you stop breathing for a second if you're not expecting it.
The silence is so stunning primarily because, by this point in the set, you're so used to the roar of The Drones' guitars. Gareth Liddiard and Dan Luscomb have brought noise guitar to a certain level of perfection. Liddiard, in particular, employs both skilled fingerpicking and skilled footwork -- this is the first time I've ever seen someone successfully manipulate the tiny knobs on their footpedals with their feet while playing. It's a sight to see.
And while the guitars alone are reason enough to justify such statements as "The Drones should be much bigger than they are," my guess is that this feeling is stoked as much by the fact that their records come off as deadly serious in an age that's increasingly attuned to real talk about death, war, poverty, and the like. But if you're gonna remain human while you play a song like "She Had an Abortion She Made Me Pay For," you're gonna have to adopt a "fuck it" attitude. When they introduce "Oh My" as a song about the world's imminent demise, it doesn't come off dreary or pseudo-prophetic -- just a fact.
Towards the end of the night, there is some worry that the band will need to cut the set short in order keep their van from getting towed (thanks NYC parking statutes). They say "fuck it" (of course) and plow ahead into "I Don't Ever Want to Change." Luscomb's amp starts acting up. He could easily panic, slump off stage, or pout, but he instead has fun with it, playfully getting in the way by throwing his guitars onto the drum kit.
Since fiddling while Rome is burning implies a social irresponsibility that I don't think is warranted in this case, call this fiddling about Rome burning.
Paul McCartney, Ringo Star @ David Lynch's Benefit Concert
Radio City Music Hall; New York, NY
As strange as David Lynch’s mind is, at least it’s at peace. Holding a benefit concert for his foundation that promotes Transcendental Mediation to at-risk youths, Lynch brought together a lineup of “what the fuck,” a touchstone of his for over 30 years, for his Change Begins Within Benefit Concert. With an audience of people who, from the looks of things, have never uttered an ‘Om’ in their lives, it’s safe to say that the majority was attending to see the all-star lineup of Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Eddie Vedder, Donovan, Moby, Jim James, Bettye Lavette, um, Sheryl Crow, and others.
The first set showcased artists who subscribe to the Transcendental Meditation method, while the second half brought out the artists who famously traveled to India four decades ago to practice with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and made this meditation a household name.
With a majority of acts joining each other onstage, the night began with Moby and legendary soul singer Bettye Lavette. Taking the place of Vera Hall, who Moby sampled on “Natural Blues” from 1999's Play, Lavette showcased her range, while Moby proved he could still rock a shaved head while, for some reason, wearing a Black Flag shirt. Fashion blunders aside, the two stuck mostly to songs in line with the spiritual theme of the evening, while also playing “We Are All Made of Stars” and “Close As I’ll Get To Heaven.” The two songs were highlights of the evening's first half.
Surprisingly, a solo Eddie Vedder did little to showcase any of his talent, besides using vocal delays to make an annoying chant that should have been, well, meditated on before stepping onstage. Adding to Vedder’s night of mistakes was a duet with Ben Harper on the Queen/David Bowie track “Under Pressure.” The only thing that performance proved was that no one should ever try to cover that song. Ever.
With sporadic speeches from David Lynch and his muse Laura Dern about the wonders of meditation, the night dragged until the originators took the stage for the second half.
Donovan, both a casualty of the ’60s if I’ve ever seen one and the head of the organization’s musical wing, was joined by My Morning Jacket’s Jim James on the songs “Hurdy Gurdy Man” and “Wear Your Love Like Heaven.” A little dated, Donovan’s songs are definitely of the time when he traveled to India, yet they're still a pleasure to ears and a helpful reminder of the wonders of drugs. Donovan was followed by jazz flutist Paul Horn, who introduced a piece of music he’d written for the evening called “Meditation,” which was dedicated to George Harrison and John Lennon. It was a reminder of the two legends waiting in the wings.
Coming out first was Ringo, and for all that’s said about his lack of talent, he really knows how to get the good feelings in the audience going. He played “It Don’t Come Easy,” “Yellow Submarine,” and surprisingly “Boys,” a track that had been part of The Beatles’ repertoire before he was a even a member and was once played by former drummer Pete Best [ouch].
Finally, the night concluded with Sir Paul himself. McCartney’s set was not only the longest of the evening, but also the most energetic of the night, consisting of songs from The Beatles, Wings, and his solo catalogue. Performing classics like “Got To Get You Into My Life” and “Let It Be,” McCartney knows that people want to hear the songs they and their children and their children’s children have grown up on. Surprisingly, he played “Here Today” from his 1983 album Tug of War, a song he described as a one-way conversation with his ex-bandmate John Lennon after his murder in 1980. If anyone denies the emotional impact of anything McCartney has done post-Beatles, tell that to the woman weeping next to me throughout the whole song, face in hands.
There was no guarantee that Ringo and Paul would be performing together but with a triumphant introduction of Ringo as Billy Shears, Starr’s personality on Sgt. Pepper, the two shared a microphone on “With A Little Help From My Friends,” marking the first time the two have shared a stage since 2002 when they performed at “A Concert For George.” The moment was perhaps more legendary for the people in the audience, and from the looks of things between McCartney and Starr, it was just two friends reconnecting in front of 6,000 people.
Ceremoniously, the evening concluded with the night’s lineup onstage performing “Cosmically Conscious,” a song McCartney wrote on the 1968 trip to Rishikesh, India that appeared as a hidden track on his 1993 album Off the Ground. They all then launched into “I Saw Her Standing There,” with Ringo on drum and McCartney still hitting those high notes -- it was the most inspirational moment of the night.
If this is what Transcendental Meditation gets you, I’m pretty confident that more than a few people might check it out.
Brittain Ashford / Letters & Numbers
Northeast Kingdom; Brooklyn, NY
Brooklyn's Northeast Kingdom is a restaurant that manages to look like a proper bistro while surrounded by decaying industrial architecture. On the ground level, people babble loudly through their arugula. Downstairs, in stark contrast, hides a quiet-looking room reminiscent of every musty suburban basement of the day, save for the smell, which is actually quite pleasant. Faux-wood trim creeps halfway up the wall, meeting the wallpaper that is adorned with mirrors and lamps everywhere. It is an intimate venue, its only notable flaw being that the soft light lining the room fails to illuminate the standing performer.
It's raining outside, and everything is far away from Manhattan, but the room is still as full as it can comfortably handle. Normally consisting of a wider lineup, the two that make up the group Numbers & Letters tonight -- Joe Lops and Katie Hasty -- are seated in the performance area, near lamps, holding guitars. They play a sort of folk tune that sounds familiar, but probably isn't. Lops plays his guitar carefully, including some great slide guitar in his last song, while Hasty's curiously small voice yelps in the lower register and bolsters more control and delicacy in the upper. The overall sensation is inviting, reminiscent of Alela Diane. Katie is clearly the dominant focus of the group, and perhaps she should be. They play five songs, give out free CDs, and are friendly throughout the evening.
Brittain Ashford occasionally plays with a band, but she too performs tonight as a duo. Caitlin Steitzer begins the set with a dedicated tone of melodica and later contributes tambourine, xylophone, and sweetly sparse vocal harmonies, as Brittain alternates between auto-harp and a dulcimer lain flat on a high platform. She sings in a beautiful, trembling voice that sounds closely mic'ed, with a passion that is as visible as it is audible. Limning the perimeter of the crowd, she jumps up and tears about, face constricted with emotion, as if overwhelmed by the gravity of her own words. The crowd is silently focused throughout the set, save for warm laughter when Brittain jokes about buying a Subaru between songs.
Themselves
Empty Bottle; Chicago, IL
I’ve been eager to see Themselves play live since I first heard their track “It’s Them” on the anticon. compilation Music for the Advancement of Hip-Hop. While I've never seen Doesone and Jel perform together as Themselves before, I have seen them perform both solo and with Subtle and cLOUDDEAD -- so I was waiting with much anticipation when Doseone hit the stage to set up a cardboard backdrop of gray, drab office buildings. He already seemed filled with energy.
Finally, Themselves took the stage wearing dapper, slate-gray, three-piece suits that offset the similar, dreary tones of the set. It turned out to be a very entertaining blend of music, lyricism, machine-gun bursts of wordplay, stand-up comedy, music reviewing, and a joke about the “retarded” things that come out of Sarah Palin. Doseone and Jel were like tiny hyperactive children eager to share with us what they had created, and the cardboard cutouts of the DIY set decoration soon gave way to a dance party. To say that this was an energetic show is like calling water wet.
While the bad sound unfortunately made The Dosester’s words semi-unintelligible, I was still highly entertained. The boys played a rollicking set of jamz that passed through the entirety of Themselves’ catalog. From classic tunes to brand new material, every song was played with an enticing degree of earnestness and honesty, and every head in the place was bobbing. One dude danced a herky-jerky robot-like shuffle all night, stomping the floor with each boom of the bass drum. I couldn’t help but share his enthusiasm.
At one point, Dose had an interesting exchange with the crowd:
Doseone: Would you burn my friend, Jeffrey Logan, Jel, with a cigarette?Crowd: No!
Doseone: Then why would you burn him with a CD-R?
The crowd responded with a muted sense of agreement, with some members of the audience obviously questioning their allegiance to an “artist” who seems interested in making money from his or her creations (shocking). Doseone began to soothe the crowd's anguish and win back the cheers by then imploring us to steal everything else we need, but to leave art, especially his, alone and pay for it.
The final impression I was left with was a growing eagerness to dive headfirst into Themselves’ next full-length album. I might even purchase it.
[Photo: Mathew Scott]
Zazen Boys
Pianos; New York, NY
The biggest question in the wake of Zazen Boys’ astonishing set at Pianos a few weeks ago was still, evermore, infuriating: Why does this band still lack U.S. distribution? If not a permanent opening slot for Battles (perhaps their closest sonic analogues)? After three albums of jazz-inflected, increasingly heavy math-funk splitting the difference between late Don Caballero and Q And Not U, last year they dropped one of the best fusions of live-band rock aesthetics and electro/dance music to date this decade: the taut, tantalizing Zazen Boys 4, freshly drenched in lush Neptunes synth tones and Cut Copy sheen. And like Battles again, the live show careened manically and joyously from minimal to maximal, a masterfully proved theorem of arithmetical groove.
Drummer Matsushita Atsushi placidly loomed behind his kit like a sun bear, pounding the skins with a godlike blend of force and precision, thunderbolt beats skidding from 4/4 to 5/4 to 6/4, beyond and back again. In keeping with the band’s distinctly Japanese sense of humor, he had even modified the Gretsch logo on his bass drum to read “GREEEEN” to match the set’s acid-bright paint job. Paging Dr. Zeus! Yoshida Ichiro thunked away dutifully on the bass, at his best when free to drop in Prince-ly robot funk pull-offs and accents, while prime Zazen Boy Mukai Shutoku slouched around the front of the stage between mic, keyboard, and guitar with equally nerdy effacement and enthusiasm. But the most captivating by far was lead axe-murderer Yoshikane Sou: contorting his limbs as much as his strings as he rushed through breathless chromatic runs, skipping between scales and modes as quickly as Atsushi switched up time signatures, battering no-waves of single-coil skree from his Strat like a Mach 6 express warp back to the bygone days of a Lower East Side where Pianos actually sold pianos.
The set opened with “Himitsu Girl’s Top Secret” and blew through 4 highlights “Weekend,” “Asobi,” “Honnoj” and “I Don’t Wanna Be With You,” plus an R(Kelly)&B-flavored encore of “Kimochi” from way back on the original Zazen Boys. Each song was stretched out like a dance mix, and the crowd treated them that way. At least, they did as much as it’s possible for four-on-the-floor-programmed asses to get free in the club with mutant five- or six-beat measures to bump with. But who’s counting?
SXSW (Saturday): Daniel Johnston, Grupo Fantasma
Emo's; Austin, TX
After a two-and-a-half-hour wait in line, my feet hurt, I’m sober, uncomfortable, and a little sticky from the balmy evening. I feel like I’ve just been on a long car ride with my parents. But this time, I don’t get out of the hot station wagon to find Yellowstone Park, but to find tequila and Pabst (thank god). I am awakened by the smell of the lime, my temperature lowered by the icy tall can; I am cleansed by the salt of the rim and soaked in the tequila -- at last, I am cured.
My line buddy and old friend Aaron talks about local internet God Harry Knowles, and I’m inspired to write an experiential review for you, dear reader, about how I’ve waited in this line of lines to see our hero, Daniel Johnston, famous for making the horrifying reality of mental illness seem cool and hopeful.
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- {Grupo Fantasma}
But first, it’s Grupo Fantasma, who sizzle spicily away. Grupo Fantasma is a talented group of guys who play some sorta Latin party dance fun Rio-hotel-bar music. They’re very good at whackin’ the congas and steels drums, but I can’t help but find them a little annoying.
Aaron tells me that Grupo Fantasma publishes huge signs on the sides of Austin city buses with messages like “Saving Money on Gas is Fantasma –Grupo Fantasma.” Ugh. Now, I’m even more annoyed by these pan-Latin yet still somewhat ethnically androgynous Carlos Santana enthusiasts.
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- {Daniel Johnston}
And now the moment we’ve all been waiting for, an Austin institution, fan-tested, documentary-approved... Daniel Johnston opens his set with “Speeding Motorcycle.”
One wonders if these songs come from a place of holy genius or childish madness. At the end of “Speeding Motorcycle,” the crowd erupts and I wonder if I detect insincerity in their cheers and applause. Is it a true love of Johnston’s strange irony and radiant vulnerability that fuels this audience’s love? Or is it pity? Do we love Daniel Johnston with the same self-serving pity coupled with laughing disdain that we lauded upon Wesley Willis? It’s a hard question, but an important one. But, because this is Austin, and because I stood outside with a bunch of nice people who also waited two-and-a-half hours for this, I’m willing to believe that everyone here truly loves Daniel Johnston, who was crucified in mental institutions for our sins.
“Here’s a song from the Songs of Pain,” he says and sings, “Hold me like a mother would. Like I always knew somebody should. Though I know tomorrow don’t look so good.” Wow. I want to cry.
On another song, Johnston sings, “We’re living our lives in vain, and where are we going to?” He is well worth the wait. He is the real deal: a strange, slightly toothless old man who begs a loving audience to put aside their images and their made-up faces and really feel the beauty and magic of being.
Known for demanding that The Beatles reunite and be his backup band, Johnston covers one Lennon and one McCartney song — “I’m So Tired” and “Live and Let Die” — back to back. I’m glad that he represents both Lennon and McCartney individually.
He finishes the set with “True Love Will Find You in the End,” and it’s delicate, awkward, warbling, and divine. As a reviewer, I’m struck dumb. The most important thing for me to convey to you, readers, isn’t my self-indulgent experiential blather, but quotes and picture (my one crappy picture) of this man who I can’t really judge or describe because he knows things that I do not and may never know. He has stood on the edge of the abyss, looked deep into the mouth of madness, and brought back a message of hope. He wishes only that true love WILL find us in the end. For he knows, as we all should, that this is the only thing that will cure us of the unbearable pain of being.
Seemingly ironically, the DJ chooses to follow up Johnston’s set with “Hells Bells” by AC/DC.
SXSW (Saturday): Mess With Texas Party @ Waterloo Park; AIDS Wolf, Clipd Beaks, HEALTH
Various; Austin, TX
- {Mess With Texas Party @ Waterloo Park}
Aside from the staggering lineup of bands, the most remarkable feature about SXSW is that nearly every band performs in a small, intimate venue. That’s why yesterday’s Mess with Texas party at Waterloo Park was such a nice change of pace. With two outdoor stages, dozens of bands, thousands of stinky people, and not nearly enough porta-johns to accommodate everyone, Mess with Texas looked like a proper summer festival in its own right. But nay, it was just one of many things going on that day -- plus it was fucking free. That’s right, ya’ll. The Black Lips, Akron/Family, Cut Off Your Hands, Japanther, Soft Pack, Cursive, King Khan, and many, many more, completely gratis (and those bands I mentioned are just the ones I didn’t see). So remember, kids, if you’re thinking about coming to SXSW next year, don’t fret too much about the cost, because all of the shit that happens during the day is free of fucking charge. Well, except for beer and tacos, and you’re going to be spending a lot of cash on beer and tacos, so I guess it all evens out in the end.
The first thing I heard once I stepped through the gate was {Abe Vigoda} cranking through “Dead City/Waste Wilderness,” the opening track on last year’s sublime Skeletons. I figured, hell yes they’re starting at the beginning and I’d gotten there just in time to catch their whole set, but right after they followed up with “Cranes” (Or was it “Bear Face?” Sorry, I’m a bad journalist); they winded out the show with Skeleton’s title/closing track and said goodbye. Since my Abe Vigoda experience was so abbreviated, all I can basically say is that the songs sounded like they did on the album, and I like the album, so I liked the songs they performed and that unfortunately is how descriptive this stupid review gets.
I fucking saw {Vivian Girls} again and they covered “So Bored” by Wavves. For as much spew-inducing meta-hype that that cover unleashed into our poor atmosphere, I somehow succeeded in keeping my lunch down and later on I even managed to reward my stable stomach with some delicious, delicious funnel cake. Keep that little lesson in the back your mind, America: Whenever your body decides not to throw up, pay it back with deep fried cake batter. Don’t be surprised when you puke all over yourself later, though.
I caught {The Thermals} next, and they were ehhhh okay. At big wide outdoor events like this one, it’s hard to accurately capture some bands’ “real” sound. Sure, there’s a certain charm in the slightly invasive commotion of an outdoor show. The chirping birds, roaring highways, and constant stream of pounding helicopters (the park is across the street from a big hospital) all add to the concert’s open mood, but there are some bands that are meant for concrete-walled clubs and cramped basements free of nature’s din. The Thermals are one of those bands. The unsheltered aura of the park’s wide main stage dulled the band’s normally sharp pop and overran their punk attitude completely. It’s possible The Thermals could have excelled at the show’s smaller second stage.
After The Thermals, I saw {Crystal Antlers} tear the side stage a new one, even though like The Thermals they’d probably be more at home on in a bar or house show or the trunk of a car or some shit like that. Playing in a dusty knoll half the size of the main field made all the difference for Crystal Antlers, the tighter setup allowing their guitars to chime and their drums to thunder without interference. The vocals still got lost somewhere in the air, but overall Crystal Antlers more or less achieved their potential and made America a better place for future generations.
Okay, let’s cut this bullshit griping about stages and get to the real deal: Have you ever seen a hairy Israeli man shove a microphone up his ass while balancing perfectly on a crowd-surfing bass drum? Well, I saw Ami Shalev of {Monotonix} do exactly that, and as you would expect it was fucking astonishing. The cavemen of Tel Aviv’s Monotonix are capable of Olympian feats of rock and roll jackassery, from spiderly scaling of the stage’s supports to having the audience hold all the drums (except the hi-hat) and the fucking drummer in the fucking air while he keeps a flawless beat. And the music ain’t bad either, a Zeppelin-ish brand of easy greasy riffs and chomping drums that drives simply through all the madness on and off the stage. This is music that was meant for an arena or a packed city block or angry protest or really anywhere with a huge crowd and shit to climb on. In short, Monotonix is anarchic, silly, and they play in their underpants. Mmm hmm, that’s just the type of band I like to snuggle up in bed with and give soft pats on the rump. Sorry, I’m really tired.
After my disappointing experience with The Dicks, I was a bit wary about seeing {Circle Jerks}. I was afraid they’d just be another pack of sad old men trying their best to recapture their glory days, but bless my stars I was dead wrong. Circle Jerks haven’t lost an ounce of power in the last 25 or so years, thanks primarily to their 8 years of practice after reforming in 2001 and Greg Hetson’s tireless ability on guitar. Keith Morris has held together pretty well, too; his voice only lacks the adolescent smarminess of his younger days. Circle Jerks packed in around 25 or so tunes in their 40-minute set, hitting highlights like “In Your Eyes” and “Beverly Hills” as quick and controlled as in their prime. Along with CJ’s own golden shower of hits, they found time for two Black Flag classics, “Gimme Gimme Gimme” and “Depression,” which nearly sent me screaming into the mosh pit until I remembered I really don’t like getting bonked on the head a bunch by angry, sweaty men, so I wisely sat it out but still thought it was a fine rock ‘n’ roll show performed well by great men of God.
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- {AIDS Wolf, Clipd Beaks, and HEALTH @ Mohawk}
Throughout the festival, I’ve spent my nights switching from venue to venue to see as many different bands as possible. But now I am tired. My feet hurt. There are blisters and there are cuts and there are hangovers. So, yesterday I decided to stay at Mohawk all night and just get my ass kicked all at one place. Actually that’s not completely true; at 11 PM, I walked 500 miles (DERP) to see The Proclaimers play at the Hilton, but they were full up before I got there. Except for that detour, though, I kept my ass planted at Mohawk and saw {AIDS Wolf}, {Clipd Beaks}, and {HEALTH}. All three were loud, confrontational, and exhausting. I was already feeling pretty burnt out from SXSW overload before I got there, but after that show, I think I’ve seen it all, and now I can go home. I can’t really even give a good description of each band since the entire show was like getting smashed in the back of the neck with an anvil, but in a really good way. I didn’t even stick around to see Monotonix play again, even though I was really curious to see what they could do in a small venue. I was/am just too tired. It was a very good noise show, and I had a very good time at the whole festival -- but box me up and ship me home to mama: I’m spent.
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