Santos' Little Helpers: Froberg and Speedo

Happy New Year and all that. Caught Obits and The Night Marchers at the Santos Party House a few weeks ago. If the almighty Hot Snakes had to break up into two lesser entities, well, you could do a lot worse than Rick Froberg's Brooklyn-based Obits and John Reis's San Diegan (which as we all know is German for a "Whale's Vagina") Night Marchers.

I entered the luxurios Santos zone a few moments before Obits went on. This venue is a true hipster hovel. Plenty of dark nooks and crannies to recede into, a well funded PA, tall ceilings, bar presence well distributed throughout the 500ish capacity space space. The usual crowd of older, bespectacled, bearded, post 30 RFTC/Jehu/Hot Snakes enthusiasts turned out with such force that a friend later remarked "Yeah, I was looking for you, saw you, then realized it wasn't you...then that happened five more times".



Obits features 3 angry dad-like men dishing out walking basslines, steady beats, sparring surf guitars, and Froburg at the helm. I delighted in the fact that Rick's piercing voice was still, many bands later, perfectly preserved. He's not lost his touch with the tongue sword either. During a gentler number I made out the lyrics "You don't love me. You just don't want to go through the process again". Almost as good as "Think!...about carbs...Think...about carbs...Think!" I look forward to seeing them again.

Reis was in full RFTC showman mode throught The Nightmarchers' economically sized 45 minute set. I have been enjoying their record since the summer; a well rounded work showcasing the many styles he has tampered with since the early '90s, and yet, in the wake of Hot Snakes, the barrage of surf riffs and pummeling beats doesn't quite bruise the brain with the exact force you want it to have. I loved seeing fellow rock n roll diabetic Gar on guitar. The man exudes a silent "fuck you, lets party" attitude more potent than any other older dude on a medium-sized stage. "Jump In The Fire" was a clear highlight, weaving together elements from his past bands into a trimmed down, sped up Byrds meets Wipers thrill ride. Reis teased the crowd with the possibility of a Hot Snakes or Jehu Jam but alas all we got was 95% of a decent album.

Angus, Blake, & Axl

Workman- like is the best term I can come up with for AC/DC's 11/17 performance @MSG. After shelling out a hefty fee for last minute tickets I was content with the knowledge that I would be in the church of the band that generated hands down the BEST rock n roll guitar tone ever recorded (Back In Black). Fear gripped me after a pre-show glance of their unwavering Black Ice Tour setlist; 5 new songs out of a 1:45 set. And thats how it went down. The classics were absolutely crushing. Rosie fingered herself. Canons fired. Everyone yelled "Thunder!" at the correct moment. A sweaty, slack jawed Angus galloped around the stage, leading the band through each head banging, toe tapping groove. The new songs smacked up against the audience like a brick wall. The tangible disinterest killed the momentum to say the least, which is partially the band's own doing. Unlike say, Rush, who's M.O. for musical progression and dynamicism has fostered a fan base that welcomes a sprinklng of new songs amidst a greatest hits set, an AC/DC crowd in 2008 has no attention span beyond the usual "band reunion" mindset (even though they never "broke up").


A little late to the party on this. Thorns of Life is the new band from Blake Schwarzenbach and Aaron Cometbus and someone from the "L" word. The mere existence of this band is pretty inspiring to a superfan like myself. My neighbor saw them 2 weeks ago at a "secret" Crown Heights house show and described them as gritty, sweet, and fantastic. A handful of you tube videos say the same. Update: they just played another intimate, guerrilla style show in Philly this past Saturday. Psyched!

Last but not least I will mention Chinese Democracy is ruling my world right now. You can't even really describe it in terms of music. It just sounds like...pro tools and passing time. An olympic guitar solo from 2001. A trippy beat from 1997. A sound collage from 2058. All tied together with that voice at once confrontational and comforting. How often do we get our hands on something this crafted?

Gathered Around Screens

Its a wonderful feeling, this global sigh of relief. On election Tuesday, while Brooklyn revelers took to the party out onto Bedford Ave., the scheduling fates had my compatriot Lenny and I enscunched in our studio space, tracking drums just a few blocks north. Of course we took a 11-12:30 break , fired up the live streaming msnbc and watched history be made on a 13" macbook screen. In the following days, I found myself touched by the Obama camp's behind the scenes election night photos.

Back. With Presidential Endorsement.

Well I haven't posted here in quite awhile have I? The itch to bitch has returned. After a summer simultaneously replete with cool life and cruel death, some thoughts are brewing, and again it seems this might be the logical place to drop them. I've got a new rock group thats a lot of fun, Fresh Air Kids. We've played a handful of shows and are about to record an album.

We'll also have a new president in ten days, and I think the (relatively) good guys might win this time. A thank you must be extended to the GOP, for giving Halloween enthusiasts a clear choice for the default female (and possibly male, at least here in NYC) costume of 2008. Sarah Palin, you are this year's Amy Winehouse. And what perfect timing. As the streets are filled with actual Palins, Tina Fey as Palins (its still a sexy holiday), and perhaps several pun-derived entities (Eddie Van Palin, the Palintologist, Palin Alda), we will witness the zenith of this dangerous politician's presence in the collective blue state consciousness, only to see her ejected back into a snowy, Dan Quayle-like exile four days later. God willing.

Stephen Malkmus and The Jicks @Williamsburg Hall of Music 4/2/08

Its a rare treat for me to catch an artist for the first time with 4 solid albums under their belt, but that was the case this past Wednesday with little Stevey Malkmus and his Jicks at the recently (re)opened Williamsburg Hall of Music. Now I was never a big Pavement guy in the '90s, but as I started my journey through adulthood I finally found myself appreciating his ever flowing stream of abstractly touching lyrics and wirey, untamed guitar noodling.

The band opened with super banger "Pencil Rot", Janet Weiss bashing out 16th notes like Keith Moon as Malkmus and "one man orchestra pit" Mick Clark strangled out minor guitar harmonies and sprayed them over the crowd like a fire hose. The bulk of the set was naturally drawn from their last record, "Real Emotional Trash", and though I don't think it holds a candle in terms of hooks to 2005's "Face The Music", this group of songs certainly does a great job of framing the current Jicks lineup as a classic rock-sized live force to be reckoned with. I was impressed by the band's ability to cover such a wide range of emotional ground in the course of the set. From vulnerable Neil Youngish balladry to stoner rock riffage with Hendrixian solos that scrape the stratosphere, each section of a song flowed casually into the next, the band expanding and contracting like a balloon. I suppose this is what happens when a prolific and spot on songwriter assembles such a deadly and experienced musical team.

It was great fun watching recording engineer and Jicks bass player Joana "buzzkill" Bolme play the foil to Malkmus's stoned stage ramblings. Never hesitant to be the voice of reason musically as well as socially, Bolme provides an angelic and soothing anchor to Weiss's hard hitting style and Malkmus's wandering, in the moment, leads.

Quote of the night: "I can't do the tit singing. Theres too much tension in the room. Too much vibe."

We Are No Longer Victims Of The World

I was importing some old CDs into my the imac the other night when I came across something I hadn't listened to in 5 or 6 years. Ink & Dagger's "Drive This Seven Inch Wooden Stake Through My Philadelphia Heart". Hardcore punk peoples of the mid school will surely recall this band's quick ascent to notoriety in the mid to late 90s. Using Kiss-esque makeup and theatrics, the band blared their vampire themed anthems out to the often closed-minded scene, and made a connection with those who felt limited by the choice of either mohawk or mosh part. Creating a chaotic sound that relied as much on hooks and melody as breakdowns and screaming, they paved the way for spindely guitared, tight panted bands such as Pretty Girls Make Graves and At The Drive In to cash in a few years later.

Some weird stuff happened after they called it a day in 1999. Singer and former straight edge enthusiast Sean Patrick McCabe was found dead and alone in an Indiana Motel Room in August 2000, a victim of choking on his own vomit. At age 27. Sound familiar rock history fans? You may also recognize one time bass player Eric Wareheim as half of the comedy team Tim and Eric, the people behind Tom Goes To The Mayor Tim And Eric Awesome Show, Great Job! What can't that guy do?

Anyway, its still a great listen today, especially on a morning when you need a little extra juice. I'm kind of surprised there isn't more stuff on youtube featuring them, as their lives shows were the thing of legend. Heres a decent clip on them ripping up "Newspaper Tragedy" on their home turf.

That Vampire Weekend Record

Paul Simon? Why is no one noticing the obvious Operation Ivy connection. Here is the essentially the same song, separated by 20 years of subculture degradation.

Is that an iphone?

Soon enough its going to be a foregone conclusion that the purchase of an iphone over most other competing brands is a no brainer. Once the price drops into the $200 range, I believe we can kiss the term "cell phone" goodbye. Lord knows when my current contract fizzles out in a few months I'll be purchasing.

Since its release last June, we've seen the birth pains of another piece of technology's particular etiquette set. Summer 2008 you heard a lot of "Is that an iphone?" conversations spark up as people pulled their soon to be obsolete 8GB $600 beauties out of their bags at restaurants and bars. Now you could check your email and log in to facebook as your friend relays another time consuming story about their sister's recent breast cancer battle. Maybe the trend will level out, similar to how cell phone usage in the early 00s seemed to be blaring from street corners and was eventually muted by the rise of texting. But at what cost? As our communication lines have become more linear, we've become impatient, bored, and uncomfotable with the presence of random human interaction in our midst, incapable of enjoying the challenge of conversation because we are flexing that intellectual muscle less and less. That atrophy is passed off as a matter of control and choice, as if tine tuning our receptors is going to keep the riff raff out of our head space.

Last night I attended a party a friend had at an average lower Manhattan bar. I made note of a few observations from the front line. First theres the Domino Effect. You know the drill for the iphone wielder. Arrive at social gathering. Place device on the surface in front of your physical being. Begin checking Iphone for communiques at 2 minute intervals, depending on if the conversation is about you or not. If it is not directly about you, more frequent intervals are permitted. Within moments the other iphones appear on the table, followed by blackberries, and finally, the more pedestrian verizon and sprint cell phones, looking like stale prunes next to their superiors. Then begins the iphone as conversation piece phenomena. Could anything be more boring? "Is that an iphone?" YES IT IS. And I bet you've got some photos of your rat dog in a stupid outfit on it as well. Then comes the pop culture knowledge dispersal. We are now only as smart as our WIFI connection is fast. What was that Fred Savage/Judge Reinhold movie where they switch bodies? WAIT! I can look it up on my Iphone! Cool! The only problem is I am going to stop the conversation for 8 minutes as I peruse which networks I can tap in to, all the while creating a sense of awkwardness and tension as the people around me watch my face transform into a blue lit zombie staring at the floor! Hey look I got a text message from that guy!

Of Montreal

A super last minute spontaneous sojourn to Montreal occurred this New Year's Eve, popping my long ripening Canadian cherry. Despite having lived in Albany for five years, I never made the trip. I always figured owning 27 Rush albums was the same as being an actual Canadian citizen. All potential band voyages there were passed over after hearing a wealth of gear/merchandise confiscation horror stories at the border. Well, it is a lovely city. Buried in snow but still, somehow, a perpetually smiling and soothing community of heavily coated well-wishers. My boss asserts the French look down upon their Canadian freres as a tasteless imitation of true European culture, which kind of reinforces the whole "too good to be true" aspect of the city; delicious, fattening French foods, an active music scene, free health care, cheap rent, and a decent job market just 6.5 hours away from NYC? Sign me up.