I was inexplicably frustrated this morning, so after cranking out some copy, I plugged my head into my iPod, turned up the Replacements and walked down to drink my lunch (medium latte with skim and a Walker Red, neat) at JP Winebar and Coffeehouse. It turns out that a barista there has a sister in a newly relocated local band called — I love this name — Mythical Beast. After forming in New Orleans and moving to Austin after that bitch Katrina hit, the Beast decided to head north to our fair city. I just dialed in the Myspace, so I have no judgments yet, but know that they're playing October 13 at the Pistol. Let's go out and give them a warm Midwestern welcome, involving lots of shots and maybe a little pat on the hiney.
I'm moving to a new apartment this weekend, so I may not be going out much, but if I do, I may try to stop by one or two of the following hoedowns — that is, if I decide not to hit anything we've already written about.
The Afterparty, Cat Scientist and It's Over at the Brick
I would go to this show just to pick up a copy the Afterparty's new album, which I've heard is great. If I didn't already have their previous one, I would get that, too, because I know it's great. Follow by example, children. It's Over has one of the greatest oom-pah-pop tunes about a serial killer ever with "My Dear Wife." Cat Scientist is from Austin; they were here in August.
Red Elvises at the Grand Emporium
I've never had a chance to see these purveyors of kickass rokenrol. Killer guitarist Zhenya Rock (that's his legal last name) has a solo project called Zeerok out on local label Minnow Records. Too bad he lives in Austin — I bet he's fun to hang out with. I've rolled with four or five former Soviets in my life, and they've all been hilarious. The latest was Aidas Bareikis, who made himself sick smoking pencil graphite to get out of the Russian Army and slept in a tree in Central Park. Read about all that here.
The Dark Circles and the Golden-Hearted Whores at P. Ott's on the Plaza
This is like Interpol sharing a bill with T. Rex. It's only two dollars to get in, but be warned: 1. You will fall in love with the bartender, Marcy. (2) Those enormous, $4 (or is it $5?) beers will fuck you up.
That's all — except that there's a guy who works at the Folly Theater named Steve Irwin. I bet his life must be hell right now.
Be careful out there, vatos. Don't drive drunk, and don't shag the hired help.
Today brings some big news on the all-ages front, which we were talking about only yesterday. The Ice House dudes are relocating to El Torreon, which has been closed all summer following a liquor permit fiasco. Now, I've been in the "Radiant El Torreon Ballroom" within the past week, and the place is in pretty bad shape. I'm not saying a few enterprising lads can't clean the place up properly, but if they're going to half ass it, then I can't say I'm very excited. There's junk everywhere inside — in fact, at last look, both the El T and the Ice House had a stockpile each of rusty, second hand bicycles. Recently, when it rained, there was a giant puddle right where a concert audience would have been. The bathrooms are atrocious. It was actually a lot nicer when it was hosting all-ages metal shows than it is now. There's no reason not to have a nice venue that bands enjoy playing and people enjoy going to, even if it is under-the-radar, all-ages punk, metal or unheard-of local band shows. Good business practice shouldn't be sacrificed merely to host shows that would skip town otherwise (and that only a handful of people would go to anyway).
Then again, those historic punk venues that everyone remembers — the Foolkiller, the VFW Hall, etc. — were certainly legendarily filthy, as was CBGBs in New York. It's a matter of striking a balance between cool dinge and nasty-no-want-wants-to-go-there dinge. I wish them luck.
All shows that were booked at the Ice House are now scheduled at the El Torreon, beginning Tuesday, October 3 with Fight Like Hell, CDC, Nervous Wreck and Bullyrag. Check out the lineup through the end of November here.
Boozeday Tuesday has moved out of Mike's. That means if you're an old fart who likes early shows (often featuring the best local bands and occasional out-of-towners like the Drams), the best time to catch them regularly is now from 8 to 10 p.m. at the Brick. Tonight's show brings cabaret quartet Alacartoona and surf-rock outfit the Von Hodads, both of which are local. Watch out — the dude from Alacartoona will feel you up during the show, whereas the chick will not.
No Way to Treat Strangers
The LA band Hello Stranger's Myspace blog tells of some unfortunate treatment the fun-loving indie pop outfit endured from local punks. Evidently, these assholes are the perps. If you know them, give them a good dressing down. Here's an excerpt:
The next afternoon we woke up and went into the city, and then craziness ensued. The Ice House is an all ages venue in Kansas City, and it is in this huge warehouse, and there's not even a beverage for sale, just a drinking fountain way off in the corner, and a lot of throw up in the toilets. We played with this band from Connecticut called Meet the Antagonist, and this band from KC called Beautiful Bodies. The singer Alicia who is hot as hell and who I absolutely love, helped us get the show. But all you bands out there, listen up: do not play at the Ice House. We got paid $20 and they weren't even nice. But the kids were into it and some even came out from Lawrence so we were happy.
Afterwards, we caravaned with the other two bands and a couple other cars to a party that sort of took place around a fence in an alley. I thnk these people were a little younger than us, and they thought it was fun to take a shopping cart and fill it with people and then hurl it down the hill as hard as possible into a tree. I thought this was a very dangerous game but it still made me smile. Finally we tried to leave, and the boys drove the van over to get me (which was filling up with other people), and they were blasting Salt and Peppa and shining flashlights all around and yelling at me and just basically being a bunch of idiots. But these KC pseudo punks did not think we were so funny. They started putting beer bottles and this tire they had been clutching for some reasonin front of our tires. Then they started spitting in the direction of our van, to which I responded "If you spit a little harder you may actually hit the van", to which they responded by pouring beer on our windshield and the side of the car, to which Ben and Jared responded by saying "You're wasting good beer!!!! We'll drink it!!!"and Ben stuck his head out the window and they started pouring it all over him, and Jared was trying to drive us out of there crushing beer bottles, and then they started screaming things at us--really smart things like, "California sucks!", and they started jumping on the van so we couldn't drive, and trying to slash our tires, and so Jared gunned it and swerved around and they fell off, and then we were about twenty feet away from them and they were still screaming. Jared just sat there dumbfounded and I was still screaming back like a banshee, and I kept sticking my middle finger out the window, until I came up with my own brilliant line, "fuck you you small town fucks!!!" and then they threw a mickeys bottle at the window so hard that it actually scared me, and finally Jared drove away.
But instead of go home, we hit up some bars. We were too tired to drive to Chris's so we stayed at the Econo Lodge but do not stay there either because they chareged us $10 for every extra hour we stayed. Ass holes.
Sorry, Juliette. If you come back, we promise to do you right.
This entry mentions the Ice House (aka American Ice), an all-ages venue, that, like many of its kind, appears to be struggling. It's not surprising that a band like Hello Stranger wouldn't make much money — that's the kind of band that should be at the Brick, the Record Bar, or, better yet (for them), someplace in Lawrence. The Ice House policy, quoted from an email I received last week:
1st $100 in the door is the house's (this is our daily cost for the building alone!) Everything above the first $100 is split 50/50, house and bands.
All bands are split equally, unless prior arrangements are made (with us).
Bands are expected to sell a minimum of 10 tickets each on 4 band shows, 15 tickets each on 3 band shows. This is the least amount we can do and stay open. Please remember we are not a bar, we have no other way to pay the rent and provide a venue for you to play besides ticket sales!
NO GUEST LIST.
It's good to hear the venue's owners are talking about moving. $100 a day is some crazy overhead. I'd like to see an all-ages venue like The Opolis open here. Located in Norman, Oklahoma (the college-town home of Oklahoma U, just outside OKC), the Opolis is small and artsy; it sells Cokes, water and beer (to those of age); it's comfortable and not at all dirty, dingy, huge or weird, which is exactly what the El Torreon and Ice House are/were. I'm not saying by any means that I want the Ice House to fail. I just want its owners to find a way of making it work that's both good for them and for the bands they bring house. And, of course, one that's good for the fans who fund the enterprise.
It's official. Cyndi Lauper is playing our Best Of party. Cyndi. Lauper. Friday. October 6. Uptown Theater. Tickets cost $37.50 to $45, so I should say Cyndi Lauper is playing after our Best Of party, at which Pitch employees and various clients and hangers-on indulge in free food, drink, and fight each other melee-combat style with trinkets made by Scion. Then, we stagger downstairs to the main concert area, mixing in with all Cyndi's fans for the big show.
The diva playing our actual party is local jazz dreamboat Megan Birdsall. On any given night, I'd rather go to a Megan show than a Cyndi show, but I fear that come next Friday I'll be flitting about, social butterfly that I am, from gathering to gathering, rubbing elbows, dropping pills in the drinks of my enemies while simultaneously groping their dates, and frequently, I hope, nodding toward the stage -- where Birdsall and her band will be swinging away like ninjas at a batting cage — and I will say, "They're really good. You should go check 'em out."
Lauper, for her part, looks really, remarkably good. If not for her trademark squint, those eyes shaped like the outline of a rising sun, she'd be tough to differentiate from an other hot babe in her �30s (though I figure the Brooklyn native to be in the neighborhood of a
As I announced to some random coworkers from the classified department upon my arrival to the Pitch headquarters today, it's official: I have come to work drunk. Shortly after I made the declaration and showed off my rad lip wound from last night (more on that later), my hangover kicked in and I began to feel dreadful.
Here's the reason for all this: the Record Bar rocks. Last night, they brought in two Canadian bands, Ensemble and Junior Boys, and it was unbelievably excellent. It was so good that by the time the lights came on, I was discussing the meaning of life with a horticulturalist who was either enthralled, bored to tears, or too drunk to know how she felt.
Ensemble (pronounced the French way) charmed us with a Low-meets-Air kind of sound (low air, whoa) that involved many pre-recorded sounds because the band's touring as a trio rather than a, uh, whatever they usually are, or whatever they were when they recorded their new album, Ensemble, which you should definitely get. I'd point you to their site, but, man, that's a hard name and album combo to Google. I talked with lead singer and guitarist Olivier before and after the show. He's a helluva nice guy. I apologized before they played because, as always, I felt solely responsible for the lack of people there (luckily, enough filed in later to make for a respectable gathering), and he immediately said, in a French accent that killed me, "I don't care. We've played some interesting venues, and we've played some seedy dives."
During their set, I got into a conversation with some kids, including the aforementioned horticulturalist, about the line from Ameliethat was translated to "Without you, today's emotions would be the scurf of yesterday's." We wanted to know what "scurf" meant. I had a hunch it meant dead skin, but the horticulturalist, being philosophical by nature, thought it meant...I can't remember what...mauvaise foi, perhaps? Anyway, I availed myself of Olivier's French and asked him if he knew the original French word that was spoken in the film. He didn't, but he had a laptop, so we looked it up. The original word is pelicules, which can mean either dandruff or film, as in camera film, which puts a new meaning to the quote. But I'm looking for it now online and all I can find is "peau morte," which is "dead skin." Eh bon.
Junior Boys rocked. It was chill, seductive dance music, played by a white-suited singer who mostly plays a Rickenbacker bass that looks like it got worked over by the KGB, a keyboardist-everythinger dude with a bunch of shit and a drummer. I wish the boys from Namelessnumberheadman had been there, taking notes about gear (not that they need any, but they'd have liked it). The beats were solid disco, set to level conducive to stay-in-one-spot grooving — unless you were the only middle-aged people there, a couple who jitterbugged all night. A lot of merch was sold. I tried to buy something for $10 but the Boys weren't having it. The cheapest thing was $12. Assholes! Ah well, they played a great show.
Afterwards, I went to possibly the greatest party ever. It was just a few blocks away, in the second floor of a house. The Awesome Zacharino Phillips had the in and he let me tag along with him and the Great John Hulston of the Anodyne Record Company. In the back of the apartment, I discovered, after some hours in the main areas, a bedroom thoroughly bespeckled with a glow-in-the-dark substance, as if earlier in the evening, someone had someone had devastated a swarm of lightning bugs with a tennis racket in there. I don't remember much of what happened in the magical room beyond tossing some glowy necklaces into the ceiling fan. A guy was lying comatose on the bed, probably exhausted from the insect assault. I checked later and he was still there. (Good work, hero. Get some rest.)
The rest of the house: strobe lights, Michael Jackson songs, men and women dancing like werewolves. I actually overheated up in that bitch, but I could not stop. My pressure gauge was at critical -- I was about to blow like the containment unit in Ghostbusters. Instead, I grabbed a beer from the fridge and got freaky. Repeatedly. I sincerely apologize to all the women of Kansas City for my getting freaky last night, especially the ones who were there and might have been, um, unintentionally helping me -- all except the one who bit my lip. Repeatedly. She already got me back.
I dedicate this band's new album, Heaven is for Easy Girls, to her in hopes that she will take its title to heart and not bite me again (so hard).
Tech N9ne, is coming out with a new joint called Everready on November 7. Tech N9ne's publicist, Meg the "Anghellic Psycho Publicity Bitch," sent us word today of Tech's new album -- the first one in four long years -- which drops November 7. Here's some addtional, interesting factoids Meg sent along:
Tech N9ne, who has performed in front of more than a half a million people in the last three years, will be touring extensively throughout the next year. He will be appearing with DMX and Bone thugs-n-Harmony on select dates this year and will be headlining other stops. Please visit www.therealtechn9ne.com to see his tour schedule. Several of Tech N9ne's songs are featured in the forthcoming Alpha Dog film, which stars Justin Timberlake and Sharon Stone. Tech N9ne's music appears on the latest edition of the fan favorite Madden NFL video game series. In addition to Tech N9ne's music also appearing in the action video game 25 To Life, Tech N9ne himself also appears as a playable character in the game.
Sounds promising. Finally, we'll get to find out whether Tech did in fact jump the shark when he began wearing clown makeup. The album cover looks pretty subdued: no red hair formations, no makeup. Then again, he can't afford to alienate his Juggalo fans. Ah well, too early to tell. I'm intrigued, though.
More late-breaking news:
Kansas City Repertory Theatre is holding open auditions 10:30 am -12 pm, October 4 at Spencer Theatre at Kansas City Repertory Theatre, 4949 Cherry Street for local rock musicians to perform in the rock musical Love, Janis.
Now's your chance to crossover from playing clubs to showbiz. Before long, you'll have a video game character, like big Tech (you will be recast as a gay, Hispanic wrestler named G.G. Wonderwall Garcia).
If you can't dance as well as former Pitch music editor Andrew Miller, then maybe you can find other ways of enjoying yourself at a few of these shows.
Nina Nastasia and Olympic Size at Record Bar
We wrote about this but failed to mention that it's an early show, starting at 7 p.m. I reeeeeally wish I could go see Olympic Size, but I don't know if I'll make it. Actually, I wish they were playing Sunday afternoon. I always get depressed on Sundays and could use this lovely band's medicative music at such times. Later tonight, metal bands Vena Amori and the Esoteric shake the RB's rafters.
Tool and Isis at Kemper Arena
I ran out of space in this week's paper and had to cut the Tool Critic's Choice I was going to run, but since I paid for it out of the budget, here it is:
It's been a long time since you could count on a Tool concert to include a bunch of thrashy numbers slowed down to three-quarter speed. Now that the spaced-out alt-metal quartet has pushed the limits of quiet with its latest album, you can pretty much bank on the band to spend a great deal of the show on buildup. Of course, Tool must be applauded for pushing its audience yet again, as the pacing it attempts to pull off onstage bucks against the overwrought riff abuse that passes for heavy music at distraction-crammed Ozzfest. In short: at a Tool show, you check your ADD at the door. On the other hand, for being so great at crafting long musical journeys on record, Tool doesn't necessarily achieve flow with its set lists, relies a little too much on visuals, and -- now that the body of work has gotten large enough -- is likely to leave out up to a good dozen of your favorite songs. Still, it's a gamble you can't afford to pass up. It's freakin' Tool, man. -- Saby Reyes-Kulkarni
Bet now you really wanna go.
Matt Costa and The 88 at the Bottleneck
This is pretty much loud pop, not whiny, teeny pop, at least. In fact, I know it's not teeny pop, because the only time I watched five minutes of the sitcom How I Met Your Mother, half the episode was devoted to talking about The 88, which was going to play at a high school, so one of the female lead 20-something characters wanted to see them to see if they'd be good enough to play her wedding reception, or something ridonculous like that (thanks for that word, Braverman). I'd never seen a sitcom sell out to a band (or its label, publicist, whatever) before; usually, it's the other way around. It made me vomit on my lap, which, unfortunately, was at the time occupied by my cat.
Scratch Track, Great Dane, Give Me Sound at the Brick
Scratch Track is an acoustic-guitar-playing hip-hop group with a fair amount of national success and a member who's from Kansas City. But no one here seems to know them very well, unless I'm mistaken. It's odd to see them on a bill with alt-country rockers Great Dane (new to the scene), which I last First Friday outside Grinders. Bassist Nathan Ellis has quite a resume, having been in Coalesce and the Appleseed Cast; also, the guitarist has a ponytail, but don't let any of that bias you for or against as you listen to a few songs on their Myspace page.
The Caves and Pinebox Serenade at the Brick
The last time I was having a drink at the Brick, club owner Sheri Parr, practically grabbed me by the lapels and shook me, so excited was she about this show. We already know the Caves are good. In fact, Sheri seemed even more stoked about this Pinebox band, comparing them to local royals the Hearers and In the Pines. I'll give a shot to anyone who sounds like those bands.
Chevelle, Hinder, Hoobastank, Nickleback at Kemper Arena
Nickleback is and always has been so lame that the video from their first hit makes me nostalgic. That came out my first year of marriage, when we lived in a small modern apartment that had free cable and would sit on the loveseat and watch videos after midnight, which is the only time MTV and VH1 plays them. But I still wouldn't go to this concert for all the virgins in suicide bomber heaven. It gratifies me greatly that Hoobastank and Chevelle — two fellow "hard rock" bands from the early '00s are wedged on the same bill. It means that soon, they'll all be history, and hopefully they'll take newcomers/copycats Hinder with them.
Billpile & guests at the Record Bar
I just got this email from Bill Pile, a well-known local DJ of the ilk who makes ladies sweat. I don't know what he's been snorting, smoking or huffing lately, but get me some:
hey folks. I'm DJing this sunday at the Record Bar under the name Chuck Schick (character from Caddyshack). I will be playing along side my buddies Steve Tulipana (one the owners) and Billy Brimblecom. We will be playing some pretty funny stuff including selections from my acclaimed "hot songs for soccer moms" compilations. Yes, you will hear Kenny Loggins, Hall & Oats, Christopher Cross and many other gems from the �70s and �80s Soft Rock era. Would love to see you all there.
Just because its soft doesn't mean it can't rock.
Long live Yacht Rock!
Holy shit, the soundtrack to the new cartoon flick Open Season just arrived in my mailbox, and except for a few tracks by the likes of Deathray(?), Pete Yorn and Talking Heads ("Wild Wild Life" of course!), every song on here — we're talking eight — is by Paul Westerberg. I'm not even through the first one yet, and it's ruling me. Now this is some kickass music for kids. 30 Minute Recess, take thou note.
That's it from me, folks. Check with our pals at Sad Dog for more rock action. Don't drive drunk, and if you see me anywhere, move your wallet to your front pocket. I'm kinda strapped for cash these days.
I took myself out last night to celebrate the fact that I'm cool. I recommend everybody do this from time to time (take yourself out, that is, not me -- though you'd have more fun if you took me out, probably). I started at the Brick around 11, which is later than most of you normal working stiffs would want to go out on a weeknight, but I'd had a nap, so it was all good. It was customer appreciation night at the club, which means 75 cent tacos and 2-for-1 drinks from 6 to 10 p.m. Obviously, I was too late for that, but I wasn't too late to catch Superwolf, one of the city's best-kept DJ secrets.
The wolfman is James Trotter, an artist who had an opening last First Friday at the Dolphin, so you know his shit's profesh. He also has what's probably the sickest collection of rare soul 45s in town — tons of records on obscure labels by 60s soul bands that only ever recorded one song. I saw him at Chez Charlie's last week sometime, laying down similar grooves (perhaps more tame than the Brick set) on some kind of vintage, portable, folding, tweed record/speaker combo that sounded all crackly and good, like a bowl full of Rice Crispies and strawberry milk. What I like best about the guy is that he's the opposite of smug. He knows more about the coolest genre of popular music than you could ever hope to, he's spent up to $1,600 on a single record he just had to have, and all he wants to do is share the music with you and have a good time. Watching him DJ is like watching a child prodigy jam out on a playroom full of toy instruments.
I sat at the bar and asked the bartender, Junior Wolf (aka Zach from the Architects), to introduce me to a few new concoctions. The Ginger Snap came first, made with Sailor Jerry rum, soda, ginger syrup and lime. Delicious, but my lupine soul needed something more substantial, so JW mixed up an Old Fashioned (Jameson, soda, dash of bitters, lemon). That was more like it. JW pointed out that the bitters and lemon cancel out pretty much all flavor in the drink but that it's definitely a classy old guy's beverage. "Drink eight of those and you'll definitely feel like you're in the Rat Pack." I settled in and read some awesome hardcore reporting in this free newspaper they had stocked in the doorway. Had one more Old Fashioned, then left because I had mad cravings for Pancho's.
Now when I simply profess my love for the all-night Mexican grease-a-rama on Main, some people become instantly nauseous. I can understand how the place's heinously awesome food may afflict people with reactions that require emergency medical attention, but for a kid practically weaned on taco meat, the stuff's heavenly. (Also, Taco Bell, to me, is what's truly indigestible.) Four other cars in the drive-thru at midnight proved I wasn't alone in my passion. I ordered the carne asada burrito, a forearm-sized lump of fresh-cooked steak slathered with gravy, guac and pico and wrapped lovingly in a burrito the size of an adult diaper. Nostrils twitching at the smell of my new passenger, I swung around to 31st and pulled into the Empire Room's parking lot. My eyes turned yellow and my teeth sharpened to fangs as I dug the helpless burrito from its brown paper nest and tore into it like a baby deer, leaving only about a quarter of it left. Man, I'm gonna have to get this for lunch today, too.
Loaded with meat, I cleaned the tortilla bits from my teeth with the corner of a folded receipt and strode into the Empire Room to find a bunch of drunk people who'd been partying privately in celebration of the existence, arrival, etc., of some Australian vodka. Surf boards were hung about the place with packaging tape. And there was a huge poster on the wall that I didn't notice until a guy with blinding white legs and loafers with no socks stepped on the end table I was keeping my beer on to attempt to take it down. Ah, the world of marketing.
My mates Megan and Tonian were DJing under the name Bitchwax and The Jamie was bartending. (I only mention The Jamie because her name was on the flyer I saw, which I think is pretty cool. The bartender really is the hidden and all-too-often unrecognized force behind any good DJ night. Also, Jamie's a veritable force of sweetness, which is why I added the definite article to her name.) I hung out on the couch by the decks, which were situated on one of the low tables that, with the couches, make up the only furniture in the main area of the ER. It's not a place you want to go if you're worried about having nothing to talk about with whomever you're with. Luckily, with Megan to my left and my homeboy Adrock on my right, I was never without scintillating company.
It was from that relaxed position that Adrock and I witnessed the gayest display he and I have ever seen in Kansas City. I'm all for being gay and wild if you're gay and wild, but I do believe in boundaries when it comes to taste — for example, the honky in shorts and loafers I mentioned earlier. So, when the Bitchwax spun an MIA tune, this gay boy wearing the weirdest fashion accessory I've ever seen — a Medieval-ish pouch strapped to his chest via an over-the-shoulder-and-around-the-back harness that looked like some kind of accessory a thief from Henry IV, Part I would wear — decided to dance. And oh, did he dance. His main move consisted of a full-body pelvic wave that began with the shoulders, reached its peak at the hips and carried through to the ground. Variations of this wave carried him around the floor between where we were seated and the bar. I don't know, maybe I'm an asshole, but I started to feel sorry for the guy for being such an extreme pansy. Then I wanted to push him in the mud and make him cry. Then I desperately wanted to take all those feelings back and hit on the gorgeous blond girl he began dancing with later. Instead, I cleared my throat, had a beer and focused on my ironclad, masculine island of self, the mountainous strip of me-land, battered by the waves of an ocean of fear (i.e., the grumpiness that comes from being lousy at talking to hot strangers).
I stayed until last call, then went out into the night, where, inside my chariot, the cold and moist remainder of my burrito awaited my tortured, unremitting hunger.
William Blake? You know, that poet...never mind.
So, anyway, Friday night, I was out with friends (yes, I do have a few), and crossed paths with one Kenn Jankowski, whom I knew only as lead guitarist for the Golden Republic, which, if I may say, is the only band in town that dresses like a band is supposed to — and I mean even when they're off the clock. OK, actually, I was thinking of the first incarnation. With this one, you have a frontman and a singer who are all-around up-with-the-trends stylish, and a drummer and bassist who have their own individual style (drums: hipster countryboy; bass: gothic gangster artkid), which is great, because you don't want just another band of indie rocker popinjays trying to imitate the Stones, which no one in this town has enough money (or places to shop) to do anyway. But I digress...
Anyway, Kenn mentioned something about this new band of his, but (to his credit) didn't buzz up in my ear about it, so I forgot all about it. Also, any talk of his band was eclipsed when we went to a house party and he was one of two people who bravely donned swimsuits and jumped into a frigid above-ground pool. You'd never guess from seeing Kenn clothed, but he's actually kind of got muscles. He shamed me. But again, I digress.
Direct your attention now to said band of Kenn's: the Republic Tigers. I am thoroughly impressed — so much so that I sent that link to other music editors just to bait them about how we have good bands coming out of the woodwork here. Go you Tigers!
Oh, and by the way, it's 9/11, so spend a moment thinking about falling out of a building with volcanic plumes of fire all around and screaming and horror and curl up in the fetal position under your desk, shaking uncontrollably and rocking back and forth until someone calls an ambulance and they give you a shot of that that that wonderful juicenyeeeeeah!
Hey, everyone feels for their country in their own way. Don't judge.
Evidently, I missed a great show last night — all the more painful because I was there and left early.
The Roman Numerals kicked off "The Great American Smoke Camel Cigarettes, Be Cool and Die Painfully and Alone! Rock Carnivale" last night at the Madrid around 8 p.m. The boys sounded good, I thought, but the crowd was rather sedate, no doubt hampered by the mellowing effects of tremendous clouds of nicotine and tar, not to mention the earliness of the hour. It was the first time I'd seen Billy Smith make use of a small megaphone at the beginning of one of the songs. He probably does it all the time but I've always been too busy dancing to the dark beats to notice. I commented to the girl next to me that it was "very Pink Floyd." I then pantomimed holding a megaphone to my mouth and shouted, in an Irish accent, "Stand still, laddie!" She probably thought I was out of my mind, but at least she didn't immediately walk away.
Ricardo was there, this time in Bacchanalian Roman regalia (thanks to Bill for posting this photo). I finally realized which famous dancer it is of whom Ricardo reminds me. Stretch your memory glands with me, here. Think Return of the Jedi, lair of Jabba the Hutt: there's this dancer with a big slug-like tentacle or two attached to her head who does a few pirouttes to the space-funk jam before attempting to strangle Jabba, who defends himself by hitting a button that opens the floor. She falls and is eaten by Donald Rumsfeld. Remember that? That's totally Ricardo, except we'd never feed him to a Bush Administration official nor any other beast. OK, I can't believe my luck: here is a real-live interview with Jabba's "Twi-lek" slave. I always wondered what species Ricardo really was. Mystery solved.
The Roman Numerals left the stage to adequate applause and many hacking coughs. After being forced by the sound man to listen to a bunch of songs that involved Jack White in some capacity, the Stills took the stage, all but the drummer clad in black dinner jackets. When I Googled them just now to find their Web site, the search result that linked to their official site said "Rock band with an '80s sound from Montreal." Yep, that's pretty much dead on, but a little vague. I'd qualify it with U2, Duran Duran and, on the song that ripped the rapid-fire drum break from "White Wedding," Billy Idol. But with no audible synth. I stress "audible" because you couldn't hear the keyboards at all, even though there was a stack of three. They should've kept Dave Gaume at the sound board — he did the Numerals good when they played.
The Stills' biggest song is "Still in Love Song," which should be titled "I'm a Still, and I'm in Love...uh, Song." Now, this song calls for cowbell, which prompted about five idiots in the audience to call for "more cowbell" between drags from samples of the new Turkish Ennui� line of Camels (flavors: Mint Malaise�, Chocolate Chagrin� and Nothing Rhymes with Orange�). Seriously, folks, can we just all shut the fuck up from now on whenever we see a cowbell in action? Can we? Or do we have to banish ourselves from the company of other human beings forever? Enough!
I didn't stick around for the headliner, Kings of Leon, because I had the ridiculous notion that I'd go home and get some writing done. I ended up writing exactly one sentence and missing what I hear was a really good show. A coworker who stayed compared the band's new songs to early '80s underground Gene Loves Jezebel-like stuff. I have to admit that another thing that kept me from staying — oh, besides the drink prices — was that I've always held it against the Kings of Leon for their name. They're brothers and a cousin whose father/uncle is a Pentecostal minister named Leon Followill. That makes them kings of their dad (or uncle), and that just doesn't sound right. Also, I don't know what the hell that is on the cover of their latest album (see photo), but I have an ill feeling that it has to do with Leon.
If you saw the show and have anything to say about it, please post a comment. Otherwise, let us move on and say no more of the cowbell.
There's still a Maid Rite in Lexington, MO. There's also a Mugs Up in Columbia…
oops, sorry for the multi-posts
The sounds was bad. The mix was not working correctly. Cornell's voice was not loud…
The sound was bad. The mix was not good. Cornell's voice was not loud enough…
Husband's the rib eater, I'm the burnt end person but I think he would definately…