The Go
August 7
The Record Bar
Better Than: Paying to see the Hives open for Maroon 5; Renee Zellweger; getting peed on.
Review by Ashley Brown.
“Some guy told us we toe the line of ‘fuck it’” said Go frontman Bobby Harlow from the stage last night at the Record Bar. “We thought it was one of the best compliments we ever received.”
Seriously? I guess I can’t account for context and tone but, as I asked my friend Kathleen via the sealed envelope we’d been scrawling notes upon (if you never open it, it’s like the overdue bill doesn’t exist!), doesn’t that sorta mean that you’ve, well, given up? I’d place “fuck it” in the school of “fuck off,” “fuck up,” and all other terms that convey sheer, sputtering, fuck-all resignation. Of course, it could also mean ‘fuck the It,” as in, fuck the dictates of mass consumption that would have the Go temper their sound, cut their hair and make a really crappy, petroleum-glossy, OC-ready album (does that show still exist?) like the Makers or something.
The Go, by Fabrizio Constantini
But, the resignation line-toeing seems more apt. Because, for all their faux-British Invasion garage-dandy styling, it’s hard to believe that… well, the Go still believes. The early millennial garage-rock revival might have buoyed the Go to meteoric fame along with the band's own former member Jack White or the Hives (now on tour with MAROON FUCKING 5). But now the ‘revival’ has been garroted by its own studded accoutrements and the Go still plays Electric-Peachy, Badfingery, Big Starish punchy stuff they played before, making them casualties of the thing they helped spawn.
For all the music’s arguable originality debt, the Go doesn’t let doubt-mongering, lily-livered liberals such as myself get them down. They’ve got resolve. They definitely look like they believe in what they’re hocking, judging from Harlow’s jimber-jawed stage presence and last-call stamina. Especially impressive considering the constrictive nature of Harlow’s pants -- “Who shoe-horned you into those pants, lead singer?” Kathleen scrawled on our envelope early in the set.
Song titles even ring with the resin of 1970: “You Can Get High” (Yes, but may I get high?), “Caroline,” and “Meet Me At The Movies” all mistily capture that golden era before any of the Go's members were born. It’s not that the band's music isn’t supremely enjoyable; it is. But it's the musical equivalent of a painted set façade in a low-budget western: reasonably believable on its exterior when seen from a distance, but lacking viscera or heart or that great intangible soul.
As for the opening band: Was I always just too drunk before when I saw Be/Non that I didn’t catch onto the heavy water allusions? “Is he saying ‘I wanna pee on your pussy, want you to pee on my cock?'” I wrote to Kathleen, who listened more closely and affirmed that yes, they seemed to be espousing ‘water play’ in no uncertain terms. Well I never...
Critic’s Notebook
Personal bias: Aversion to getting peed on
Random detail: The Record Bar has rocketed into the new millennium (and not a second too soon; what convenience, what hygiene!) with an automatic hand-sensor paper towel dispenser.
By the way: The Go’s merch dude, Nick, is getting married soon. FYI.
YouTubage: the Go with Jack White
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Ashley, this is an excellent review. I wasn't at the show, but I can really get a sense of what I missed. You are an extremely talented writer, keep it up.
I keep telling anyone who'll listen that the Record Bar (or someplace) should at least try to get bands like the Fleshtones and the Woggles to town. The 'tones are no 70s mongers; they've actually been around since then. And their shows definitely don't lack "viscera." Of course, I've had to leave town to find that out.
The Woggles have been here before - once giving an outstanding performance opening for the Flat Duo Jets at the old Grand Emporium - but its been a long time. I caught them last year at SXSW and the band hasn't lost one ounce of fire or grit.
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