Autumn Treasure: J Mascis' Tied To A Star

It’s October in New York City. A favorite time of year as it brings about one of the most dramatic seasonal shifts in the calendar. As opposed to Spring, this autumnal turn is toward the frozen abyss which brings dropping temperatures and ever earlier darkening evening skies. A process which makes a world more in line with the visions of my happy place. The newly added chill in the wind is a subtle nod to the breath stealing cold weather to come. The clock is now counting down to the arrival of snow and it’s blanketing effect on the surrounding urban blight that makes even the dog-shitted, trash strewn and structurally failing streets of Brooklyn look as serene as a prairie in Nebraska. The excitement for these utterly unique winter induced moments are just currently thoughts lodged in the back of my mind, being awoken after a summer’s worth of hibernation.

The first signs of turning leaves, candy corn on the store shelves (now pumpkin infused beer too) and the spike in hooded sweatshirts in your field of vision are all markers of what used to be the start of a new school year. Even years after escaping the perpetual cycle, that instinctual thought of new beginnings in the Fall is still scarred into the minds and bodies of every adult churned through the US public school system. Perhaps for that reason, Fall can be a very nostalgic period of time. The end of yet another year is in sight, winter can be daunting prospect with the memory of summer so fresh and the fading history of so many new experiences (jr. high, high school, college, first jobs) hangs in the air. I’ve had a few people in my life say that music just sounds better in the Fall or there are certain albums that take on an additional dimension when the Earth’s axial tilt takes the Northern hemisphere further away from the sun. The music industry might even take this mysterious fact into account as so many albums and tours are seemingly tied to the Fall. While the thought of something mystical being at play is more intriguing, the logical part of my brain tells me it’s just tied to that new college year schedule. The fact being that an indie rock band wants to pass through Chapel Hill, Boston and Berkeley (for example) with new material when classes are in session and packed to the gills with impressionable students.

Regardless of the motivation, there has been many a show this month. None more present in my mind then the most recent, guitarrorist J Mascis of & The Fog, Dinosaur, Upside Down Cross and The Velvet Monkeys at The Bowery Ballroom of Manhattan, the now overly gentrified LES and the Bowery J train subway station. Mascis just recently put out his second solo lp “Tied To A Star” on Sub Pop records following in the critically lauded footsteps of Dinosaur Jr’s 2012 "I Bet On Sky" and his last solo release 2011’s “Several Shades of Why”. Much like that 2011 release, “Tied To A Star” offers a nice compliment to Mascis’ work in Dinosaur. A mostly acoustic excursion that, while seemingly obvious now, was not always a consistent part of his recording history. It is true that the year 1996 saw the release of his first acoustic solo lp, “Martin and Me”.  However, that album was more of a live document of his initial solo acoustic tour which was comprised of nothing more than Dinosaur classics given the stripped down treatment along with a few covers. “Several Shades of Why” and “Tied To A Star” offer a whole other world of output for Mascis with fully realized songs played with limited accompaniment beyond his own multi-instrumental talents. When assistance is given it usually is by a noteworthy contemporary such as Kurt Vile, Chan Marshall or Ben Bridwell. While complimentary, their offerings are nothing more than an added bonus placed on top of an already stellar track. Regardless of it being superfluous, their mere presence adds the potential to expand his usual listening base and/or add extra glowing lines to any record review.

At this point in his career, J Mascis is not exactly an artist that needs a review. He is known to be a polarizing figure and is usually either loved or reviled with not many falling in the middle. The signature squealing guitar solos, the dry vocal delivery and the overall in the red volume combined with his sleepy, laconic manner and affinity for purple boils down to either genius or horror in people’s minds. Indifference is a rare occurrence for anyone who has been to one of his shows or heard a couple albums on a long car ride. You either bleed purple or you do not (No offense to Prince, Minnesota or almost all 13 year old girls). In an act of full disclosure, I am going on record as stating Dinosaur is the absolute top of the musical pile for me. Decades of non-stop music being funneled into my ears have resulted in being uniquely moved and continuously blown away by the output, history and career of this band. The unbelievable reconciliation and reformation of the original trio of J, Lou and Murph was a genie worthy wish for me that actually came true. The first time seeing them on stage was a genuine moment of feeling lucky to be alive at this particular moment in all of history and time. A feeling I have been fortunate enough to experience again many, many times over in the years that have since followed.

A J Mascis solo show is different than the full-fledged Dinosaur experience. In obvious terms, his solo show revolves exclusively around one person, J Mascis. On stage, he is equipped with nothing more than his voice and guitar… or should I say guitars (plural), an array of pedals and something that allows him to record and loop his guitar lines to build a solid platform for his eventual ripping solo. J Mascis as a solo act became a part of my life during the tours leading up to that “Martin and Me” lp release. Downstairs at the Middle East club in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1995 or 1996 I was able to witness solo sets by both Mascis and Mike Johnson (the replacement for Lou Barlow on bass in Dinosaur). A set that at moments turned into near campfire sing-alongs with plastic beer cup holding audience members emotionally belting out Boston accented lyrics louder and with more intensity than J himself. While nearly two decades have passed since his initial solo shows, not much has changed from that basic equation.

However, it is obvious that Mascis has definitely become more confident alone on the stage. His sets including plenty of material where his vocals live in that unstable upper falsetto register (examples being the new track Stumble or Post-Barlow Dino classic Not The Same) without a hint of discomfort as his voice struggles to stay up in that high, thin air. Attempts to get his guitar looping on track, tuning breaks and the every once in a while miscue are of no concern to Mascis. Concentrating on the tasks at hand between sips from a large carton of coconut water, he seems as content in front of an audience as if he was setting up and practicing in his basement at home. The crowd creates the space for this ease as the shouts of “Yes, J!”, “Nice T-Shirt, J!” and “Everybody Loves You, J!” were yelled in between songs at Pantene Plus levels of volume. At this point in his career, J Mascis doesn’t have to do much to get his devotees into a tizzy. Throughout the night, just the resulting small bleed of fuzzy noise that results from his hitting a pedal for his impending electric solo over layered acoustic loops was enough to create a wild, pants shitting roar of anticipation. A trained, pavlovian response from those in attendance who have previously had their brains melted directly after hearing guitars make those sounds near J Mascis. It would appear that J knows he can do no wrong in a room full of his disciples and has found acceptance and comfort with that fact. Without question, the rough edges have been worn down and softened since those early days of acoustic tours in the nineties. You can tell that he just feels so free on that stage with the autonomy to play whatever he feels is right (even if that is basically the same set every night).

J Mascis seems to be hitting a personal stride of late with success as a solo artist and with his legendary band, Dinosaur Jr. He is even finding time to play his original instrument, the drums, in the bands Witch and Sweet Apple while also laying down some heavy, extensive guitar jams in the mysterious Heavy Blanket. Amidst all this activity, “Tied To A Star” has the potential to get lost in his recent prolific string of quality releases but that would be a huge disservice to all involved. Judging from the reaction at his Bowery Ballroom show, this isn’t going to be an issue. Loud cheers went up for the new songs (“Every Morning” and “Heal The Star” especially) just as quickly as for classic Dinosuar material. The crowd reacting equally to all of the Mascis cannon which over the course of sixteen songs ran the gamut from acoustic ballads to electric tube blowing shredding. 

Let next spring bring a new Dinosaur album that screams to be played with the windows rolled down in a rental car for that trip out of the city. “Tied to A Star” is an album for right now. It is perfect headphone listening for your daily travels while the wind howls around you and the dead, dried leaves crunch underfoot. Daylight Savings Time ends this upcoming weekend and that brings the darkness even earlier than it’s already crept into the evening. So, let’s not concentrate on what’s to come; Embrace the now- bring on the dark ales and stouts, take those sweaters out of the closet, let’ begin the end of the year holiday gauntlet and, for damn sure, be sure to take advantage of the increased music coming to your town. 

40 - Love: The Replacements At Forest Hills Tennis Stadium

Pre-Show

Expectation has the power to be a damning thing. High hopes can be Mrs. Dashed like so much mechanically separated and store bought chicken in America’s suburbs in the 1980s. Exposing those who dress up the bland with so much promised pizazz that they hope you forget it’s just the same crap as always underneath the hype. Superstars can become mere musicians and bands can transform into everyday people on a slightly elevated platform over the course of one evening. I can remember being somewhat devastated at a mid to late nineties Polvo show in Boston that just didn’t live up to those seminal records. (Polvo released a string of beauties by the way- not really a bad one in the discography pre or post reunion) A Skylab-like descent of your respect and admiration can be experienced song by song as bands burn up, break apart and crash into an ocean of regret.

Not that crushing defeat is the only possibility for expectation. Some things in life actually meet and/or exceed all previous thoughts on the matter. In my experience, this category brings to mind Best Pizza (I’ve been told it has something to do with the yeast strain in the dough.), Terrapin’s Chocolate Peanut Butter Porter (It smells like peanuts) and the bucket list item of seeing J, Lou and Murph playing together on stage in a room I was also occupying. These are all things that raised the bar on my initial thoughts of what is possible for each of those vices.

Tomorrow, I am about to have another of these soul crushing or life affirming moments. After years of nothing but intense record listening, my eyes will see the glory of The Replacements attempting to play select gems from their back catalog. Hold up- I can hear what you’re thinking. This is only Paul Westerberg and Tommy Stinson. True, but Bob Stinson has passed on and Chris Mars just simply passed, meaning this is as good as it’s ever going to be from here on out. I acknowledge this fact and take no umbrage. Truth be told, Paul and Tommy could use a couple young guys in the band to add some extra vitality and some structure (when needed). Most importantly, it would be hypocritical to have an issue with the replacements in The Replacements.

The Mats are legendary for their hit or miss shows and for their fuck it and you attitude. Drugs and alcohol had quite a bit to do with that worldview or at least its exaggerated form. Back in the day, their shows could be absolute train wrecks or the best musical moment of your life. Take a listen to their live release When The Shit Hits The Fans (a cassette only release that has been bootlegged many times over) for an audio document of this time period. My non-researched guess is those particular indulgences (chemically at least) are somewhat in check as middle aged, suburban family men tend to find the tread mill and the produce section more often than bottled trouble.

I’m not going to lie- expectations are high. Higher than they’ve been in a while as this is a significant band. The Replacements are a bedrock piece of the foundation that supports the well-oiled machine that is today’s independent music scene. Without bands like The Replacements, Kurt Loder’s job would have been a lot more boring in the nineties to say the least.

Yes, I was witness to a solo Tommy Stinson show in the twentieth century but drink was heavy that night and my familiarity with all The Replacements albums was low at that point. Unfortunately, it is safe to say I have no memory of that particular show except for several still images in my mind of Tommy on stage with his guitar and thinking it was an awesome show. Paul Westerberg, on the other hand, is still a mystery to me as a live performer. The documentary Come Feel Me Tremble which documented his solo tour in the early aughts did nothing but increase my anticipation with clips of live shows that made me envious of those in attendance throughout. Hands down, the man still has chops. Paul’s solo work the past few years has been better than ever with Folker and 49:00 as standout moments in an already hall of fame career. In fact, if Paul Westerberg had just announced that he would be doing an acoustic tour this year- that would have been enough for me. To actually tour under the Replacements’ moniker, share the stage with Tommy and perform those songs live has taken this all the way to DEFCON 1 for me.

I am literally nervous for this show because I feel like something real is on the line. The Replacements will always have great records but will they also now conjure personal memories of transcendence through song? Will this show become a cherished piece of my live music canon or an instantly lost file in my brain? Being that this show is at The Forest Hills Tennis Stadium in Queens (aka the former home of the US Open Tennis Tournament), it leaves me a bit anxious. I have never experienced this piece of architecture with my eyes, my feet or (most importantly) my ears and it would appear that it holds quite a bit of people. Will this setting be distracting? Will I get a view of the “stage” with my general admission ticket? Answers will arrive soon enough. In fact, they will be made available right after this sentence as 24 hours will have magically come and gone after this period.

Post-Show

What was I worried about? Those songs, that voice and the cumulative experience on stage equaled an happening that made the world a place worth living. The night was perfect for an outdoor show with a light breeze and not even a slight chance of rain that always brings up the umbrella risk/reward decision before leaving the house. Forest Hills Tennis Center turned out to be on a scale larger than anticipated. It was a real life, honest-to-God, 1970’s-type outdoor stadium. The set up was bleacher seating ringing the circular floor with general admission in front of a large stage that included serious rigging, lights and the whole nine yards.

Beginning at happy hour, large swaths of jeaned people from all over NYC were streaming to Queens for this show. It turns out the city’s department of transportation was notified in advance and extra subway and Long Island Rail Road commuter trains were run to accommodate the crowd. The MTA had extra staff directing people to the show from both their subterranean stations and on the sidewalks above. Police were everywhere as well- in cars, on foot and on horseback as Forest Hills became inundated with pre, post and dry drunken Mats fans. This moveable crowd skewed older but, at the same time, allowed for pockets of youth to spring up more than you would think for a band that split up over 20 years ago. The perfect analogy for this being the Walking Dead like pace of the packs of middleagers filing down the blocked off streets from the train to the venue while the younger and more able bodied weaved through the Lipitored at a much quicker pace. Make no mistake, 40-somethings were the kings of this crowd and an 8:30 start time and 10pm cut off probably helped make the ticket buying decision a lot easier. 

The hour and a half set list was a solid mix of their former glories. Comprised of nearly thirty songs that drew from all their albums with the most coming from their peak masterpieces, Let It Be and Tim. They packed in the hits (I Will Dare, Left of the Dial, I’ll Be You) along with some odd choices (Waitress In The Sky, unreleased in the US track Nowhere Is My Home and b-side If Only You Were Only) as well as their inevitable covers (Jimi Hendrix, Jackson 5, even a solo Paul Westerberg song from the cartoon movie Open Season). The song Androgynous was a particular success as it allowed for Paul’s voice to shine in a quieter moment while the absence of it’s trademark piano line gave the song an even more off the cuff quality than on Let It Be.  

Paul Westerberg is not a perfectionist. The simple truth is that he doesn’t have to be given his raw talent. Perfectly weathered vocals and an innate sense of melody balance out his historic flirtation with self-destruction. Songs (or legendarily- entire sets) teetering on the edge of collapse have become part of The Replacements charm. In Queens, Westerberg carried on this tradition. He forgot a lot of the lyrics, mumbling and humming through some verses and not making it to the mike in time for others. Hearing him utter the words “fuck it” became almost commonplace before the night was over. Unlike earlier in their career, the wheels were only allowed to come off so far this time around. Paul and Tommy are older, more sober and backed by quality session musicians in David Minehan on lead guitar and, more importantly, Josh Freese on the drums. Freese, fresh off his recent tour with DEVO, pounded the drums all night keeping metronomic time like he was playing along to the records. Tommy Stinson on bass looked and sounded comfortable on a large stage being that he has toured the world over with the in-name-only Guns N’ Roses for the past few years. That said, he was visibly excited to be playing these songs again and interacted with the crowd consistently even feeling free enough to tell a long story about how he tripped on an uneven sidewalk before soundcheck and banged up his nose. The crowd would have roared in approval no matter what and that story proved it.

The Replacements playing this surprisingly large venue was a physical validation for the legacy and continued draw of this now classic rock band. Their attitude, the 60s psych leaning attire and propensity for displaying their blues roots gave them a more than subtle Rolling Stones vibe. This fact further implanted on the subway heading back to Brooklyn after the show. I found myself surrounded by nothing but drunken hordes of graying rock fans who all seemed to mention knowingly that The Rolling Stones themselves played the same tennis venue in the sixties (Apparently, it’s also a scene in the TV show Mad Men). On reflection, Westerberg’s physical age (he having almost a decade on Tommy) seems to have finally reached the maturity of the sound in his head and heart which made for a confident man on stage. It may be important to note that Paul is now in the age range of the Rolling Stones’ Mick Jagger and Keith Richards during their tours in the 1990’s. The first introduction to the Stones for a lot of younger fans whom only ever knew them as wrinkled and weather-beaten older men. Westerberg now appears comfortable to embrace that role himself and his band, instantly on reformation, have become part of the elder statesmen of rock for their generation. 

Nearing the end their set, The Replacements uncovered the surprising highlight of the night by playing two of their biggest, Can’t Hardly Wait followed directly by Bastards of Young. Unquestionably, two of the most played songs of their catalog that, after twenty years of listening, you now jump to skip on the ipod due to over saturation. Yet, as part of a large crowd becoming a collective consciousness singing in unison from start to finish, it was like hearing those songs again for the first time. The crowd hit a new level of noisy appreciation and the band responded in turn by feeding off the energy given to them. It all building to that moment near the end of Bastards of Young, where the lyrics are just a melodic belting out of a stretched out version of the word young. The entire crowd joined in creating a moment that put even the best Guided By Voices drunken sing along concert moments to shame. The words, sung like a church chorus out of thousands of beer soaked mouths, loudly hung in the air before rising into the night sky unabated. If you closed your eyes, it kinda felt like your feet were starting to leave the ground as well. My inner thoughts at that moment turned to the surrounding residential Queens neighborhood of Forest Hills. What must they think about a stadium full of people singing along to a song they probably had never heard before in their lives? I decided in stereotypical New York fashion, they probably couldn’t care less. This neighborhood birthed The Ramones years ago, they’ve heard it all before. To me though, it was inspiring on both an emotional, gut level and also in terms of history given the depth and the length of this band’s path to be on that stage at that moment.

With the distinctive blue/green surface and white painted lines of center court now covered with spilled beer and crushed plastic cups, the final song of the now darkened night sky ended with Westerberg saying the hopeful line of “See You Next Time”. I love all that this succinctly optimistic statement implies…. and it better be true! We can all use more of what this band is selling in our lives. While this is not always the case, sometimes it’s great to know that so many people also see the same magic in a band as you do. While I had expectations going into this show, they were instantly met with affirmation by the very first chords played on that enormous stage. At least for one night, the world seemed to correctly understand what should be honored in this life and to what degree. I look forward to experiencing that feeling again very soon.

Drive To Live: Dama Libra and The Clean

“Looks like rain” I muttered to myself while simultaneously contemplating the information on my phone’s weather app and staring out the window into the dark night sky. 56% chance rain right now, then 38% the next hour and about the same thereafter. Now, I had planned to walk this particular night as there was a tight schedule involved. Driving was a possibility but that would also add parking to the timetable (or more accurately finding parking) as well as taking alcohol off the table. Using logic as my compass, the answer easily fell into the driving category. It’s a complex calculation used to reach this choice but the final result was then multiplied by lazy and a moveable seat won out.

As my two destinations were St. Vitus bar on Manhattan Ave in Greenpoint, Brooklyn followed as quickly as possible by Rough Trade NYC on North 9^th and Kent Ave in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, you can surmise that music was the reason for this journey. To me, the added bonus of a car is that it's an enclosed space with powerful air conditioning and a loud, decent stereo system. I’m not sure why I don’t just drive around the neighborhood more often, it’s actually pretty relaxing… if the streets are empty. Heading to St. Vitus, that was exactly the case- an easy and empty ten minute drive with ample parking available on the residential side streets. The second disc of Bob Dylan’s Bootleg Series Vol. 4: Live 1966 began to play when I started the car and I left it on. An historic album, it documents Dylan’s first electric tour- this particular stop at the Free Trade Hall in Manchester, England. Also known as the infamous Judas show that was the apex of his public lashings for daring to abandon his folk roots (for half a show anyway- he opened with an acoustic set). The show was actually a career highlight for the man and it’s damn loud with harmonica blasts and shouted vocals over pounding drums and organ swirls not even mentioning the guitar. Anyway, I made it to St. Vitus hoping that I had guessed the time of the band accurately. After getting my hand stamped, I politely yelled “Do you know the set times for the bands tonight?” to the ticket lady over music coming from the room behind her. A room kept out of view from the front bar area by a black curtain (a heavy material but a curtain none the less). “Roughly” was her answer. “”Who did you want to see?” she asked as I turned my head to listen to her words thinking it would be easier to hear if shouted directly into my ear. With my head shifted, my eyes then noticed the merch table to the right of her. I pointed at a t-shirt that read Dama Libra. “They’re up next” she shouted back and I nodded while moving forward pulling the curtain aside to see the stage. It was like that act of curtain pulling was the signal to end the opening band’s set as they stopped upon my first footstep through the curtain. Fine by me, I was on a schedule after all but perhaps I was also not being open to the power of coincidence. Truthfully, I was a little distracted by my glimpse of the merch table which shockingly lacked any records for sale. Part of the reason I had made the decision to see this show was to pick up a copy of their debut album Claw which they were self-releasing on vinyl (Northern Spy Records is handling the digital/cd versions). Online the record price includes built in priority shipping costs, my thought was it had to be cheaper at the show. As the majority of the room cleared out for the breakdown/set-up between bands, I decided to stay and listen to a podcast with my earbuds shoved in tight to drown out the sound guy’s ipod mix. This is something I do when attending shows by myself which happens more than you think. Those closest to me will go to as many shows as they can stomach but my tolerance level for this shit is just higher, I guess (I'm not saying that's a good thing). As engaging as the podcast was, for some reason, the record thing was stuck in my mind. So, with the added time on my hands, I proceeded to buy a copy of the record online while watching the band set up. In the notes section of paypal, I was going to leave a remark about where I was but thought the better of it. (I kind of regret it now, actually).

Dama Libra or Dama/Libra is a new collaboration between G. Stuart Dahlquist (Burning Witch, Asva, the Sunn O))) Rolodex) and Joel RL Phelps (Silkworm, JP & The Downer Trio). Apparently, friends for decades but never musically linked before this project. Their common bond being Michael Dahlquist, G. Stuart’s brother and Joel’s former bandmate in Silkworm who died in a tragic car accident in 2005 involving a suicidal driver. In terms of  Dama Libra, the backstory is that G. Stuart wrote this music, recorded it and sent it to Joel who then added his signature vocals/lyrics to the pieces. G. Stuart wasn’t even expecting Joel to add to his work but was so moved by his additions that the band became a reality at that point. At St. Vitus, it was definitely a band that night with five musicians on stage needed to recreate these arrangements in a live setting. After a bumpy start where monitors needed to be adjusted, microphones had to be repositioned and the live mix needed to find its correct levels- Stuart’s bass started to cut out. At first, the chord was replaced but the issue continued. Then another band gave them their Gibson bass guitar to swap out but to no avail and then for a while he thought he blew out his bass amp. Finally, he figured out a fix on his own and everything was fine. Once all the problems melted away, the music took over the room. Unfortunately, the clips of the album that I have streamed online seem to bask in atmosphere, subtleties and high production value, which this show did not have. The percussionist had a full side table with an array of chimes, wood blocks, a triangle and bells. A large, bald goateed man the size of a linebacker gently tapping his knick knacks in between harder drum beats was a waste of his talent in this setting. I could see him looking at the soundman with a hopeful stare of “you got this microphone jacked up as high as it goes, right?”. I can confirm that he did not. As the power of five musicians with six keyboards, a trumpet, a bass, two guitars, a gong, full drum set and a table of curios have the ability to overtax a venue's resources, the vocals were buried way deeper in the mix than on the album. Joel Phelps had his hand over one ear to hear himself when singing almost the entire set. It was kinda stressful to watch them play as they had to overcome a lot to get to a solid last fifteen minutes of their set. I could hear them tell each other on stage to scrap a song and go with the closer instead as they ate up too much of their set time with bass issues. Honestly, I’m excited to get that record in the mail and have a chance to sit down with it. It’s a strange sound that they created but almost a perfect mix of its principal players. Sunn like compositions with Asva production qualities mixed with in the red prayers and pleadings through Joel Phelps legendary pipes. It’s heavy and uplifting at the same time, a sonic workout for sure.

Jesus- 10:40 PM. That’s about 15 minutes later than I would have hoped. Now I’m leaving St. Vitus late with no record in hand and “Am I feeling raindrops?”. Yup, a 38% chance has come to pass. The odds were not in the rain’s favor, yet the windshield of the car says differently. Ah, Bob Dylan again. I’m not kidding- pick this album up or listen to it on Spotify or whatever platform you want. I wonder if I would like this album if I didn’t go through that Bob Dylan phase a few years back. I really went for it too, soaked in the music, the story and almost went to see him play (still never have at this point). I’ve heard mixed things about his latest tours but I really do like his new albums- he’s settled into a sound and seems to be happy there. I’m just not sure how his older material would sound through his new touring band’s filter. His voice really has changed… a lot.

Without this album, I’m not sure I would be so calm. Yes, I’m in the car moving forward to my next destination but there is some scheduling stress. My original calculations were that Dama Libra would probably go on a few minutes before the other band at Rough Trade. I mean, I knew that and I made my decisions based on Dama Libra having an opener’s thirty to fouty-five minute set and the other band having a one and half hour headlining set. It’s just, this is later than I thought by about ten to fifteen minutes and that’s huge in terms of a ninety minute set- that’s 1/6^th or about 17% of the show. Now, I’m not sure I want to bring this up as my trusted logic settled on driving but my fears have have come true- I’m stuck in traffic. The worst part is it’s just coming from this one fucking corner- North 11^th and Wythe Ave. I see a string of green lights going down the expanse of Wythe Ave but no one is moving. You see, that particular corner with the Las Vegas chain Brooklyn Bowl, the posh Wythe Hotel and some dance club I never bothered to learn the name of is an official UNESCO World Heritage Site as it is the ninth and final gateway to hell. Literally, the soul of the neighborhood is being sucked like light into a blackhole on that corner. All I have to do is make it to North 12^th and take a right off of Wythe and just grab anything that is even remotely parking. Man, these live versions of Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues and Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat are fucking incredible. It’s funny, I never thought Bob Dylan would ever become a part of my musical knowledge base. This was my father music- even as a kid, it was known to me that he was a fan. More in theory than in practice, as I tend to remember Huey Lewis and Dire Straits on the stereo my formative years when I was starting to become conscious of music and people other than myself. Still, my parents went to Newport Folk Festivals in the early sixties and acoustic guitars were still around the house when I was young. I wonder what my dad thinks of all this? I should ask him about this album. Not now though, I just managed to wedge the car between two SUVs on a street with a no parking sign between the hours of midnight and 3AM tonight. While parking is further away than I hoped, it’s still before 11PM and making it to Rough Trade for a few songs is now a certainty. An umbrella is needed though as the sky glows with distant lightning strikes and the streets are forming puddles and small streams where possible.

“You have a ticket?” the security guard questions me just as I finally make my way to the doors of the venue. “”Enjoy Yourself” he bellowed as he stamped my hand with a “Bowery Presents” logo. I feel like there was some judgment there but that’s fine, he’s probably right. I open the door to a fully packed audience with The Clean on the stage midsong. Their merch table is on the immediate righthand side, which I check out as I was wondering how a show at a record store would handle this. Looks as though they just jack the prices up a bit to match Rough Trade’s usual highway robbery. Truth be told, I pick up a copy of David Kilgour’s latest solo album End Times Undone as it’s currently sold out on the Merge Records website. A $20 pricetag, which is ridiculous, but I’m hoping it all goes to the band without a cut to the organization on my hand as a temporary tattoo.

Getting to sold out shows late is tough as the entire back of the room is either drunk, deep in conversation, sourpuss-faced wishing the person they came with wanted to leave or angry about their bad spot. Having never been to Rough Trade as a venue, I had to do go with some gut instincts as to where to venture on the floor. Having missed more than half of the set already, you don’t want to stand right in front of someone but you do have to make a move from the back eventually. I was deep into carving my way from the left side of the back past the sound board to the right back side away from the door when The Clean started playing “Draw(in)g To A (W)hole”. One of their biggest hits, if not the biggest, which was a great soundtrack to finding the sign that read “Balcony This Way”. After a winding hallway/stairs “Hello Cleveland!” experience, I finally made it up top. Like a concert oasis, there were open places to sit and railings to lean on with great sightlines. I settled in and just hoped they still had a long way to go. The Clean are a New Zealand institution, having been critical and indie darlings since at least the early eighties. Part of the Flying Nun Records roster, they have been named checked by Pavement to Sonic Youth to Yo La Tengo to (insert any relevant indie band). They really put the jangle in their pop, full on college rock with guitar exploration and a general quirkiness. YLT's guitar/pop mangler Ira Kaplan has certainly learned a thing or two about his instrument from this band.

This was my first time seeing The Clean live and they did not disappoint. Every effort will be made from this point forward to check them out on any future tours. While their music translated perfectly, the same could not be said for the between song banter. I’m not sure if it was the PA, their accents, the dialect used or a combination but they talked a bunch and I couldn’t make out a word. They were cracking themselves up on stage but even the most enthusiastic fan could just yell “Whooooo” as moral support after what I’m guessing was a joke or a quip. Musically, The Clean were effortless on stage and they cherry picked from a long career's worth of well-crafted pop that filled the room with adoration and sweat. It was actually awesome to see a packed venue full of fans celebrating such a niche band. Bassist Robert Scott and drummer Hamish Kilgour even came out for a second encore that seemed impromptu as a genuine thank you for the loud, never ending applause. A quick google search of prior tour setlists would answer solve the impromptu question but I don’t want to know. 

The rain after the show didn’t seem to be as bothersome after a night like this. Slowly walking back to the car, I sifted through the images of both Dama Libra and the Clean now firmly planted in my head. Dama Libra, with a veteran core, is now just starting out as a new act. They booked a tour of small clubs where twenty people watching at the start of their set increasing to nearly forty by their last note is a big deal. The Clean, now thirty plus years on, are playing to ten times that many people at sold out shows. While their audience sizes varied, both bands brought equal amounts of integrity and history to the stage. My hope is they were both able to enjoy a certain level of satisfaction based on expectation. Regardless of recognition, there is a common thread through all good music and that is passion which this night had in spades. As I started the car to drive back home, Bob Dylan accompanied me on the last leg of my trek. A fitting end to a great night of live music filled with amazing bands, good decisions, inclement weather and car stereos.

Frog Eyes Evolve On Carey's Cold Spring

It should be stated right at the top- Frog Eyes is an acquired taste. Certainly not to be mistaken for a band you mindlessly let slip into your headspace. Like a vampire, you need to invite them in before they can enter your inner sanctum. Twisting your perspective in the process, forcing you to see the world through their beautifully bulging and complex eyes. Optimally, their sound must envelope you just like the meninges around the brain providing you with both nourishment and protection from the ever-menacing world surrounding us all. Twelve years down the line, the fact this band remains present tense is solely dependent on the head, heart and soul of one man- Carey Mercer.  Who is a teacher by trade in his native Canadian British Columbia when taking a break from his career of being an underappreciated musician. Mr. Mercer specializes in unabashedly yelpy, shaky and stretched vocals that echo within their lyrical depth. Having had his musical endeavors recorded for over a decade, this history offers an aural report card that proves his visions seem to be getting clearer and more potent with age. Mr. Mercer’s past releases leave behind a string of labels in their wake- Global Symphonic, Animal World Recordings, Soft Abuse, Acuarela, Absolutely Kosher and Dead Oceans.  Frog Eyes’ latest release, Carey’s Cold Spring, recently found a home on the Toronto based label Paper Bag Records who saw the value in Mr. Mercer’s work… to a point. Respecting the niche appeal of the band and of the physical format, Paper Bag agreed to press 300 copies on colored vinyl with book and t-shirt bundle options to entice sales. That plan seems to have worked perfectly, as all copies of the LP are now sold out with a rising demand for further pressings.

Frog Eyes sixth full-length album, Carey’s Cold Spring, didn’t always have colored vinyl and record label ambitions in its future. In fact, it was initially self-released digitally back in October 2013 through their Bandcamp page with no other official plans in the works. In fact, Frog Eyes had seemingly taken a back seat to Mr. Mercer’s other projects in the recent past with only the LPs, Paul’s Tomb: A Triumph and Tear of The Valedictorian seeing release since 2007. Mr. Mercer’s focus had become split between other projects. In 2006, he formed a side project with former collaborators Dan Bejar (Destroyer, New Pornographers) and Spencer Krug (Wolf Parade, Sunset Rubdown) called Swan Lake. Mr. Mercer also continued writing and recording under his solo alias Blackout Beach during this time. Prolifically releasing three full-lengths in five years. However, it was Swan Lake, dubbed a Canadian indie supergroup, that had shone a public spotlight right into the retinas of Frog Eyes. In the process, laying the groundwork for Frog Eyes’ future by signing to their largest label yet, Jagjaguwar subsidiary Dead Oceans for Paul’s Tomb.

While not his only focus, Frog Eyes still remained a part of Mr. Mercer’s life and his efforts eventually materialized late last year on Bandcamp. Given that Mr. Mercer’s personal and musical lives intersect behind Frog Eyes’ drum kit, the band's delayed album made even more sense with the birth of his son, Ivan, by his drum partner, Melanie Campbell in 2011. The realities of parenthood happily slowing down his mobility and ability to be a touring band. With this realization, his solo vehicle, Blackout Beach's became a very relevant musical outlet. Frog Eyes turning into more of a long term recording project when all relevant parties could find the time.

Unfortunately, life both gives and takes by it's very nature and Mr. Mercer suddenly lost his father within months of a cancer diagnosis last year. A span of time where Carey’s Cold Spring was taking shape, the recording nearly halfway done when his dad passed. Yet, Carey’s Cold Spring is not as informed by this event as you would think with much of the album written beforehand. In fact, the most noticeable difference on the record from Frog Eyes’ previous work is the absence of Mr. Mercer’s wife, Melanie Campbell, on the recordings. Apparently, the only negative of motherhood (while still 99.99% positive) is that it can cause temporary musical collateral damage for husband/wife guitar/drum teams that have a unique melodic bond. While her studio replacement is probably a nice guy and even technically more proficient, on this record he is basically reduced to playing an imitation of her style. For comparison’s sake, it would be like The Dirty Three replacing Jim White with Neil Peart of Rush. For that reason, there is a subtle reserved polish to the music that never quite matches the magic of Mr. Mercer and Ms. Campbell’s intuitiveness.

Even with these obstacles, Carey’s Cold Spring is still an album to be celebrated. Mercer’s song structures, guitar work and lyrics are just too strong to be affected by such critical nitpicking. As with almost all Frog Eyes’ work, the vocals drive these songs with the mix correctly reflecting their importance. “Duration of Starts and Lines that Form Code” displays a Frogian chug along beat mixed with shimmering guitar lines underneath layered vocal tracks that build to a tension filled climax. “Seven Daughters” gives off an almost Ivy League Hold Steady-like vibe in the albums most musically adventurous track. “Don’t Give Up On Your Dreams” starts off as a moody, atmospheric piece with dripping guitar heroics, which builds into a musical squall showcasing the band’s range and content. This album even creates some transcendent moments (The Country Child, Needle In The Sun) where Mr. Mercer’s guitar and his supporting instruments battle his vocals for a temporary dominance.

Knowing the events surrounding the recording of Carey’s Cold Spring gives the project a certain emotional heft. There is no doubt that Mr. Mercer’s literal life and death family issues weighed on him. However, nothing could have prepared him for the news he received after recording this album- throat cancer. Through the passage of time and many heavy doses of radiation, his story ends as a successful, life-affirming journey. A few months back though, this path to remission was anything but a given. Mr. Mercer decided to announce the planned Bandcamp release of the now completed Carey’s Cold Spring with the simultaneous news of his personal cancer battle. The two items of business were connected as he had chosen to leave his label, Dead Oceans, whom he did not want to stick with the bill for a record he could not tour behind. The digital only release would allow the world to hear his songs, which he determined the most important thing and, also, the only option that remained. Mr. Mercer received treatment for his throat cancer in August and September 2013, digitally released his record in October and then endured the struggle and uncertainty of the months ahead.

In many ways, this sold out Paper Bag Records pressing of Carey’s Cold Spring is the completion of an original vision. It represents a way to celebrate what was almost taken and to appreciate the little things. He can now take a victory lap on Frog Eyes’ upcoming summer tour and then move on to the next project. With just a couple months into cancer free living, Mr. Mercer should be applauded for his successes and his determination. We should all learn from the courage and strength displayed to be motivated when the world tries to weigh you down. Showing that the desire to write and record can be stronger than any physical ailment. Mr. Mercer’s pen ready to dispense philosophical musings on life, love and the respect of death for whomever wants to listen even if only himself. He will continue to be innately driven to make art, which is the proof that he is still alive- that he is still in the present tense- with all the awe, hope, humility and endless possibilities the concept of a future offers.        

Mark Kozelek at Town Hall: A Stand Up Guitarist In a Seated Venue

San Francisco musician Mark Kozelek began his career with the Red House Painters in the late eighties releasing their first album in 1992.  In Manhattan at the venerable Town Hall on 43^rd street, Mark Kozelek recently played for over two hours with his band Sun Kil Moon as part of his latest tour. Over two decades have passed between these two events. While Mr. Kozelek now appears visibly middle aged (with a substantial paunch and slightly receding hairline), he still sounds as vital as ever.  His PhD level guitar work and seasoned vocals now emboldened with the confidence allowed by a mammoth back catalog of material. Arguments can be made as to the highlight of his expansive career, the 4AD years of RHP, his Bon Scott inspired records or maybe even his acting in Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous or Steve Martin’s mojito endorsing Shopgirl. My vote goes to Sun Kil Moon’s debut album, Ghosts of the Great Highway, a haunting, beautiful and sometimes amusing album. There is no correct answer to this query- just opinion. The objective truth can only be found in the longevity and strength of his career.

Mr. Kozelek has taken anything but the straight and narrow path to stardom. The Red House Painters slowly dissolved in major label turpentine after their relationship with 4AD records ended. Uncertainty and label frustration resulted in Mr. Kozelek becoming a somewhat reluctant solo artist. With the encouragement of Badman Recording Co., Mr. Kozelek recorded and released the first albums of his life under his own moniker. The contents of which centered around original musical compositions matched with pre-Back In Black era AC/DC lyrics. These LPs quickly became critically lauded and fan approved. Writer/director Cameron Crowe entered the picture soon after by taking over for Badman and releasing Mr. Kozelek’s albums on vinyl via his vanity imprint aptly titled Vinyl Film Records. An arrangement that premiered with the first Sun Kil Moon LP and still holds true to this day. Mr. Crowe can also be thanked for seeing Mr. Kozelek’s untapped potential for a second career in the cinematic arts with screen time in his movies, Almost Famous and Vanilla Sky. With Sun Kil Moon’s continued success, Mr. Kozelek then started his own record label Caldo Verde Records in 2005 to handle the non-vinyl releases of his own recording projects as well as a smattering of other hand picked bands such as Desertshore (which features ex-RHP alum not involved with SKM), Jesu, Advance Bass and Kath Bloom. A shrewd choice that left Mr. Kozelek in complete control of distributing his creative energies from that point forward.

It would appear that Mr. Kozelek has made a lot of these wise decisions regarding his career.  Now, at forty-seven, he is not only the master of his musical domain with a successful label but he also has options in terms of touring.  Depending on need, Mr. Kozelek can either play as a solo artist with just a microphone and guitar or as part of a band with longtime loyal musicians/friends always at the ready. The acting thing even seems to be a continuing venture with a new movie in post-production by Oscar winning director, Paolo Sorrentino, set for release sometime next year. Ambitious would not be an uncommon word to describe such a person with this resume. Which is surprising, as that descriptor would be far from the adjective of choice based on the observable information Mr. Kozelek offered while performing in New York City. His mannerisms, his permanently seated and slouched position (with two exceptions) and between song banter painted the picture of an exhausted and unmotivated loner just wandering through life.

As the night wore on, Mr. Kozelek proved his stage persona to be nothing more than an exaggerated version of himself. Due in large part to his innate sarcastic disposition, it became apparent his humor needed to thrive off of real or contrived pain and displeasure to be effective. His dry, even toned delivery ala Steven Wright would break from time to time to reveal full-bodied laughs and genuine camaraderie with his band which offered momentary glimpses behind his jaded mask of complaint. As prickly as he was trying to come off, it was consistently overshadowed by his ability to entertain. I honestly looked forward to the between song conversations as much as the music itself. Perhaps even more so, as my choice was to run to the men’s room during a song as not to miss his musings after it was over.

Right from the start he had a comedian’s approach to the room, a large balconied venue that held well over a thousand people, asking “How’s everybody doin’ tonight? You feeling all right? Good. Ok.” after the first song. We, as an audience, not realizing this was the first of many times that night he would sarcastically ask the same question phrased in the same exact way with no interest in the answer. Throughout, his comedic mind attacked every subject that popped into his head.  For once, making it apropos for his band to be named after South Korean boxer Moon Sung-kil. That night, Mr. Kozelek’s most pointed barbs were directed toward Town Hall’s unionized stagehands in charge of props and lighting. With equal parts aggression and glee, he continuously called them out for their stereotypical inefficiencies in everything beyond taking breaks. At one point, he even took credit for having one of them fired during soundcheck for sleeping on the job. While indie empire Pitchfork received just a glancing blow by declaring a new appreciation (unlike before) as they have been telling twenty-four year old girls he is a genius. Select artistic contemporaries were also called out when he roasted (or just bad mouthed) the actors Michael Caine and Harvey Keitel with whom he just spent three weeks on a movie set. Similar treatment was also given to early Cat Power and Brian Jonestown Massacre shows which were named as the worst concerts he had ever seen (the best- Bad Brains). Mr. Kozelek pulled no punches with the audience either when questioning the intelligence of those shouting out song names or by giving a fake apology to a younger man with a beard for not playing a show closer to the Portlandesque Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

His four-piece, accompanying band (drums, guitar, keyboard and occasional cello) also didn’t leave unscathed as Mr. Kozelek interjected his opinion of their performance in the middle of a song. He even openly laughed at their short improv piece while he was tuning his guitar stating it sounded like a bad cover of The End by The Doors. The songs themselves were not beholden either as he allowed a mock Nels Cline cello solo to take on comedic proportions and ordered the band to slow down the tempo during his two non-seated, guitar-free, front and center vocal performances (including one of the night’s best moments, the song Ceiling Gazing). Like any good comedian, he was also self-deprecating. At length, he laid into himself about how much weight he had gained on the road, admitted he was too lazy for sit ups or push ups and confessed he received a “mediocre handjob” from an extra on his last movie set who really just wanted to know about his co-star.

The atmosphere at Town Hall was thick with these remarks. Adding to the mix was a hefty dose of Mr. Kozelek’s heavy sighs directed into the microphone and mutterings about being “so tired” when each song was then counted off and brought to life. While his stage persona had a neurotic anxiousness and discomfort at the surface, the obvious contentment he felt could not be denied giving even his deepest sarcasm a lighthearted edge. This stood in contrast to his songs which radiated an overall loose yet confident vibe backed up by expert musicianship and undeniable melodies that betrayed the heaviness of the lyrical content. Thus creating a setting where the actual songs had to break through the mire to soar to the highest reaches of the room before their own weight brought them back down before thunderous crowd applause; each song needing to make that same journey which was incredibly compelling to witness. With so much experience playing his own work in a live setting, it stands to reason that this yin/yang, song/conversation contrast evolved over the years. Developing into a counterbalancing necessity given the raw honest emotion of his music.

The night’s setlist was comprised of selections exclusively from four of Mr. Kozelek’s latest offerings; Sun Kil Moon’s Benji and Among The Leaves, Mark Kozelek & Desertshore’s self titled collaborative album and Perils From The Sea which is Mark Kozelek’s album with Jimmy LaValle from The Album Leaf. Eighteen songs were played that night and not one was written before 2012. A testament to the faith and value he has placed on his most recent work, some of the bravest and bluntest pieces he has ever created.

Mr. Kozelek has crafted a career out of making albums with personal meaning and emotional power. As a long history of covering/reinterpreting songs by countless artists can attest, Mr. Kozelek also likes to take inspiration from other sources (his most recent examples being an entire LP of Modest Mouse songs titled Tiny Cities or the full length covers compilation Like Rats). On the latest albums it seems he may have blended his two strengths by applying this covers concept to his own written word. The lyrics of Benji and the Desertshore collaboration particularly possessing an off the cuff feel unlike other previous releases which is quite a left curve at first listen. Mr. Kozelek seemingly lifting passages directly from his old journals or personal family histories for the contents of his lyrics. His songs including tales of death and sickness with specific details like calendar dates and diseases. His albums full of therapy appropriate talk involving immediate and extended family (parents, sister, cousins, uncle, etc) mixed with tales of Led Zeppelin, first loves and lots of Ohio. The delivery of these lyrics is more like spoken word or poetry than outright song but still very musical. When he didn’t max out the reverb on his vocals, these lyrics and his distinctly smooth and emotive voice stole the show at Town Hall. It appears that Mr. Kozelek has found a new approach to his art resulting in inspired creations and releases at a near prolific rate.

In New York City, all this made for an engaging, time melting show that you hoped would never end.  To all who witnessed it, the night was a spotlight on music that elicited both respect and enjoyment which is a rare feat to accomplish for any artist. As odd (and perhaps selfish) as it is to say, my hope is that Mr. Kozelek keeps a deep well of misery and misfortune in reserve. Tapped only when needed to satisfy his melancholic muse given the much deserved success and contentment surely to come his way.

Duty Now That It's The Future: DEVO Look Back To The Beginning

In most any fictional exercise, the most satisfying stories always involve struggle and triumph. Tales of humble beginnings that hit utter despair before new strength and vision are gained for the groundbreaking innovation and/or world conquering ahead. Best selling non-fiction is no different either. Basically, people love to hear about each other’s humanity and of the enlightened spirit earned by a hard fought and painfully gained full life; looking for the universal clues to understanding purpose and place in the never ending everything around us all. Being comprised of flawed and mortal beings, bands (esp. rock bands) can be parables for these paths to knowledge too. In perhaps the most well known example, The Beatles success story still resonates to this day partly because of their blue-collar upbringing, their salad days in Hamburg, their controversial line-up shuffling and initial genuine love of the spotlight before everything that followed. Most successful, legendary rock bands of their day are from some variation on this theme- Sun records to garage to British Invasion to seventies arena rock to first generation punk to new wave to rap to hair metal to post modern to grunge to pop-punk to garage revival to the varied splintered scenes of today- they all fought for what they had with blinding belief in their abilities, rigid determination and intense charisma and likeability. As a fan, if you were on board from the start, that band’s rise to fame was yours to keep deeply but from a distance. Great bands know that any possibility of mass acceptance and cultural relevance comes blasting off of that original small but solid fan base. Creating a career trajectory that stands as the antithesis of pre-packaged, marketed creations of record labels and managers who will never reach the heights nor have the staying power of those who went through the bond of time and struggle.

DEVO is a band that has had a Homeric forty plus year story that could be used as a template to display the pros and cons of success. As mentioned, it’s a long one so read the book or, at least, the wikipedia page. A tale bursting with nearly five decades of fabled lore chock full of historical touchstones (political, cultural and musical), lots of Ohio, some California, a little New York City, true musical innovation, genius, inner band drama, artistic vision, major labels, rock stardom, MTV, cultural influence, Dr. Detroit, fading popularity, solo endeavors, families, kids shows, inner band peace, recognition, resurgence and staying power. DEVO are as relevant to the American story as any other mythical part of this country’s history be it Paul Bunyan, Babe the Blue Ox, Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Cash or Michael Jackson’s nose.

Even with all that said, the past twelve months have been unfairly harsh to the groundbreaking theorists behind the concept of de-evolution. The latest chapter to their story now involves death beyond that fateful day at Kent State in 1970. In just over one year’s time, former longtime drummer Alan Myers and guitarist/keyboardist/brother Bob Casale (Bob 2) both clocked out for the final time. Leaving behind a Mothersbaugh leaning three-fifths of the classic DEVO lineup in Jerry Casale, Bob Mothersbaugh (Bob 1) and Mark Mothersbaugh. Very rapidly, it seems time has caught up with DEVO and the truth of the matter is that we all now live in a world where the three remaining spudboys are all about to qualify for Medicare. With this knowledge comes introspection for both the band and the fans, a reflective experience that found solace for all involved in the form of DEVO doing what they do best- touring and reissuing. As DEVO have always been a band that embraced their past’s greatest hits (and greatest misses), this most recent inward gaze went all the way back to the big bang of their existence investigating the cosmic microwave background of the DEVO universe.

At first glance, the “Hardcore DEVO Tour 2014” and the re-release of the Hardcore DEVO Vol. 1 & Vol. 2 albums would seem to be a direct result of the band’s experience in the shadow of the reaper. However, it appears this album/tour package was already in the works before the loss of Bob 2. Their looming retirement age birthdays on the horizon were apparently enough to start the process and their surprise grief was strong enough to be a unifying force in moving ahead with their planned tour.

The two Hardcore DEVO releases, originally compiled and released on the Rykodisc label in the 1990s, have been out of print for years before this glorious 2014 reissue by the nearly flawless San Francisco based label Superior Viaduct Records (who very thoughtfully included a limited colored vinyl preorder edition to boot). The tracks on these albums, taken from their first recordings from 1974-1977, were songs that either ended up on varied, limited singles and compilations or were officially unreleased material from the same time period. As I learned on that Rykodisc reissue back in the nineties, for every song on Hardcore DEVO that was a different version of a later re-recorded “hit” such as Be Stiff, Clockout, Working In A Coal Mine, Social Fools, Soo Bawls, Satisfaction, Jocko Homo or Mongoloid, there were also equally obscure songs you now couldn’t imagine missing from their catalog like I Need A Chick, Midget, Auto Modown, Space Girl Blues, O No, Bamboo Bimbo, Goo Goo Itch or Fountain of Filth. As the majority of the songs on these albums aren’t usual DEVO live staples- the prospect of a tour based on this material had longtime (aka aged) DEVO fans keeping all the eyes on their potatoes peeled for tickets. On a rainy night in June, the silver spuds of the tri-state New York City area came out in force to claim their audio-visual prize.

Going back forty years to pick songs for your set list is an exercise in memory, of feeling the nostalgia of nostalgia. Based on the audience that night, these loyal devotees were ready to go through this temporary time warp probably even more than the band themselves. This crowd was large, wide and had the look of an AARP convention where attendees were encouraged to bring their families. Held in the former Astor Plaza Movie Theater (NYC’s largest movie house for years before being renovated into The Nokia Theater a few years ago and then just recently renamed Best Buy Theater), a set of descending escalators greeted you right after opening the front door. As you traveled downward, it clued you in that this place was going to be an almost underground cavern that had been around since the revered bad good old days of Time Square’s history. “A firetrap for sure” was my thought as the steep escalator ride ended on carpeted floors near the first of many bars in the venue. This crowd loved it though, there was an escalator after all and the 8PM start time (7PM doors, no opener) made you realize this was a show for adults by adults. Definitely catering to the after work crowd the dominant ages ranged from thirties to those who hopefully voted for Hubert Humphrey for president when they had the chance (given the other option). The only younger types in the place seemed to be in attendance as an attempt at cross-generational bonding. As the majority of the crowd had gotten there early to snag the best of the only seats in the house far off in the back behind the standing room orchestra section, it was easier than expected to find room on the floor not too far from the stage. Around the perimeter of this standing room area, middle aged bodies were leaning all over any possible open surface; walls, railings, columns, each other, even the stage itself. The scene really made the movie Logan’s Run seem more like a documentary on mercy killing than a dystopian morality tale. Perhaps a sign of de-evolution in progress?

A reserved din fell over the crowd as they sat (maybe even napped?), leaned or shifted their weight from leg to leg (if forced to stand) right through the posted start time of 8PM all the way to 8:10PM by which time the only DEVO to be heard was over the PA system in muzak form (check out the Rykodisc E-Z Listening Disc release to hear for yourself). For those standing, it looked like anticipation was turning into foot arch agony until salvation came in the form of quickly dropped lights and the rising of the curtain (this was on Broadway after all) to reveal Mark Mothersbaugh on stage in the midst of theatrically reading a newspaper that is revealed to be from circa 1972 based on the subject of his comments (Nixon, The War, etc). Gerry Casale and Bob 1 then made their way onstage along with now old new drummer Josh Freese before kicking things off with the song Mechanical Man which really set the tone for the night in terms of song selection and sound. All the previously aching and tired bodies of the audience were instantly forgotten by their suddenly stimulated brains. A long forgotten wild, youthful energized spirit circled from the stage to the audience and right back to the band in the form of non-stop post song roars of approval throughout.

The Hardcore Tour was not your average DEVO live experience, along with the specialized song selection they had also came with a production value in mind as well. When the curtain rose, the set design revealed itself to be the actual basement in Ohio USA that birthed the first sounds of this de-evolution cult. With a faux brick background, the stage was filled with guitars, a sideways facing drum set and mounds and mounds of keyboards and electronic gear. Except for a couple songs, Mark was anchored behind his many synth stacks with Gerry and Bob 1 handling the stringed instruments. Patented “moves” came flowing out of them as stage presence and visuals were always a large part of their vision from the very beginning with automaton-like keyboard strikes, guitar posing and choreographed steps and head turns. The big reveal in the middle of the show was the changing of their outfits from tour t-shirts and black pants to blue janitorial jump suits with matching hard hats which unceremoniously involved the viewing of three 60 something year old men in their boxer shorts and shoes mid outfit change. This also marked the quick change of the set design from the 1970’s basement into a more standard light based rock show.

Regardless of the backdrop behind them, DEVO played a set of songs as promised with all early material that spotlighted their more experimental nature. Yes, it was odd to see grandfatherly men perform songs with lyrics written by young minds filled with sexual frustration/fascination but that’s common these days and a big business (Rolling Stones, The Who, Paul McCartney, Tom Jones, etc). Maybe it was just that Gerry Casale was reminding me of a more put together Jerry “Beaver” Mathers from one of those 80s/90s Leave It To Beaver TV reunion specials; "the Beav"/DEVO dichotomy too great for my brain to process. Bob 1 didn’t speak much during the show, mostly holding his position on stage between Gerry and Mark looking like a dead ringer for Fred Armisen (Get this guy into a Portlandia sketch!) and impressively covering most of the lead guitar duties. Josh Freese also remained silent leaving his ability to summon the spirits of Jim Mothersbaugh and Alan Myers to speak for itself. This left between song banter to mostly scripted and some off-the-cuff remarks between Gerry and Mark that had the lively back and forth rhythm of a good game of Pong. Bob 2’s absence was handled by an extra hand or two on a few songs by unnamed extras on stage left behind Mark or more overtly on stage during a spirited performance of Clockout to close out their show after Booji Boy’s beautiful performance piece that kicked off the encore section.

Definitely a unique set and a show that will be remembered by those in attendance for a long time; a fitting tribute to Bob 2 and to the DEVO journey overall by exposing their roots to the world. Mark Mothersbaugh barely picked up a guitar (Uncontrollable Urge being one of the rare exceptions) given the requirements of the material but it was a blast of noisy joy when it was in his hand. Yet, that is exactly what made this show special, it wasn’t a typical show with all the big hits in the exact version that you were accustomed. The only energy domes to be found were in the audience, in particular the guy in front of me who made it clear to all that he had found the “store” section of the DEVO website. This spud was singling along all evening (in the spirit of accuracy, night shouldn’t be used as this show was over before 10PM), fists pumping with sweat glands working overtime in his official yellow plastic DEVO jumpsuit and red plastic energy dome atop his head. While a lot of photos were taken with this guy before the show, no one went near him afterward as it looked like he had fallen asleep in a sauna wearing, well… wearing plastic from head to toe.

With the houselights now up and my phone reading 9:45PM, I was wondering what there was to do with my actual night. Everyone around me seemed to be in a good mood and thankful for the early hour and the escalators to take them back up to street level. It did seem that a lot of people used this evening to relive their past lives, as there were a fair amount of grey haired, drunk, sweaty people taking that escalator along with their more perfumed and sweatered seat seating peers. In a Hallmark moment, I even saw two teenaged sons on either side of their dad carrying him arm in arm out of the venue, as he was visibly loaded or high on something. It appears DEVO was trying to teach everyone that evening (themselves included) how to properly revisit one’s youth. While some will learn their lessons faster than others, DEVO proved to all they were the Yukon gold standard that night.

Keep a Watchful Eye On Viet Cong

Outdoor shows have long been a tradition of the summer months, especially in urban cityscapes where these free bread and circuses are used to distract the oppressed from the oppressive seasonal conditions so they continue to do the right thing. Based on the magnitude of the occasion (holiday, benefit, etc.), the bands involved vary in popularity and location. The Village Voice sponsored 4Knots Music Festival at the South Street Seaport in lower Manhattan is more like croutons and clowns compared to it’s previous incarnation as the Coney Island based Siren Festival back when people read newspapers and toxic mortgages were still dream homes. Yet, 4Knots remains a destination for fans of the announced bands and anyone interested in free entertainment/just passing by that day.

The third band to play on 4Knots main stage, Viet Cong, initially seemed like any of the other bands who get talked into playing these mid-day outings in the bright, skin-crisping, sun-baked, jungle-like humid summer air. They hit the stage with shaded and/or squinting eyes in sweat soaked black clothes looking like pasty white shut-ins that even John Watson could determine were still reeling from the night before. That being said, Viet Cong handled their 3:30 PM time slot very well. The South Street Seaport currently under renovating construction detoured bands onto a tucked away stage at the end of a long pier that found attendees passing under elevated highways, cutting through bike paths and entering into close quarters with the usual Saturday pier crowd and the many boothed sponsors of the festival touting their goods. All this topped off with the many sailing and motored boats clogging the East River directly behind the stage.

“Hello Ship!” said Matt Flegel the bassist and vocalist of this Calgary, Alberta, Canada based four piece which drew awkward smiles from his band mates drummer, Mike Wallace, and guitarists/keyboardists Scott Munroe and Daniel Christiansen. His greetings aimed at the classic Tall Ship "Peking"found stage left bobbing in the questionable waters of the East River filled with 4Knots VIPs who were all huddled to the stage side of the boat, looking down from their lofty perches with drinks in hand. After a bit more observational banter from the stage, it started to become obvious that Mr. Flegel was passively asking for a beer. Before kicking into the next song of their half hour set, he mumbled something about the lack of beverages backstage. As Viet Cong are barely out of the phase of discussing their band history in terms of months instead of years, the festival shortened half hour set may have been the perfect length. Their only known material so far is just a tour cassette EP and the promise of a full length by the end of the calendar year. In the interim, Brooklyn based label Mexican Summer has stepped in and just re-released their tour cassette as a limited twelve-inch vinyl aptly titled Cassette. A seven song collection that attempts to define the aesthetic of the band- dark, synth edged, eighties leaning (except when it’s not) rock mixed with post/math-rock, pop, indie, and garage- with a Bauhaus cover (Dark Entries) thrown in for good measure. Strangely with all this varied influence, a unique and unified sound remains in your memory after repeated spins of Cassette - even with its forays into instrumental passages, repetitive krautrock-like tangents, occasional syrupy vocal harmonies, synth heavy moments, dueling guitars heroics and classic verse chorus verse arrangements.

As is the case with any mention of the band Viet Cong, it must be referenced that this band rose out of the ashes of another four piece out of Calgary called Women. An amazing band that gave the world two stellar albums- Women (2008) and Public Strain (2010) before going on hiatus after internal issues insisted (culminating in a brother vs brother brawl on stage) and ceasing to be after the tragic death of  guitarist Christopher Reimer in 2012. Viet Cong consists of Women’s rhythm section, Mr. Wallace and Mr. Flegel. The latter also happens to be one half of the previously mentioned pugilistic brothers (who are now on good terms). A bass and drum combo that have played together since they were kids who now possess an instinctual shorthand which is the backbone of Viet Cong. After the demise of Women, it appears most of the band retreated into the world of Chad VanGaalen, the producer of Women’s two records and a Calgary based solo artist in his own right signed to Sub Pop records. Mr. VanGaalen is widely known to have been inspired by his experience recording with Women and his subsequent solo albums bear the mark of that influence. So much so, members of Women are said to have played on the albums in question and even became part of his touring band. It was this connection that brought both guitarists Scott Munroe and Daniel Christiansen into the VC fold. From that introduction, practices turned into 4 track recordings that turned into a short tour that lead to being signed that resulted in playing outdoor festivals like the 4Knots Music Festival.

While it would be untrue to say the presence of Women is not felt in these recordings, it must be reinforced that Viet Cong is an entirely different band. The added dimensions brought by Mr. Munroe and Mr. Christiansen’s contributions cannot be skipped over. That is exactly what makes Viet Cong so engaging, being both familiar and foreign at the same time. A combination that creates a wholly new sound that is a natural extension of the lineage involved journeying into vastly new and unexplored territory. Excitingly, there is always the chance of a random guitar part, vocal inflection or drum beat on this new sonic palette that will still tap into distant memories that permanently reside in a warm, nostalgic place.

On that sun beaten Manhattan stage, this still soft spotted band blew through their thirty minute set with smiles on their faces. Bright, shimmering guitars lines escaped from their guitars as pulsated and rolled rhythms found their place in intricate bass and drum parts. Mr. Munroe at times simultaneously wielding a guitar and manning the keyboards; pulling off both with a natural dexterity that made it look easy. Weathered but radio friendly vocals courtesy of Mr. Fegel coming in at just the right moments and disappearing back into the ether at his command. The whole time showing a confidence and stage presence of a tenured frontman along with his drumming counterpart whose skater flipped and chemical dipped white hair oddly almost never moved given the amount of energy he released with each snare hit. On stage left, Mr. Christiansen was lost in his work and was sweating so profusely that it was a given the “cigarette” he kept tucked behind his ear the entire set was a goner. Their combined efforts resulting in each song sounding better than the one before it as they realized their moment, winning over the crowd in the process. Finishing their last song to a roaring crowd that had grown in size over the course of their time on stage, their unencumbered sound waves had brought in new listeners like a siren song. In an almost movie script ending, the crowd (not the VIP section) threw a can of beer up to Mr. Flegel after the last song- an outward sign of earned respect if there ever was one.

Viet Cong’s newly re-released Cassette EP may suffer from spotty production and its “a little bit of everything” approach to song structure but it should be noted this is just a glimpse of a band that recorded this material months ago after only being a band for months. Though listened to very frequently over these past couple weeks, Cassette in no way matches the power and comfort they displayed on stage under the high summer sun. Out of sorts, thirsty for drink and sweaty from the great outdoors, they still won over their pier that day. Proving to all that could hear that the upside to this band is ridiculous with the prospect of a new full length one of the most anticipated musical highlights of the second half of 2014. They have already set the bar high (like the one on that VIP Tall Ship) and they have the pedigree, the talent and the songs to continue their upward climb. Consider yourself recommended to see this band in a proper club at a proper nighttime hour the next time they come to your town.

King Buzzo's Record Selling Tour

Age is a crazy thing. Not only is it theorized that nearly every atom in our bodies is replaced every seven years bringing up an array of philosophical questions, but your brain also continuously rationalizes your feelings, wants and desires to bring new perspective and perception. This can happen in slight ways, in such a gradual fashion that you are oblivious to your newfound pivot in position. Shit, off the top of my head, I wear a lot of sweaters these days instead of the perennial t-shirts of yore. I find that I now enjoy previously horrid tasting vegetables like squash or broccoli and that some deserts are just “too sweet”. There are also big changes too- George W. Bush found Jesus at 40, Al Sharpton’s head grew to a balloon like size compared to his body just a few years ago and, I think, Dennis Miller was brainwashed. These are musings, nothing more. Yet, these points seem relevant and apropos after watching one of the oddest, usually muumuu’d and stage fan blown, axe grinding front man of all time- King Buzzo of The Melvins- take the stage in the upstairs room at Santos Party House in Manhattan. Armed with only an acoustic guitar and a microphone, it was as bare-boned as it was shocking.

On most relevant music sites, the build up to this tour had an accompanying warning label that promised this was not going to be Eric Clapton unplugged. This acoustic experience was going to be different, providing everything you would expect from a sonic titan like the mouth piece/guitar-toucher of the mighty Melvins. His accompanying solo acoustic album, This Machine Kills Artists, in name and cover appeared to be designed to harken back to a Woody Guthrie-type man of the people with dogged, earned respect for truth telling of the downtrodden and powerless. Except, that is not the outcome of this endeavor… at all.

Without judgment, let’s call this solo acoustic tour/album package for what it is… a cash in. Now, it is fact that The Melvins have been sticking it their loyal fan base for a while. Granted, in a manner that doesn’t garner that many complaints and, honestly, in a way that the fans are willing to be exploited. It was a plan of evil genius that drew inspiration from those infamous babies and their damn addiction to cane sugar. A few years back, The Melvins teamed up with Tom Hazelmyer of Amphetamine Reptile Records and began to take wild swings at the newly trending format of choice, vinyl records. They were going for a knock out like no other band out there- screen printed covers, tri-colored vinyl and small batch, limited pressings that sold out in minutes online with the only remaining copies going out on tour with the band. The metal up the ass of their fans is truly Machiavellian, they knew their fan’s demands and went about methodically rigging the system in their favor. Case in point, the aptly titled This Machine Kills Artists album is readily available to the public as a cd, digitally and even as part of music steaming services like Spotify. However, if you want the vinyl as most of their biggest (and bearded) loyal fans do, they have you on the hook. They spin it so that you work for them now and not the other way around. The 17 songs on This Machine Kills Artists album are split into three separate volumes on ten-inch vinyl (think bigger than a single, smaller than a full length). Each volume is priced to move at $40 a pop- netting $120 per sucker fan- that is if these fuckers (sucker + fan, no swearing here) can even be so lucky to get their hands on it which is a testament to how well this system is working. Perhaps unknown to The Melvins is that the limited nature of these items is making secondary markets explode with sales going for two to three times the already bloated asking price. This mark up attracts flippers (no, not the band) who then become professionally invested in Melvins releases and their timed online sales. Unless the band is getting in on the secondary market action, this outcome is the worst possible news for both the fans and the band themselves.

Unfortunately, this $120 triple ten-inch isn’t even the worst offender. The Melvins have expanded this concept with their recent live album Sugar Daddy Live and their covers album Everybody Loves Sausage. Again, cds and digital versions are available to all. The vinyl, however, has been taken to lofty heights never seen by other bands- a height that would even give Gene Simmons pause before doing the same to his fans (Don't worry- he would and will eventually. I have no doubt about that). The thirteen tracks on the live cd have been split into thirteen double A-side 45rpm twelve inches containing just one song from the live album and one non-exclusive, previously released song by a band of their selection (think Cows, Mudhoney, etc). The covers are a silkscreen print that only change slightly per each of the 13 releases all contained in a generic plastic sleeve. They do pull out all the stops with the clear paint-splattered vinyl though. Totaling a shiny object that makes the loyal collectors squeal with desire. At a price of originally $25 (now $30) individually, they have their “beloved” fans paying out $325 minimally to get the complete set of songs on the live cd. With the covers cd, they went even further and did a seven-inch series for those thirteen tracks but for the same price point as the twelve inches. Again, $325 at the least to get the complete vinyl set with tracks totaling the covers cd album. That is fucking gouging! Ridiculous but the only dilemma they seem to be having is keeping them in stock online for more than 10 minutes upon release.

A lot of bands could get away with something like this but few actually do. At least, no one to the degree that The Melvins have inflicted. The old adage of “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should” comes to mind. Not that I believe this point gets through Buzz’s thick pelt of aged grayish-white hair on his head. It is understood that Buzz was smart enough to notice the market opening up and to go full bore into the exploitation game for his own gain… but I’m not a marketer or his manager. I am just a fan. To me, it’s capitalism at it’s peak, it’s exploitative and it’s gross… so gross, that I bought volumes two and three of his solo album for $40 each at his show. I would have even bought the first volume but it sold out before the tour even started. So, yes, I am a hypocrite at worst and a sucker at best. Still, I was aware of the game going into my purchase. Someday, maybe, I’ll turn into a flipper too- that’s my astute business mind talking when I handed $80 in cash in exchange for two ten inch pieces of vinyl that probably run around five dollars max to produce a piece. Is King Buzzo to blame? Or Are his stupid fans (myself included) that buy anything with his name on it the issue? It’s a symbiotic relationship but it’s unhealthy like a parasite on a host. Yet, it goes on with no end in sight. He presses the vinyl and we presses the “buy” button for our preciouses.

With this particular paradigm in mind, King Buzzo’s show in Manhattan that night took on a new meaning. I can easily confirm that he commanded the room with just one guitar, one microphone and one merch table. With about half a grand worth of merchandise on that table, the visage of King Buzzo on the elevated stage with his steel stringed wooden acoustic looked little more than a ploy to shake the money tree one more time. In his solo arrangement, he was finally free to reap the full 100% of the profits- no roadies, no guitar techs to fiddle with his usual array of peddles and, most importantly, no other band members- just a straight line of cash directly into his pocket. It appeared he understood his good fortune on the stage as he was in a great mood; playing covers, Melvins songs and even an occasional solo song as well. His pacing was expert as he was able to slow things down every couple songs to wipe the ever-present sweat from his face and forearms with a rag he kept in one of his theoretically cashless pockets. Simultaneously making side comments, telling stories about male/female relationship dynamics, name dropping and embarrassing his merch guy by chastising him for earlier in life decisions (and overtly reminding all in house of his wares for sale. It should be noted that Brian Walsby of Manchild fame and one-time drummer of the band Polvo was tasked with manning the merch table during this tour. A heavy responsibility as outright theft of its contents would result in grand larceny.) While Buzzo’s stories were long, rambling affairs that bordered on conversation more appropriate for a psychiatrist’s office, he regaled the audience with stories of publicly humiliating Mike Patton with his lack of knowledge regarding Faith No More and respecting Iggy Pop for walking out on a festival crowd because they liked the band Weezer. Basically, King Buzzo didn't come off as a people person to say the least. (Please note that he used the descriptor "dick" about himself a few times on stage.) A realization that made the rest of his fan gouging actions seem less shocking. He’s a true, original American legend but it appears that he may still be doing it at this point for the money alone just like Chuck Berry. While I suppose this is true for most bands, it just sounds dirty and wrong to say that he’s making it off the backs of his fans. As a longtime favorite band of mine, I will still continue to be a fan of Buzz and The Melvins… but under protest from here on out. It’s always cool when a band doesn’t give a fuck, does what it wants and spits in the face of all opposition; it just isn’t as satisfying when it’s your face.