Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Last Post of 2014-- let's wrap up Q4

A Trolley Christmas
Originally uploaded by V'ron.
OK, let's squeeze out a blog post before starting 2014, (which will of course start with a resolution to write more). It's been a crazy personal year (which is why I've only posted 7 times!) but it's ending nicely. I get to brag about my daughter's Straight-A report card, I get to brag about my son's rockstart debut, and I still have a job. Hoo-Ha!

Let's start with bragging rights at Trashfest, which, I know, I know, was a month and a half ago. My friends dragged me and my guitar out of the basement to actually show up on a stage and, since we weren't sure whether or not Rob McCuen was actually up for appearing in a Jan Terri tribue band, Lemonie Fresh floated the idea of Sammy making his debut on drums. Suddenly my crazy gregarious little guy got shy. But, as I told him, you gotta get your first gig out of the way, and we agreed that Rob would drum most of the set, and he'd put Sammy on the floor toms for the last two songs, and that's how it would work. We practiced and rehearsed and I let him know how it was going to go.  Still, Sammy was, as his teacher Rob put it, "wound tighter than a tourniquet" that night.

So, I went through the motions with him:
The drummer before his gig.
getting a bite to eat at Oakland Gyros before the gig, hanging out backstage with all the other musicians in the green room, joking around, playing his part on the couch to warm up. We hit the stage, with Lemonie Fresh on bass, Harmony Nelson channeling Terri herself on vox, Paul "The Fly" Lawson on lead guitar, the aforementioned Rob McCuen holding down the rhythim section. and  prog queen Julie Brandenburg (who'd remarked to me about Jan Terri during rehearsals, "I'm really growing fond of her" -- capturing that je ne seis quoi that is what appreciating Jan Terri is all about.) Brian's boss gave him the night off so he could catch our kid's debut, and he was one proud papa in the audience. Without a video here, I can tell you that Sammy gave it his all -- carefully keeping on eye on his work, but letting loose at the end to thunderous cheers from the Trash Fest crowd, most of whom either knew him through us or were just folks happy to give a little kid encouragement. Still, after it was over he was visibly relieved to chill out backstage. Unfortunately, the only videos/photos I've seen of this are on Facebook, so I can't really link them here. People, FB is the WORST place to use as a photo/video repository. You give away your rights to your work, and the resolution is horrid to boot. (rant off).

Before we were onstage, I'd already missed perennial Trash Fest openers The Nervous Virgins, but caught enough of Migo's diatonic set to know we were going to need to rock it out. I spent Prettiest Star's set helping Sammy get psyched, so, yeah, I didn't see a lot of them, which is a shame, since it's always a treat to catch Big Dave Thomas and his big guitar. Right after us, Midwest Rock Theater's Melanie Beres fronted a Sinead O'Connor tribute that made me remember, oh, yeah, Sinead was great. Another one of the Beres kids had found a roll of police tape and spent the entire set wrapping up the crowd. And afterwards, Black Star (featuring last minute addition of true rock queen Binky Tunny on bass) was what Trash Fest was all about -- gloriously horrible takes on rawk classics (Van Halen, Ratt, et al) that had us singing along and throwing trash all over. But I had a 10 year old kid who was exhausted, so I had to take him home, and apparently besides the nicely overdone Flo and The Disco Queens, I had to miss what I was told were great sets from Exposed 4Heads and Serbs You Right (dammit I missed another Nev show!) and a jaw droppingly weird set from Cheese of the Goat (Dr. Chow's Frank Chandek and band.) So, as I titled my Flickr set of the whole experience, I could only cover 50% of Trash Fest. Next year, Brian gets babysitting duties.

A Reindeer Lick Christmas.
Originally uploaded by V'ron.
So, the only other time I got out since then (yes, I missed a Dick Satan show!) was to catch the Annual Mighty (Rein)deer Lick Christmas show. Supposedly this was the last time they're doing this. (Yeah, I was at the "last" Rolling Stones tour/Chicago, 1977, too.) As usual, they rocked, they rolled, they cussed, and Dave had a bunch of T-Shirt changes (hey, he's lost weight!).

Opening the set was Trolley, a band I hadn't seen in a while, in fact, not since they first released their wonderful CD, Things That Shine and Glow. By every measuring stick, this band should annoy me. Their playing is right perfect, they have pop melodies that almost border on mawkish. But you know what saves them? As I remarked to Lemonie Fresh (also in the crowd, and also agreed with me): "They're so sincere!" And strip away the regular cynicism you expect from me as you read that. I mean they're sincere in the very best possible way: I mean it as a compliment. Paul Wall does not write these songs to get chicks. He does not write these songs to impress people with the Beatles, Big Star and other pop influences he unabashedly wears on his sleeve. He writes and sings these songs because he loves them. That's why it works. That's why he gets away with it. That's why I paid good money for Things That Shine and Glow and that's why I'm glad, when I was in the mood for snotty ass punk (and I'm really sad I missed opening act The Jetty Boys) I got to catch their set. Now if Rob McCuen and his Animal Magnets would've have booked a few shows to promote the excellent Step On Your Neck, 2013 would have been complete.

Well, in the words of BMRC, let the new year/day begin!

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Randon Crabbyness. I need to get out and see some bands

Once again, I begin a post with, "It's been forever since I wrote." Well, I normally write either about some excellent band, or the exploits of my kids, or just general SE Wisconsin quirky wonderfulness. Well, I've been busy with other life-things, and too busy to write. And I haven't gone out to see any bands lately, and so I'm crabby. Thus, a post about three overused phrases that drive me up the wall:

Makes me crazy. I estimate that in only about 15% of the instances where "Congratulations!" are given, they are really warranted. I noticed this when a friend of mine that I haven't seen in years was posting on FB about the wonderful 30th anniversary party his daughter threw him and his wife. Now that warranted "Congratulations!" Not only for maintaining a 30 year marraige, but for raising the kind of daughter who could put together a major party like that. College graduations deserve a hearty congrats, and I guess high school graduations do too. Eighth grade, not so much. New job, yes. New promotion, yes. Unless that job is at a fast food joint. Then it's  "OK, it could be worse. You could be totally unemployed. Phew." Finishing a triathlon or a marathon or other long distance game, or winning your conference's championship is a congratulations-worthy accomplishment. Finishing a game of Majong on your smart phone, not so much:

"I'm so proud of you."
Oh you are, are you? Nine out of ten times when somebody tells you that, you've just achieved something. And unless the person telling you that is your mom or dad, chances are good that they have absolutely NOTHING to do with whatever it was you achieved. So what are they proud of? How did they help you get to whatever it was you accomplished? Did they lend you the money to do it? Were they your coach or mentor? Did they encourage you in such a way that you couldn't have accomplished this without their help? If the answer is no, well, then, it's quite patronizing for them to smile down at you and mention how proud they are of you. A more appropriate thing to say would be "I'm so proud to know you." As in, I'm proud that, amongst people who will give me the time of day, there exists somebody who actually finished a marathon! Congratulations!

"Simply [complete this simple task]."
Oh, how I hate it when there are instructions for something that tells me to "simply" do something. I know the point of it is to ease into it, like trust us, it's really not as hard as it sounds, it won't take too much of your time or expense, and, well, it's simple. But it doesn't come off that way. When, for example, I'm reading user instructions to install some software (which is never "simple"), it comes off as arrogant: It's easy to install this software! Simply click the button labeled "Click This Button To Begin Installation" to begin the installation. Click the fucking button, you simpleton! Any moron could have figured this out, but you apparently need instructions! Idiot. Simply click the button! How hard is that? 

No, you arrogant assholes, if  you had written truly good software, I wouldn't have needed instructions, you techier-than-thou bean of Kopi Luwak coffee. It would have been intuitive and user-friendly. You wouldn't have needed to tell me to simply click the button. It would have (and it IS) obvious. Alrighty then, I'll simply click that button. Here I go. Oh, my! I'm getting this message: "Stack error at 250:110. Fail." Fail. That's where we got that meme, dickslaps! It's an old DOS message: Abort, Retry, FAIL. What should a simpleton like me do now? Shall I simply call your help desk? And simply wait 45 minutes for a specialist to help me? Congratulations, you've pissed me off! I'm so proud of you!

Despite the crabbyness.....

Anyway, Trash Fest is this weekend. I'm going to be in it, with the Jan Terri Appreciation Society. Sammy will be making his debut on drums. Brian can't make it -- he's already used up all his work days off playing with Dr Chow (once was opening for the Grandmothers of Invention!) so it's me and Sammy, which means I'll have to leave earlier than staying to the bitter end like I usually do. Still, watch this space for a 85% full report.

And who is Jan Terri? Why, creator of what YouTube Denizens have dubbed the Worst Video Ever. On the other hand, this is a catchy as all hell song, and the more you listen to her, the more you'll adore her for her seeming existence as the bastard love child of Art Paul Schlosser and Jonathan Richman. That's Trash Fest, this Friday at the Miramar Theatre. Where else is throwing trash at the band not only permitted, not only encouraged, but seen as a badge of honor?!?!?

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

BAM! It's a Girl music post!

Caley Conway and the Lucy Cukes
I'm the first one to do a massive eyeroll when people start blathering on about "It's Woman's Night" or "Girl Rock Festival" or such and such, as if women needed their own festival because somehow we're handicapped when it comes to music. I'm all for thing like Girls Rock (summer camps to get young women playing in rock bands), but once you're graduated/grown up, there's no need to segregate us.

That said, I think it was just coincidence that some of the bands that have caught my ear lately happen to be female fronted. The first one I literally stumbled upon. I was on a lovely Saturday morning bike ride in that part of 'Tosa I usually get lost in and I noticed there were increasingly more people people on the bike trail than there were not a mile earlier and BAM! I'm suddenly in the middle of this farmer's market!

I pulled off my headphones, talked a peach vendor into selling me just one peach (I was hungry!) and I heard some music that drew me in a little more seductively than the usual folkie-at-a-farmer's-market.  It was a little three piece band (the drummer, it turns out, had forgotten his sticks and ran home to get them DOH!) called Caley Conway and the Lucy Cukes. Conway has one of those voices you picture singing in the foothills of Appalachia, but there's this urban, almost Dylan like sensibility to her lyrics and songwriting. Except I get the feeling she's a much nicer person.  I heard snippets of lyrics like how impressed people would be when she takes out the trash (and of course, this is snidely delivered), but darn it, her voice is so sweet that you put up with lyrics that kick you. It's like having a pie in your face, but you deal with it because it's really good pie. I dropped the folky word, and they assured me they rocked too, but, well, their drummer was getting his sticks. I believe them, though. They had some complex arrangements going on between the guitars and basses and mandolins and whatever instruments they felt like picking up. I made a point of getting their name and will keep an eye out for them, but after two songs my heart rate was going down and I needed to get back on my bike.

Ramma Lamma 
A coupla weeks later, again, on the bikes. This time was the second Chill on the Hill I've been to all year. The first was "Irish Night" and my bandmade Dan Mullen turned my head by closing out McTavish's set with a celtic version of "Maggie May." I've seen McTavish enough times -- this was the first of them bravely pushing on withOUT Mark Shurilla (and not a Shurilla tribute show, either). But it was the following week that's I'm writing about here, to keep this "Chick Night" theme going. It was indeed Chick Night (I don't know what the very nice and politically correct folks at the Bay View Neighborhood Association called it) and the first band was a wonderfully fun glammy, garagey outfit called Ramma Lamma. Lead singer Wendy Norton looks, sounds, and writes songs as though one fine day in her youth she woke up, heard Joan Jett and said BAM! That's what I wanna be! She's simultaneously badass and fun, and so's her band. Lots of times a band like this will be totally badass (see Cycle Sluts from Hell) or totally fun (see Cyndi Lauper) but like Jett, she unabashedly loves rock and roll and wears it well. Plus, her band is tight, punchy, and can handle her catchy, riffy songwriting. And, she's working my favorite subgenre of rock, so they're definitely on my Must Catch Them Again list.

Wanton Looks
They were followed by some equally badass women out of Chicago called Wanton Looks. There must be a
really good garage punk revival going on down the I-94 road: this is the second good garage band out of the Windy City I've seen. They didn't blow me away as strongly as Ramma Lamma did, but they got stronger as the night went on. Bassist Tracy Trouble trades lead vocal duties with guitarist Inga Olson, and while Trouble has a strong voice, my advice to her is to write songs in a key that hits the strong part of her range. I could hear the best part of her voice only later in the set -- and that's when I realized it existed. (I only realize this because I can be accused of the same issue -- writing songs in a key that doesn't necessarily suit my voice). Otherwise, this band has a lot of the same stuff going for them as Ramma Lamma does: fun badassery in that Runaways vein. They're a little more on the metal punk side as opposed to Ramma Lamma's glam punk. Olson and Trouble have more rawkstar swagger to them, but they're kind of upstaged by their really top notch drummer, Meg Thomas. I'd like to see them in a dark club -- maybe on a bill with somebody like Black Actress.

So there. I've written a "Chick Rock" blog entry, and if I were reading this, even with the disclaimer, I'd probably be rolling my eyes over this. Especially since the three bands I saw don't need the "pretty good for a girl" handcap hanging on them. I just happened to stumble upon three really good bands over the past few weeks, and they just happened to be fronted by women. BAM.

Friday, July 26, 2013

Staycation, Part I: Local garage

I was on vacation this week. I plan stuff for a living, so I didn’t plan anything for my staycation. I just decided that I would wake up when I felt like it, and just do whatever came to mind. That ended up being driving to various state parks and riding my bike there. Yes, I did that in the sweltering heat, and it felt great, in fact, exhilarating. Still, by Friday, I had a nice ride to Wilson Park, swam a couple of laps in the cheap, oldschool public pool, and when a text from Ted Jorin came that said, “There’s rock and roll at Frank’s Power Plant tonight”

I believed him and on the spur of the moment I went. I’d hoped I’d be able to catch a set from the Northside Creeps, (bass player Ted knows I’m a fan, hence the text message) but I was too late. Apparently they’d only played a short set, that was cut even shorter by technical difficulties. Or something like that. Nobody wanted to get detailed about this, since they are all Sixthstation readers and knew I’d write about it. Ted tried to convince me to stay for the next band anyway, but he didn’t need to – It’s been too long since I’ve seen new bands, and besides I paid cover already. I’m gonna hear some music, dammit. The band, the 57s – was wonderfully worth the $5 I paid. At first, I wasn’t sure what to make of them. Lead guitar player has a plaid amp front cover. Not flowery, like Paul “Fly” Lawson’s. Plaid.The Lead singer has the build, hair and demeanor that reminded me of Wanda Chrome’s Cliff Ulsberger, and that was a good sign. Drummer looks like he could be Paul Wall’s little brother. Yes, I’m referencing Milwaukee legendary garage elderstatesmen to describe how these guys looked, because they turned out to sound like legendary garage rockers. They had that matured angst, tight playing, trashy Americana sound: three minute trashy, poppy, punky anthems that have that Great Lakes rust belt stamp all over them.

It took forever (or so it seemed) for the next band, Dead on TV, out of Chicago, to get on the stage. I expected more garagy, and that meant it should have been a matter of set up, plug in and play already. I admit to laughing when they asked for a sound check. (Poor out of towners, they didn’t
 know better.) And the lead singer’s shorts were too long to be shorts, and he was a guy, so I couldn’t call them capris. Too fucking hipster for me. I was starting to really hate them, but decided for five bucks, I should see more than one band.

Dead on TV
bending over backwards

Originally uploaded by V'ron.
 Fifteen seconds in, they won me over. Lead singer’s shirt comes off, and suddenly, he’s transformed into a guy who wants to be Iggy Pop so bad we can all taste his sweat. I mean this as a compliment. He’s literally bending over backwards for the six of us who were there (only four of whom paid cover), cavorting all over the stage, while their drummer holds down a hard beat. These guys were definitely on the glam edge of the garage continuum, so cocky they didn’t need a bass player, instead a snarky guy on keyboards. Tempo changes, dynamics changes, and tight songwriting. Definitely glad I stayed. I felt bad for them, that they drove up from Chicago and didn’t even make gas money, so I picked up their CD (with the four of them all bloodied on the cover) and listened to it the next day on the way to the Vans WarpedTour in Tinley Park. (I know I should say Chicago, but I grew up a mile away from Tinley Park, so I’m going to be specific about this.) Still, Ted Jorin was right: there was rock and roll at Frank’s Power Plant last Friday night, and it was good.

Staycation Part II: Warped National Hardcore and Feeling Old

So, Saturday morning, I woke up, checked to see that the weather would not be as oppressively hot as it had the previous couple of days, and told Stella, “OK. We’re going.” The night before, at Frank’s, I was looking over the lineup for the Vans Warped Tour and realized that perhaps this old punk mom is indeed getting old, for I did not know anything about a single band that was on the bill. Wait, I’ve heard of Reel Big Fish. But that’s about it. We packed up some (sealed, therefore acceptable to bring in) bottled water and I didn’t even need directions to Tinley Park. We picked up her friend Steven and hit the road, a little early for my tastes but late for Stella’s.

I'll tell ya, if I wasn’t already feeling this way (I had my doubts that I'd last all day at this festival), it seemed this was a show that wanted to drive home to anybody over 23 that You.Are.Old. My first (pleasant) manifestation of that was the fact that since I was a parent to Stella and her friend, I got in free, more as an escort to my children and I was there to keep them safe. Well, that was true, but I still was interested in the music. After all, this was originally a punk/hardcore festival and I love punk/hardcore. But management assumed that, at 52, I had absolutely no interest in partaking of any of this music, that I will have written off all of it, and was probably grumbling about the heinous $45 ticket for bands I supposedly had no interest in seeing. But, I’m not just a mom here, kiddos. I’m a elderstateswoman and you just don’t know it. And I’m kind of sad that I can drop names/situations like “I interviewed John Doe and Exene back in ‘82” and “I photographed Henry Rollins back when he only had four tattoos” and “ I had dinner with Jello Biafra” -- and as Stella pointed out, “Mom, most of these people don’t know who they are.”

So, I played along, acted like I was bored while they inspected my ID to see that I was indeed older than the target demographic and was accompanied by two obvious teenagers, got my “escort” wristband, and sailed through the entry gate without paying a damn dime. Now that, motherfuckers, is punk.

It’s a good thing we left when we did, because the band Stella really wanted to see, Chiodos, was about to take the stage. “Go on,” I told her and Steven, who left their backpacks with me as they headed for the mosh pit. Oh, I’m your fucking valet now? When the hell did I agree to this? Well, I’ll check out this band, and search for the “Reverse Daycare” tent that, as a wristbanded parent, I had access to.

Oh, Bender, you punk rebel, you.  
This was a place where parents could sit down for a bit, with AC, cold water, and a TV showing movies from our supposed youth. (“The Breakfast Club” was a little after my time. I was hoping for “Repo Man” myself – c’mon, Emilio’s in that too! But to really give away my age, I wasn’t really an Emilio girl. I was more about his dad…. But I digress.). I got some fresh cold water, which I knew the kids would need after the mosh pit for Chiodos (and otherwise would've had to wait in long lines at a drinking fountain to get), and went back to the meeting spot we’d agreed upon.

 OK, Chiodos. Named for the special effects team of brothers who, among other things, directed Killer Klowns from Outer Space. I'm already liking the obscure reference. They (like half the bands on the bill) were termed “post-hardcore” which basically means hardcore punk, but not limited to always being fast and loud. Like many of the bands of this subgenre, they mess with time signatures, some of their vocalists actually sing sometimes (as opposed to always being screamo), and can often get anthemic. But they do inspire serious moshpit action, which means the demographic this festival is aimed at has a chance to just get all their pent up stuff out. It’s acceptable to push, scream, yell, and be part of a crowd. Chiodos understands this, and encourages this, oh, and they’re good at it. And also, like a lot of the bands here, they’re kind of rockstar about this, which actually, I liked. “HEY CHICAGO! WE’RE SO FUCKING GLAD TO BE HERE AGAIN! IF THIS IS YOUR FIRST WARPED TOUR, LEMME SEE YOUR YOUR HANDS!” They’re not too hipper-than-thou for this, and a big crowd appreciates it. Musically, they’re tight, fast, varied, and lead singer Craig Owens can actually sing, as he proved further in the “acoustic” tent. They signed merch and other stuff at an autograph tent later. We moved onto another post hardcore band, The Amity Affliction who, while not as popular/well known by this crowd, were just as good. I probably enjoyed them more because they had that American punk ethos of also being fun and sometimes funny. I even almost got pulled into the mosh pit, but declined to go through because a) I was wearing glasses and I know better than to do such a thing and b) once again, I was holding the kids’ backpacks like I was their damn valet. I needed to get out of this.

Stella meets a hardcore singer
Meantime, this was quite an active mosh pit, and once some girls were getting the guts to go crowd surfing, I was keeping an eye on Stella. In this crowd, there were two guys giving the girls a boost to fly across the crowd and land near the bouncers, who would safely bring them back to the ground – but it was too thin of a crowd to truly risk it – and Stella didn’t do it. “Yeah,” I told her later, “if you’re gonna crowd surf, you probably want to have a thicker crowd of padding to fall into.” So while Sleeping With Sirens was playing (another band I’d vaguely heard of, and they were more of the same), Steven went to see them, and Stella herself went to the acoustic tent to hear this Craig Ownes guy do his “acoustic” set. Here, “acoustic” means quieter songs on a piano, concentrating more on melody and lyrics to make a point – and if he hadn't won me over by then, he did in the picture taking session that Stella waited in line 45 minutes for. Here’s a guy who does a hardcore set at 2 in the afternoon of a brutal hot sunny day, takes a short break, does a half hour acoustic set, and then meet ‘n’ greets a hundred fans and is fresh and charismatic for every.single.one. Seriously, Stella was near the end of the line and he gave no indication of “how many more of these do I gotta do” as he smiled for every picture with every fan. I gotta respect that.

Alvarez Kings looking for their subjects
In fact, I had/have a lot of respect for the general hustle that a lot of these bands put forth. I saw no major label presence there, which meant there were dozens of indie label tents all over the place, hawking their goods and in many cases, giving out free samples to push their bands. I came across one band that had a sign saying “Did you miss us? Come have a listen...” and they were happy to pop some headphones on me and play their music on a connected Ipad so I could get a sample of their work. They were called the Alvarez Kings and they described themselves as pop-prog. Um, I have a different definition of prog: no, these guys did NOT sound like Yes or ELP. I’d go with Simple Minds, and I told them, “a little more rough edge and I’d swear you grew up listening to the Buzzcocks.” Big smiles from them. I smiled back: Ha! You know who the Buzzcocks were! And further, they took it as a compliment. Hell, if somebody compared my band to the Buzzcocks I’d be floating on air, too. Craig Owens wasn't the only one hustling and working this crowd, I'll tell you that. Seriously, I was happy to see the kind of hustle and DIY self-promotion that abounded here. Indie labels and bands are catching on to what it really takes to make a living off this, and they’re cultivating the audience and the business to work with the technology they have available to them. That's what it's going to take to keep good indie music going instead of that hipper-than-thou-we're-so-above-this crap that regular Sixthstation readers know I hate.

 Another dip into the parents’ tent for some fresh water and we met back up, and Stella and friend swam into a huge crowd for the end of Sleeping With Sirens. The next band on the stage right next to them were a pop punk band called Billy Talent, and I really liked them, too. They were out of Toronto, kind of reminded me of Green Day: pop punk, snotty, crowd-pleasing, and songs that each had their own thing going. I decided after this point to take in some of the other stages, now that I trusted the kids to not be stupid. Saw a band called Lionz of Zion that were too funky/fast to be true reggae, but not quite frenetic enough to be ska. I liked them-- they infused a level of funk that was worthy of being on a bill with George Clinton. Saw a truly oldschool hardcore band called  No Bragging Rights that reminded me of Kenosha’s Pistofficer: passionate, political, and massively hardcore. I finally decided to get out of the sun and head to the amphitheater, where the large state was divided into two stages, so that there would be not a long wait between bands. Neither offering stood out for me (so I won’t name names), but it was nice to sit down in a real chair out of the sun, and hit my smartphone to see who else I might like to check out.

My answer came in the form of Frank Bang and his Secret Stash: his bio looked interesting enough. Chicago-based, sounded like he was a rocking bluesman. After the kids were done with another post hardcore outfit called Bring Me The Horizon (who ended their set with a middle finger salute) , I pulled them over to the stage where Bang was playing. They were ready to hit the road (hungry and probably a little sun-exhausted) but I wanted to check this out. Bang seemed almost out of place at this fest: first off, as I commented to the others with me near the stage, “Shit, these guys look like they’re my age!"  But I was reminded of something Ted Jorin said the night before when I told him I was taking Stella to this, and that she enjoyed hardcore and punk: “That’s wonderful. The great thing about being into punk is that it doesn’t stop you from being into lots of other kinds of music,” and watching Bang and the Secret Stash drove this point home. Bang hits the stage with a rack of four guitars – the first of which is a lap steel and proceeds to squeeze some ferocious Chicago-style blues out of it, accompanied by his voice that sounds like an aging punk who listening to a lot of Tom Waits. He’s got that Waits-like phrasing, minus the gravely voice. And his band (well, rhythm section) was obviously a couple of pro-level vets who still loved to get down and dirty with some punk blues. He switches to another lap guitar tuned in a different key before standing up and picking up a beautiful Les Paul gold top to finish his set. The only bummer was the eight -- count ‘em eight-- bouncers in front of the stage (including the tallest guy for the middle, jesus h christ) who were there to protect the band from the couple of dozen of us who were tired, drained, and probably gentle enough not to smash a fly. And they’re all talking to each other, which was really distracting. Oh, for Pete’s sake. This wasn’t Chiodos or even The Amity Affliction. It was some 50 year old bluesman banging away on a six string lap -- et the hell out of the way for cryin’ out loud.

Anyway, I let the kids admit to being beat first, but I concurred. It had been a long day. We trudged out toward the exit, at which I witnessed the saddest part of the day:
That's right. The top picture is a damn DJ, playing some stale ol' beat to the cheers of a packed screaming crowd. The bottom picture-- taken not fifty feet away-- is a live, local band (they were either The Indecent or the Hollywood Kills, not sure, and I'm sorry about that) who can actually play instruments, sing, and is delivering the goods despite the fact that there's less than a dozen kids (half of whom I'll bet are friends of the band) watching them. That really depressed me after a full day of otherwise kickass, passionate music. Still, here's the list of bands that played on this stage. They probably didn't get paid much, and they probably played in front of similarly sized "crowds". Go see them sometime and support live music played by real musicians. That's my little lecture for today.

Still, we were tired but we were in the South Burbs, so we went to our (free!) parking place, cranked on the air conditioner, and went straight to my childhood pizza joint, Aurelio’s, who I’m glad to say still lives up to wonderful childhood/teenage memories of being some of the best damn pizza on the planet. Like damn good punk, a good pizza (made in an independent restaurant) always satisfies. I know Aurelio's is a chain, but the location we went to was the (almost) original Aurelio's that they carved out of the old Van Drunen Ford Body Shop in Homewood, Illinois. (The truly original Aurelio's two blocks away on Ridge Road, a tiny little place that had two tables and a carry-out station, has been gone since they opened the place we went to in 1976).

I’m just rather impressed with myself that not only did I last as long as the kids that day, I also found enough music that I truly enjoyed and I was also glad to see that there’s still a very active and enthusiastic market for this stuff. OK, I made it through! On to Riot Fest!

Monday, June 10, 2013

Locust Street Dependability

Still blogging slow and sporadic, I admit. Didn't make it to the opening day of Chill on the Hill and shamefully missed the Wooldridge Brothers, who I heard were great. Heck, I don't think I've seen either of those brothers since they were in the Squares and we'd bonded over a love for Tom Verlaine's second solo album. I puttered out a couple of weeks ago to the Circle A to see a blisteringly great set from the Northside Creeps, but I was too lazy to shoot any kind of photographs. I enjoyed the set too much to be bothered with photography.

Still, the Sigmund Snopek at the Klinger's Stage (followed by Matt Hendricks and his blues, and sitting in Brother Louie's regular spot, good ol' Xeno). At the time we walked past Snopek's set, he'd just launched into a alt-lounge of "Brazil" and let his percussion section go nuts. This was after a synth-accompanied tour on that long horn thing you see on the Riccola commercial.

Savage Sax
Originally uploaded by V'ron.

Also giving me comfort was Lovanova, starting off the Lakefront Brewery stage. They're really found their stride in this whole instrumental organ-guitar thang they do. I suspect they go first so that Hammond Man Paul Kneevers can then comfortably sit back and run the rest of the stage and not worry about having to play later. We missed Boys with Bosoms, but wanded back in time to catch One horse Town, which seemed to be Chris Lehmann, Tom Tiedjens and George Mireles jamming out on their various poppy hooky stuff that all three are known to love. Turn around, and there's The Uptown Savages getting ready to a tight and fun Americana set. And of course, there's the dependable Paul Cebar, who makes the Tracks stage tolerable.

Linneman's stages, like Klinger's food, is/was hit or miss. I mean, c'mon, Klinger's. You're known for wonderfully excellent juicy (greasy) cheeseburgers. My mouth watered for a Klinger's cheeseburger, fried up on a grill and dripping with cholesterol.... only to be served this thing that tasted like something I would pick up at a Speedway when I'm desperate. This isn't the first time you've done this to me, Klinger's. No, there was the time you roped me in with wonderfully spicy, slightly crispy chicken wings, only to be served lame-o wings the following year. Now this year, there's "Thai Chicken Nuggets" which I didn't try, because I thought when I ordered a cheeseburger at Klinger's, I was getting a Klinger's Cheeseburger. Step it up guys, or I'm totally writing you off.

Calamity Janes
Originally uploaded by V'ron.

Anyway, back to Linneman's. I'd have to say the highlight there were these four lovely mountain folky girls called the Calamity Janes. With a name like that, I was expecting something more in the vein of Crazy Rocket Fuel, but we don't need another CRF -- and these girls had more sweetness in their tea (whereas CRF would throw a little whiskey in theirs.) Here's how you can tell they were perfectly sweet: they ended their set with a cover of "Across The Universe" with not a hint of irony, and just as lovely and perfect as you can imagine. The other band I caught at Linneman's were these no-wavers called the Newlybreds, whose sound brought me back to about 1979ish, 1980s British No-Wave, ala the Slits or the Raincoats. I think I need to admit here that while I admired the Slits and the Raincoats, I never really got into them. And so it was with the Newlybreds: I admire the balls it takes to put forth this kind of stuff, but I can only listen to it for about a couple of songs.

This year's find for me, was stumbling upon the Riverwest Public House's stage. At first, I was pulled in briefly by their first offering, an instrumental, kind of jazzy, kind of movie-soundtracky combo called Fjords. I want somebody to make a movie and use them for a soundtrack, because that's definitely what their music reminds me of.

But among everybody I talked to that saw them, the band to see that afternoon was Midwest Death Rattle. Four guys (drums, bass, guitar and keys), who look and sound like XTC's tour bus crashed into the Danglers' practice space and just cooked in the midwest for awhile. I walked by at the end of a poppy song in a messed up time signature, followed by a mindblowing cover of Sonny Bono's "A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done" -- the wah-wah pedal part being sung in the nasaliest voices they could muster but still being (as Dr Chow's Joe Politzzi later described) "magnificently symphonic" about it. Yup, I stayed for their entire set, where they abruptly stopped in the middle of songs, raved up songs you couldn't think could be raved up, and left me wanting to get on their mailing list.

But I'm getting old. I was already too burnt out to stay long enough for Brief Candles' set -- a band I saw a couple of years ago at the Cactus Club and wanted to check on. After all, it was Sunday and I had to work the next day. I really am going to try to get out more, and the unofficial kickoff to Summer, the Locust festival, always helps me do just that.

Wednesday, May 08, 2013

Generation Flashback

OK. The Sixth Station has been dark for awhile. We had health issues at home, we had an 8th grader in the throes of making a transition, we had a 3rd grade boy being a third grade boy..... I've seen maybe about five shows, and they were nothing I haven't written about (glowed) before. But I went out Saturday night and saw four bands I've never seen, and so its as good a time as any to fire up this blog again.

The circumstance: Stella and I got these tickets to see Pierce the Veil with All Time Low back in, what, January? At first, she was aghast that I was going to go with. Who the hell wants to go to a real concert (not some teeny bopper crap) with their mom? (Who wants to go to some teeny bopper crap anyway, but that's beside the point). I went into "Mom" mode quickly: "You are NOT going to the Rave by yourself or any of your similarly-aged friends by yourselves," I made clear. "Shit, *I* don't like to go to the Rave by myself. As a matter of fact, I prefer to go to the Rave with your father -- and at least four other guys who are built like your father." That's the problem with having a punk rock mom. You can't bullshit her. She will know exactly what's going on, unlike my mother who had no clue just what went on in the Aragon Brawlroom back when I went to see bands there.

Still, Stella and her girlfriends packed into the back seat of the car and begged me to pay the $25 to park in that lot just South of the Rave, because, as the doors opened at 5:30, and we didn't even leave the house until 6ish, we were already late as it was and can't we just park.... For cryin' out loud, mom, you're not going to find a parking place better. "Here, we'll all chip in for this parking," they all agreed. No way. It's not the money. It's the principle of the thing. I'd rather park downtown and take the bus in rather than give this guy $25 to park in a glass-strewn lot that he's just going to walk away from onve he's filled it. To their surprise (and, admittedly, mine), I found a spot just a block north on24th Street. Leading three bottles of soda pop (otherwise known as teenage girls) ready to explode down the street , we approached the venue. Walked in, got frisked, and to my ears' horror, realized this show was NOT in "The President's Room" (or whatever the hell it's called now). No, this was in that acoustic nightmare called the Ballroom. Oh dear god, where the hell are my high end filters? Well, maybe it won't be so bad, I thought to myself. (Brian said later: "The only time I ever heard good sound in that ballroom was when King Crimson was there back in the 80s" and I'd replied, "Well, that was probably because Fripp got there at 7 in the morning and worked on acoustics all freakin' day.") I swear to God, we've gotten old and grizzled.

The girls were clearly pissed off that we'd gotten there so darn late. There was already a huge crowd around the stage, so just to prove a point, I told them to follow me and I made it about halfway into the soon-to-be mosh pit before they decided it was too hot in there to stand for awhile. "Don't worry, once the band starts, if you want to be next to the stage, you will be." We walked out to the perimeter, and my 52-year-old ass decided it was time to sit down on the steps.

The first band, You Me At Six, takes the stage, and a screaming roar greets them, reverberating against that circular plaster ceiling. Damn, this room is harsh, especially when up against thousands of young voices. The band was good. Straight up, somewhat edgy, pop rock band out of England. They got their half hour set with no special effects and I was impressed -- good melodic pop with an edge, catchy songs, crowd-pleasing stage antics without being obnoxious. They knew their place on the bill and they played it. They were followed by another straight up pop/punk band, Mayday Parade, who were more of the same, but they didn't grab me as much. Maybe You Me At Six was just trying harder because, let's face it, everybody just loves being the opening band.

I was actually surprised the next band up was Pierce the Veil, who I thought were the main attraction (if T-Shirts could cast votes, in addition to Stella's opinion). PTV is described as a "post hardcore" band. I'd actually call them a damn good alternative metal band, in the vein of Jane's Addiction but with much more Mexican/hispanic influences, probably due to the leadership of the Fuentes brothers on vocals and drums. Every now and then you hear a touch of flamenco-style flourishes, as well as a bit of Carlos Santana's legacy. Actually, in both live performance and their recordings, I could hear a dash of Die Kreuzen in there as well. Standard light show, and a fairly minimal stage design -- a backdrop with their current logo, and a couple of large representations of circular saw blades painted in ultraviolet paint. But these guys could have just as easily gotten by on musicianship alone. By the middle of their set, Stella and her friends had been absorbed into the crowd and at one point her friends reported to me, "Stella got near the stage and she got stepped on!" "Where is she now?" I asked. "She went back in there....." her friend answsered, "She's crazy!"

"She's not crazy!" I answered, proudly, "That's my grrrrrlllll!" The two others disappeared back into the crowd, and I suddenly was no longer in the Eagles ballroom (as I'd posted on FB:). No, at that moment, I stepped into the Wayback Machine, and there I was, at the Aragon Brawlroom. It's August, 1982 and the Clash are on stage. I'm covered with sweat and mystery bruises and beer (the Aragon sold beer in a biergarden called the Casbah in -- get this -- popcorn buckets, oh, those lasted a long time in the mosh pit) and I've made my way toward the stage and managed to climb up to hang off the edge of it. There's Joe Strummer! The girl next to me hanging on the edge of the stage has a bouquet of socialist-red roses for Joe Strummer and she's handing them to him and in doing so, she's falling off the stage and Strummer thinks they're from me and he kisses my forehead and I fall off the edge of the stage and land next to the girl who is clearly pissed off that I got "credit" for her roses and the band jumps into "Rock the Casbah" and the biergarden goes absolutely apeshit and....

"Mom, could you hold my soda for me? I'm going back in...."

"Did you make it to the stage?"

"Yeah, I crowdsurfed!" And off she goes.... and this crowd knows every lyric to every song by this band. Lead singer Vic Fuentes asks the crowd, "If this is your first concert, lemme hear you!" and more than half the crowd complies. He tells them that he hopes to make it as special as possible, because he knows that for a lot of people here, music can save your life and they want this experience to be memorable. If I didn't already like this band, I love them now. They.Get.It. They get the difference between music being lifesaving and music being wallpaper and they are clearly NOT wallpaper and their fans don't want wallpaper either. Then they jump back into playing what is clearly their hit. I can't tell, because this isn't a band that gets played on the radio for whatever reason. They are too big (and noisy,. and screamo) for the "alternative" stations, too alternative for the metal stations (and also, too young. The HOG isn't going to play them anytime soon) and they're, well, just too damn musically challenging for whatever's being called top 40 these days. They're comfortably under most people's radar, and coupled with their obvious disciplined musicianship, they've totally won me over. Oh my god: which is it? Is it that actually I *like* my kid's music, or am I relieved that my kid is into a good band instead of some lame-o crap that will get covered on American Idol? I think it's both. Stella's having the time of her life, and I'm enjoying this too. I go to the bar and order myself a Goose Island IPA because I can (both age wise and financially - it was nine bucks!) and it goes right through me, so I head to the bathroom and have another flashback.

It's the disgusting bathroom at the Aragon. Disgusting, because while there are a bazillion stalls (as opposed to the four at the Rave), there is at least an inch of water on the floor all over, and as much as I would like to believe this is just water, I know that toilets don't overflow because there is just water in them. I'm making a mental resolution that I'm going to have to buy a new pair of Chuck Taylors, because I am NEVER wearing these again and .....

"Hey, you in the next stall? Is there any toilet paper in there?"

"Sure, hang on," I say to the girl in the next stall at the Rave. I hand her what she needs neat the (thankfully dry) floor, and walk out and see, to my disappointment, a little circle of moms who are clearly not having as much fun with this show as I am. A few are reading books or studying for something, most are on their smartphones or kindles. All clearly can't wait for this to be over. I want to shake them all up: "You're here anyway with your kid -- this is important! This is important to them! This isn't fucking Justin Bieber! These kids are quoting these lyrics to each other on Facebook! C'mon, you cared enough to come here with them and make sure they're OK, take it a step further, willya?" But I don't say it. These are the people for whom music is just wallpaper. These are the people who go to Summerfest to watch cover bands (if they go at all.) I just shake my head, and pick up Stella's soda, which she is going to need in a moment to rehydrate. There's a bunch of other kids who obviously didn't have their parents with them, or knew how to take care of themselves -- every now and then i see a security guy bringing out an unconscious or near-conscious kid out of the crowd to a save place to revive them. I'm hoping it's just the heat and they're overheated, but, as I am *not* my mom, I know that it's unfortunately probably not the case. Still, they're OK.

By the end of PTV's full hour set, my ears have actually adjusted to the godawful acoustics. The next band is All Time Low, who are a very good pop punk band, musically in the vein of Green Day, but character-wise, kind of a Goo Goo Dolls, maybe even Dead Milkmen kind of snottyness. I enjoyed them too. They were introduced by a Michael Buffer wannabe, complete with championship belt bellowing " Let's Get Ready To Rumble!" , and lead singer Alex Gaskarth takes the stage wearing boxing gloves. Their songs are well-constructed pop punk ditties, more sophisticated than, say, the Ramones, but they're not dark. PTV can get dark. These guys are all about the knowing smirk, except they do have a heart. The songs even seem to admit this: they are about the standard op topics: love, life, loss, frustration, fun -- but their stage MO has a rough edge, everything's ironic, you-won't-catch-us-off-guard kind of thing. Except that they admit it. At one point in the show, Gaskarth asked the crowd, "Can you all put down your cameras and smart phones for a minute? I understand that you want to capture this memory and remember it, but, can we all just live in the moment for once?" I smiled to myself as the crowd complied and sang along to the slower ballad. Every now and then, I hear crappy manufactured dreck on the radio and I probably sound like some grizzled old fart complaining that "this generation doesn't know how to make great music" but that's wrong. Like every other generation, this one can: you just have to know where to find it. And I'm damn happy Stella has learned that skill. Her generation is is good hands.

I'm just really pissed at myself that I don't have the Clash on my Ipod. I really needed to listen to the Clash on the way home.