Pre -Psych fest musings with Guest Blogger Blaine Schultz

So, yeah, I can't really write about F/i anymore, much less critique their show at the Pre-Psych Fest party at Company Brewing this past Friday night. Any pretense of objectivity melted away 20 years ago when guitarist Brian Wensing and I slipped wedding rings on each others fingers, and I've admitted that. That's why I was happy (relieved) when local music writer/musician/obsessive underground music fan Blaine Schultz approached me, offering to cover the Pre-Psych fest show for this blog. I signed in both relief and anticipation. If there's any writer in town (make that Wisconsin) who both "gets" space rock and can also actually write, it's Blaine Schultz. Actually, he "gets" music in general and also gets paid to write now and then, so I'm thrilled to publish his work on my little 'ol blog. You can also read his work in the Shepherd Express, and in a lovely feature called "Postcard from Milwaukee" that he writes for the Fox Valley alternative weeklies. Here's his report. 


Let’s begin by noting that Company Brewing must be a challenging room to mix. I have witnessed some pretty fantastic shows where the sound was very good - Antibalas, Legendary Shakers and Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings come to mind. And last year’s Psych Fest headliners Kikagaku Moyo left everyone in the dust with their blend of hypnotic, telekinetic improvisation. Tonight’s show had its challenges.

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F/i remains just a bunch of spuds from Milwaukee who just happen to play world-renowned space rock. Their rare gigs are considered events that attract out-of-towners and no two shows are ever the same. Founder Richard Franecki left years ago to chase his muse in Vocokesh, yet he was in attendance recording the night for posterity.

The band soundchecks as the house system plays Curtis Mayfield and then a NASA logo appears behind the band. Yes, the dawdling dinner crowd may be getting more than a fish fry tonight. Kicking off, it is evident early on that the set will be driven by the rhythm section of Jay Tiller on drums and bassist Joe Polizzi. Brian Wensing’s sustain and delay guitar lines seem to be more distorted than usual but he takes some nice melodic solos, flanked by the synth duo of Grant Richter and “the new guy," Jim Schoenecker. Their angry clouds of sound shoot in like lighting and fade like old school video games at the arcade. The light show evolves from digital faux oil slides to scrambled cable tv transmission last seen at that cheap motel on the Bakersfield roadtrip. All too soon F/i ends with a cover by Japanese group The Marble Sheep, followed by a short, 45-single-length rocker called "Inverted Take-Out Lozenge Altar."

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A band from Canada named after a song by Can -- I am not sure where I got the notion, but I was under the impression Yoo Doo Right was a Can tribute act. Can were a singular band that evolved through a few heavy incarnations. Therefore, Yoo Doo Right are coming from the right place.

Oddly, it seems the mix is now louder and cleaner which does not seem to help the band. Granted, my vantage point is not optimal for the mix. There is some good heavy jamming though, but what if you are wearing earplugs and the band is still too loud?? Maybe the band is just too loud and the soundperson has dropped the faders. So Yea, I’ll cop to being old if you admit it is too loud.

(Sure, go ahead and write me off, but I’ll wager when you knobs are 56 years old you’ll be going to bed at 9pm and getting up early to jazzersize at the Y instead of seeing live music like this.)

 I’m willing to give Yoo Doo Right another chance if they pass though.

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By now the crowd is half-past lit; swing-and-miss high fives are not uncommon . Word spreads quickly that the United States had begun bombing Syria. Meanwhile the Acid Mothers elders worked the merch table – seemingly straight as the day they plopped outta their Mommy’s womb – on tour, in a foreign country, that just declared war.

But it is the weekend, and make no mistake all you thriftstore-wannabe patchouli-dipped, flower (toocoolforschool) children - the highlight of this dance was the drones from New Berlin, West Allis and Mukwonago getting their ya-yas out for no other reason than it was Friday and they did not have to work tomorrow. So let’s have THREE rounds of Cuervo shots – “like Steely Dan says! Amirite?? If it is good enough for Rikki Don’t Lose That Number then it’s good enough for me!” Off duty dinner waitresses dance like they are on Hullabaloo and there is no tomorrow— because, you know, there might not be!

 *** 

Japan’s Acid Mother Temple have positioned themselves as keepers of the flame of the serious psychedelic bands of the days gone by. The Butthole Surfers comparison is not too far off either. Hopefully you timed things right and the evening is at its peak. Acid Mothers Temple take the stage with a ten minute freakout -- drummer Satoshima Nani mesmerized by the light show on the screen behind him. He wails like Buddy Rich fronting Blue Cheer and the WHOLE SONG sounds like the end of a song until the end of the song.

Framed by his long grey mane, Higashi Hiroshi pilots his synth and theremin stoically. Kawabata Makoto conjures the spirit of Hendrix, plugging his Fender Stratocaster into an array of effects pedals then into a Marshall head, a Roland Jazz Chorus amp, then a second Roland Jazz Chorus amp into a 4x12 speaker bottom. At one point he plays a slide solo with a screwdriver.

 Back to the volume issue again, Jyonson Tsu’s initial problem was his cape kept getting in the way of his bouzouki (sorry if that sound like the name of a Plasticland outtake) but into the set his vocals had disappeared. Focused on his beatific smile, during one tune’s sunshine bridge, she could have been miming.

But the train, as they say, had left the station. They wailed on “Pink Lady Lemonade”. Yea, it was loud. Yea, it was intense. It was weird, but no too weird. A frenzied fan grabs the neck of Makoto’s guitar, Makoto pulls it back and thrusts it into the chest of the nutso. The tidal waves of sound - lead by Nani and bassist Wolf (a.k.a. S/T), developed into what might best be described as a Richter level rumble by the rest of the band. Oscillators and guitar feedback slam into careening drums. There will be no encore.

(Dedicated to Art Bell.)