Most Amazing Thing Ever

Otherwise known as hilarious. Especially if you've ever had a group on tour stay with you...

"How to Tour in a Band or Whatever." by Thor Harris.

Dare to Compare

I hung up the phone after a nearly two-hour catch up with one of my besties, sipped my wine, and weighed the pros and cons of going to see Brendan Benson at the 930 Club. I've seen him before, at the same venue in fact, and it was a great show. I had no real reason not to go, I just didn't really feel like heading out again, so I said to myself, shut up already and ride up there. 

The house was sparse, but not empty, unlike last time when it was over-crowded even on the top level. Maybe last year he was able draw a bigger crowd from riding the coattails of The Raconteurs fame. Not that it matters, but I knew of Brendan Benson long before he paired up with Jack White. Which is more of the reason why I finally showed up on Wednesday night. When he played the 930 Club in December 2009 with Cory Chisel and others, the show was fun, exciting, happy even (considering all Mr. Benson ever sings about is heart ache). Hell, they even closed with a cover of American Girl! This time, backed by The Posies, I dare say, they seemed sluggish, sad, heavy-ended even. What is usually a poptastic set, was genuinely somber. It even seemed like the band was bored. It came as quite a surprise to me when halfway through the show Benson announced that it was being recorded live. 

Could have fooled me...

That's not to say I didn't have a good time, I did. And Brendan played most of my favorites like "Garbage Day" and "Tiny Spark". There was just something significantly not-rocking about the vibe of the whole night - personal state of mind aside. Perhaps it was the addition of The Posies as the opening band and back up. I never have been enough of a Posies listener to call myself a fan, but I know they are a talented bunch (that much shines through the assortment of black clothing). Core members John Auer and Ken Stringfellow seemed to be having more fun playing Benson's songs than the lead himself was. Auer is a heavier rocker, and his sound seemed to overshadow Benson's to the point of distraction. Stringfellow is a great bass player, and a decent keyboardist, but during "Feel Like Taking You Home Now" he looked like a little kid learning to play the keyboard for the first time. Fingers jammed the keys in hefty strokes and his face looked down at the keys like some bad secretary. 

Which is ironic because as a whole, they are a bunch of goof balls. I watched this terrible interview of them (only terrible because the girl asking questions was an idiot) in which they just joked around and seemed really comfortable together. When the interviewer asked them if they had anything else to say, Auers suggested she try the hummus. I mean, The Posies have been around for like 35 years and Benson seems like the kind of guy you'd just really like, despite his rigid outer shell. This kind of brotherly banter streamed through the show, which likely made the crowd feel more like they should have fun then sit and stare blankly through the melancholy. At one point as the round of band introductions took place, Stringfellow pointed out the tech guy who had been mightily handling the stage all night and said, 

"And the tattooed fellow running around is Trent. Say hello Trent! Trent is the guy who plugs things in. Yeah,  he's the plug-in guy." I was about three rows back at this point, feeling pretty good, so I smirked and shouted out into the expanse of the crowd, "That's what she said!" Whether or not the band heard me is neither here nor there, as I thought it was funny, and I got a few chuckles from the folks around me, and a hearty laugh from the gentleman directly to my right. 

All in all, not my favorite performance, but like I said, I had a good time. I'd say 3 out of 5 stars. Actually, make that a 3.5... they did close the show with a cover of "September Gurls". RIP Alex Chiton. 

Don't Tell Me What To Do

Accidental Great Show

The day started off with a certain air to it that I could tell would be hard to shake. By 5pm I wasn't sure if it would spiral towards the hell it seemed to be clamoring for, or if it might actually make an upswing and help a sister out. By 8:30 I was on my way to have a cocktail (always helpful in a purgatory situation) and starting to feel pretty good, all things considered. Just as I mounted my bike to meet my drink date, I got an ominous text, "There's some good bands playing tonight at Black Cat, you should come". Usually a Monday night doesn't warrant such insalubrious behavior, but I knew that if I caught a quick buzz in Mount Pleasant before heading down to the Cat, I'd not only be in for an assuredly good show, but probably an orgasm to boot. So I decided I wouldn't check the web for who might be playing and just say, "I might see you there".

TMI? Probably, but come on! What's rock n' roll without all the gritty details? The invitation came from a friend who only shares two interests with me - good tunes and great sex. Seriously. That being known, I figured if I went I could at the very least count on some pretty decent music and if not that, then something decent to make up for it. I arrived at the Black Cat just as the third and final band, El Ten Eleven, started their set. I sat calmly at the bar, recovering from my ride down the hill, and waited to see if I should make my way inward to the Backstage. I sipped my draught Pabst and listened to both the bar fly next to me ramble on about his flooded basement and the increasingly interesting sound emerging from the back. Being as I knew none of the details of the show, I assumed the make up of band were at least a quad if not sextuplet. From what I could make out, my mental check list heard a keyboardist, a bass player, one or possibly two guitar players, a drummer and probably some kind of trickster sound engineer or DJ. I could have built this up in my head because maybe I've just seen too many bands like the Freelance Whales and can't be counted on for what to expect anymore. Curiosity killed the conversation at the bar and I quickly made my way to investigate. Getting in free was a breeze, it was by then the end of the night and the chick at the door recognizes my face. I entered the little dark room and saw a sparse but intimate crowd excitedly watching a large projector screen positioned just-so behind the stage.  

Hmm, I thought and begin to weave closer to the stage to find my friend and see what the hell was going on. What I found was amazement. This was no grand scale group but merely a duo! The footage displayed on the aforementioned projector screen consisted of the foot path of guitarist Kristian Dunn, who appeared to be entrapped by effects pedal kicks and various mixing toys. I began to realize what I was witnessing, that what I thought was several musicians seamlessly meshing their talent was in fact one man looping the sounds coming from a 1977 DB630 Double Neck bass/guitar (much like the ones Jimmy Page and Slash have been known to rip) and drummer, Tim Fogarty, who sat outside the swell of pedals furiously beating the drums as if at any point they might decide to get up and walk off stage beneath his tight grasp. 

It was as if U2 had wrecked head on into Beck on the way to meet R2DJ and The Polyphonic Spree and the aftermath had exploded all over the stage into a massive instrument battle of the wits. 

Did that just blow your mind? Good, now you know how I felt. 

At some point I quit expecting lyrics and excepted that my usual claims to dislike instrumental music were obviously too narrow in scope. El Ten Eleven, dubbed by some as "Post-rock", sound like a marriage between experimental, pure rock, electronica and unadulterated raw talent. The double neck guitar/bass is officially one of the most awesome inventions ever. The man plays other instruments too while composing this symphony of sound, most notably several varieties of Fretless bass guitars and Whammy pedals. Fogarty sticks to well known drum-basics, though dresses them up real nice with his own set of looping tools and kick pedals. 





This California duo is really something you should see to fully understand the complex and invigorating intonation that pours off the stage. To come full circle with both the reason I found myself in this place, imagine, if you will, describing an orgasm. All at once intimate and intense, humbling and holy, somehow static and yet totally surreal. To experience that full scale set of emotions in two completely different settings in one evening makes me feel one lucky girl. I hope to see them again because knowing that kind of talent is available reminds me why I will almost always say yes to an invitation to a show (or an invitation from this friend).

Mixed Up

I used to adore making a mix tape. Hell, who am I kidding, I haven't made a "tape" since I was still recording Top 10's off the radio. Let me rephrase... I used to adore making a mix. Pulsing with theme, alive with sound, ahh, those were such proud days. I'd fill in the lines on the smooth, square matte paper  with permanent marker to make sure the mix stayed tight and deliver with such a sense of satisfaction. Often the recipient was the reason the mix got made in the first place. An inspired introduction to my taste and style, all in just shy of an hour and 20 minutes. I even used to shrink the time between songs to make sure all 22 or so made it. Like some mad agent out to sell a greatest hits, I chopped off the last 3 seconds here, made the lag time 1 second there, stopped Pink Floyd mid-chant in "Fearless" just to squeak it all in.

Nowadays I start a mix, make another five more just like it in some iPod On-the-Go frenzy, and never quite make it to blow dry the Sharpie label illuminating the compact disk. Fucking repeat. This whole thought began with a repeat. I was in the bath, and decided to revisit this mix I made called "DC or Bust" for the U-Haul ride with my mom on the drive from Asheville to Washington. It's actually a pretty prefect bath mix. It's totally me, but with nothing on there my Mom would switch off suddenly in a nervous moment on the road like she used to do to the dial on 93.5FM back home when we found ourselves stuck in traffic and she needed a little quiet. Not unlike her required silence, I guess this mix is calming in a way, yet at the same time, completely sad, a little ridiculous and, in this case, all-out hopelessly romantic. If that doesn't also manage to fit the theme of a move, I don't know what does. Especially one in which you pack your feelings all up with your luggage too.

Truth? "DC or Bust" reeks of my ex. It's littered with lyrical asides and songs stolen right off some other mix we made together. I left Asheville in such a fucking hurry the bust part was bound to happen - musical support or not. A song comes on and I can't help but snicker again at what I found funny earlier (as I sat in the so-not-warm-anymore bath water). Beck is on every single one of these damn mixes from the Summer of 2007. Maybe even farther back. "Missing" no less. If I could've picked a theme song for our relationship, it would have been this one, so it fits just fine. I must have ignored the glaring symbolism back then when we were still mixed up making mixes. But it doesn't matter now. The mix made it and he did not.

I think the static choices I made back then where my way of trying to control the chaos of my heart. And maybe that's the whole point of a mix tape. Finding a place to stand still in the middle of your mood. Making that Cat Stevens song from Harold & Maude flow right into "Sweet Black Angel". Picking something because it mentions the part of your past you are leaving behind but still manages to make you hopeful for the future; where you might eventually be sitting in a dress - ironically covered in pink mix tapes - listening to that very song, wondering what happened to that girl but being so glad you're not her anymore.

Oh, don't worry, I'll still make a new mix. In fact, I have one right now that needs a little tweaking. It's too long, and something just doesn't sound right, and well, life's too short for a crappy mix tape.

Don't Try Too Hard Now

It's funny the things you notice whilst attending a show solo...It occurred to me, as I sat sipping my fucking oh-so-cool Jim Beam on the rocks, that it sure takes a lot of effort to look like you don't give a shit how you look. That is, unless you get a closer, more careful look. The devil's in the details after all, and these details, are not to be ignored.  For example, the pack of youngsters in front of me on Tuesday night assembled to see the Freelance Whales and Tokyo Police Club, some of which I think were members of either of those bands. I mean, it was The Black Cat, so this kind of crowd is generally expected, but still, sometimes it just makes me laugh. This blonde kid in front of me, had on what I like to call a "not outfit". The classics represented -  tight, dirty jeans, black ratty backpack, some kind of whatever white t-shirt, a green trucker hat and - wait for it- matching bright green top-siders (see previous post for how those have come into fashion in Hipster USA). Oh so perfect. That's the kind of detail I like to include in my outfit. By the way, I took the time to stop him and say, "You know, you're really cute," and, though I'm sure it made him smile inside that I said that to him, he sloshed by me, dropping a nonchalant, but ever confident, "thanks", that sounds more like, "well, duh".

There is no shortage of cute boys in this world, and in my experience, if someone wants to tell me they think I'm cute, stranger or not, I will take that compliment. For real.

The show was great. Local favs the Freelance Whales played a great opening set, showing off just how in the hell they pack in all that sound onto one little disk. They are, of course, appropriately adorned to cover all the Hipster basics... dude with the ridiculously large beard? Check. dude with the over-sized big rimmed glasses? Check. Solo chick in the band who is unbelievably pretty? Check. Guy in the Forest Gump running outfit? Umm, check? Yeah that was weird to me too, but what do I know, I planned my outfit too - my carefully determined  look  - appropriately fucking cute, but not too cute, these are Hipsters we're talking about, and nothing is sadder than a chick who tries too hard to not try hard at all.

It was a great kick off to the night, and though I knew I was going to spend a few awkward moments between seeing my ex, and my fuck buddy, (if nothing I am consistent in my taste!), I had a good time. The headliner, Tokyo Police Club, are a band I have seen before, actually many times, because they always have the best opening bands! Maybe it has to do with their own taste, or their record label or something, it doesn't really matter because they are a consistently good band, so that's always nice to see.

The Love Language

It's like riding high through the Blue Ridge Mountains in the passenger seat with your window down - hand waving gently in the breeze, volume turned all the way up, stoned as a bat, in the passenger seat so you can close your eyes. Or maybe its like the first step onto the sand before you take off running into the ocean - can never tell if the sea will be warm or cold, welcoming or be damned, get out!

That may in fact be more accurate as The Love Language's latest album Libraries was written entirely in Wilmington, NC -  a beach town like no other. Though, in its defense, (I guess that's right?), mixed and recorded in Raleigh, NC during the great blizzard of 2010. Phew, what a conundrum!

Think back to 2009 when the romance of warm sunny days and long walks on the beach were both long gone and yet to be discovered by the time Stuart McLamb recorded the debut self-titled album The Love Language, an album based on heartbroken letters to his ex. Don't be fooled by this claim alone though, as what some would call the actual debut, or maybe just the intentional debut through Merge Records, Libraries doesn't stray from the same tender tenor. The Love Language manages to be one of the few bands to truly hold their name up to the fame of their sound. And I don't mean that as a sappy insult to the somehow both despairing and delectable anguish expressed in McLamb's lyrics. The band is fucking phenomenal. Between BJ's ability to rope it all in while managing to play second lead guitar, and Stuart's own brother Jordan providing drum sound and solidly on-time back-up vocals, the band can't go wrong. I think I originally called it "high drums, long guitar riffs, complex backing between brothers and best friends". Well, then you add Justin on bass and the one and only Missy Thangs on keys - shooo - color me lovestruck.

Sounds like a bunch of bitter, overrated nonsense, huh? Well, trust me, it's not. All that stuff I said about plunging head first into the ocean and driving around with the windows down... I meant it. The Love Language is all about wearing white instead of black, throwing sparks at night, paying for your mistakes and moving the fuck on. Not to mention, they are wholly attractive to watch perform. So much so that wishing for true love for someone other than yourself, but not necessarily with yourself, is a completely unselfish act, and one that most fans of love ballad bands cannot conceivably accomplish.  Who could ever break that heart, one would ask! But, even with my slight obsession with musicians, I could imagine the serial strumming and tattered van-touring might wear on any love interest... though, as long as there are Summer album releases and hopeful forlorn listeners abound, The Love Language will have no trouble finding an audience.

I, for one, am both hopeful and forlorn, so count me in.