Pride of Algoma, WI

Let us now praise Hue Blanc's Joyless Ones, purveyors of a unique brand of bleak Americana. A gang of unlikely rock heroes from the equally unlikely location of Algoma, WI (pop.: 4000 or less), a lakefront resort town home mostly to weekend cottage-dwellers, retirees, and not another single rock band that I can think of. They share not only a French-Canadian-Wisconsin heritage with Pink Reason, but similar chord progressions, songwriting styles, and a taste for cheap beer and dark lyrical subject matter. Kevin Pink Reason has told me before that when he and the Hue Blanc guys met, they were all shocked to find that despite having never heard one another's music before, the music they wrote and played sounded stunningly familiar to both parties.

Hue Blanc's second LP, Arriere Garde (which, incidentally, has one of my favorite record covers in recent history), released a few months back on SS Records, is both haunted- and elated-sounding. They revel, by way of garage-y organ and the trebley crash of multiple guitars, in the muck of failed relationships and failed dreams. It sounds depressing, and it is, but it doesn't drag you down; in fact, I find their music oddly uplifting. When they're not being pensive and dark they're being blunt and funny: Ted laughs audibly as he delivers the lines "For all my words/I'm just trying to fuck you." In Hue Blanc's perpetually autumnal world (one of their many artfully titled songs is, in fact, called "A Frolicked Walk Through Autumnal Bliss"), there's too much decay all around to worry about coming up with a smooth line. Better to just swill some more beer and find someone to keep the cold and loneliness at bay, even if just for tonight.

Hue Blanc's Joyless Ones will appear tomorrow night at Carabar here in Columbus along with Pink Reason, Grave Blankets, and Michael Zink's Nuggets Fancy (MZ currently being a Joyless One, as well). Come on down and get your soul dirty.

Blow out the Torch

Everyone in France, Tibet, and all you nations worldwide, keep blowing out the torch. Fuck the Olympics and oppression of the people of Tibet. Its not even safe to host the Olympics in China due to the overwhelming pollution problem in a country that has no admission standards. This risks potential health problems for Olympic competitors in Beijing. I'm all for creating dams that provide hydro electric power to cut down on the dastardly pollution problem, but when this creates the displacement of thousands of people who have lived on the land for years, it seems that a better solution needs to reached. Bringing politics into the Olympic games may seem sort of lame, but I guess its one way to get your voice out there. Perhaps these protestors are being paid off anyhow, so it might just be another instance of fraudulent passion for human rights. Still, blow out the torch.

Rekkids kiddies:

Inca Ore - White Nature vs. Wild Magic - Cool, vocal layered stuff from this Portland girl. No guitars, drums or anything lame like that. Atmospheric, druggy, trippy dippy hippie.

Meth Teeth - The 7" on Sweet Rot is a winner. Folky, reverb powered pop slop.

Yokohama Hooks - Turn on 7" - Punk Rock of the Rough Trade mold, but with some radical Poly Styrene esque shrieking. cooler than college.

Auto Glamour Sound Compilation - Shake it! records put this out awhile back. A fine capsule of the early 80's Cincinnati art-punk scene based around the long forgotten Hospital Records. Only band not from cincy is Teddy and the Frat Girls, but they're another story. Don't get me started on them, I could go on for days.

Talbot Tagora - Volcano Girls - I'm going to shut up about them right now.

Washington Phillips - What are they doing in heaven today? - Not usually a huge fan of the blues, but this 1920's gospel-blues singer had a unique voice accompanied by the dolceola, a zither like instrument with tiny piano keys. ends up sounding like a cross between a harp and piano and nothing like the Third Man. har har.

P.S.

if you are reading this, you are a big dork and need to spend less time on the internet and more time fucking girls. I think Steve Albini said that. or was it Paul Butterfield?

Sister Breed

Someone used the term "Crimson Wave" to describe the recent spate of releases by young women making a dark and gloomy racket in their bedrooms. It's supposed to be a joke, so don't go adding that tag to your Ebay listings or anything. There have been quite a few of these kinds of projects cropping up--you're probably aware of Zola Jesus, soon to have 7"s out on Sacred Bone and Die Stasi, and maybe U.S. Girls--and now here's another one, Circuit des Yeux, who is one Haley Fohr of Lafayette, IN. She sent me this CD-R in the mail a few weeks ago and I still owe her something in return (Haley it's coming ... here's a good review till then). I think she might only be in her late teens, but you'd never know it from these defiantly weird, distinctly female home recordings. From the stuff I heard on Myspace I thought it would mostly be a lot of otherworldly caterwauling, but the 10 tracks actually showcase a variety of styles, ranging from the creepy wailing and scraping violin on "Eyes" to the buoyant acoustic guitar and handclaps of "The Escorts" to the field-holler "Penance Blues." "We are the sister breed, it's our time" she sings on "Sister Breed," and I won't presume to know what she means by that, but it sounds like a call to arms for the young, female and weird everywhere. I only wish I was this cool in high school ...

I'm not sure if she's still offering these for trade, but you might be able to check with her at her Myspace. I hope someone wants to do a 7" for her or something sometime soon.

Dear Dave,

where are you to provide acerbic counterpoint to the ravingly positive review of Naked on the Vague below? You know I count on you to balance out my relentless optimism about the current state of music. Come on, don't leave us hanging!

Oh, and Dave was totally right about Talbot Tagora, I heard their self-released 7" at his place the other night and it rooooooools! Crazy kids. Order it here.

This is not a SXSW post

Because really, aren't you tired of hearing about it? I am. Whether you went or whether you stayed home like a normal, sane person, it's time to shitcan the SouthBy talk and move onto more important topics, like March Madness or getting that hot summer body before shorts season arrives. And everyone else has already done a better and more timely job of talking about it. But I DID go and saw a ton of awesome music and bought some cool records, so I will probably namedrop the fearsome 4-lettered acronym from time to time in the next few posts. I brought a camera along hoping to capture some visuals to accompany my reminiscings, but I forgot that 1) I hate taking pictures 2) I'm not good at it and 3) taking pictures is gay.

But anyway, what I'm listening to right now ... two Naked on the Vague releases, Sad Sun (Sabbatical) and The Blood Pressure Sessions (Dual Plover). I saw them at the Siltbreeze showcase in Austin, which, even if it wasn't quite as mind-bending in execution as it was on paper (as much as I liked that Ex-Cocaine record, I was just really bored by the stuff live), still provided some big thrills and chills. NOTV was actually one of the bands that I found to be pretty head-spinning live and the recordings now make even more sense. Imagine two people sold into slavery, chained in a dank basement with some guitars, keyboards, and sundry effects, and forced to express their existential agony with primitive percussion and vocals that sound like they're being yelled/groaned from said basement. It's like that. But better. Full disclosure: I was really, really high when I saw their set, but I checked with a few sober people and they agreed that it was a spectacularly dread-suffused and riveting performance.

So anyway, NOTV are doing a big American tour over the next few months, some dates of which are going to include TNV and Psychedelic Horseshit, and Rich Horseshit claims that a Columbus show is in the works (haven't seen any evidence of this yet, but I still hope). You'll probably enjoy these dour Aussies even more if you see 'em live, but in the meantime, hunt the recordings down and let 'em sink into your bones. Good listening for when you're stuck in your own existential dungeon.

Old is the new new

Caught Tommy Jay's set at Carabar last night, and it was gorgeous. Just beautiful. His band consisted of a woman on backing vocals and conga drums, another woman (apparently Mike Rep's ladyfriend) on vocals, a lead guitar, a pedal steel player, and Mike Rep himself providing (exceptionally good) Casio bass lines and other keyboard ornamentation. They also brought up another friend, a short chunky woman with closely cropped gray hair and wearing a spangled bird mask, to provide backup crowing and cawing on a song. All the participants looked incredibly happy to be onstage and added a positive sheen to Tommy Jay's mysterious and melancholic tunes. The loving connection between old friends playing music together was palpable. I absolutely have nothing cynical to say about this. It was great. I have to say on my 30th birthday it was also quite inspirational. I can only hope to be that weird and wonderful and committed to kicking out the jams 15 years down the line.

Unfortunately the crowd dissipated during Mors Ontologica ... and I have to say that personally it was a supreme test of will to stay the entire length of their set ... but it was worth it because then Necropolis came out and kicked my ass, as they always do. It doesn't matter how many people are in the crowd, they always bring the ruckus. They played all the latest hits from their recent string of 7"s tight and fast without stopping for breath. Plus the sound was good so you could hear Emily's keyboards coming through loud and clear, which is the icing on their spazzy punk cake. I was so excited I threw a beer can at Bo, but now I feel kind of bad about that. I'm sure he understands.

It was a great night, kinda like seeing the punk-rock torch getting passed from one generation to the next. For better or for worse, Columbus honors its elders.

SHITGAZE Superbowl

This is the last time I'm ever going to use the "s" word, since that joke is wearing thin already, but since Saturday's show at Bourbon St. featured two Titans of Shitgaze--the NME-approved Tyvek and the me-approved Guinea Worms--going head to head for the shit-fi crown, I guess it's OK one last time.

I missed Blind Shake, who is apparently Michael Yonkers' backing band? Guess I'll catch 'em next time ... kind of curious ... got there in time to see Guinea Worms finish a rendition of their ode to collegiate fashion, "Drunk in Yr Uggs" ("drunk in yr uggs, walkin' slow for the thugs/nothing on yr thighs, except for my eyes") then launch into the Official Party Anthem of 2008 (sez me), "Box of Records." This song is evil. Since the chorus repeats at least 10 times througout the course of the song, and since the melody is retard-simple, you will be tortured by Will Foster's reedy voice wailing "there's really nothing better, there's really nothing better" in your head over and over again for days after one listen. It's been on repeat in my skull for weeks now, to the point where I might as well not even buy the 7", but I probably will cuz I guess that's kind of like downloading. Maybe someday we will be able to download songs directly to a chip in our brains. Whoa! Such was the hottness of their set that the Worms were actually looking--and my opinion was corroborated by a female friend--pretty hot themselves. Who says shitgaze can't be sexy???

Despite rampant hype and having played in Cbus at least 3 or 4 times in as many years, I had yet to experience Tyvek live. Rampant hype almost always = bitter disappoinment, but Tyvek proved to be hype-worthy and then some. For the first few songs I remained unmoved and I thought I'd been had by the Internet/record-nerd cabal--AGAIN--and then about halfway through their set something clicked and they became riveting and life-affirming. "Don't take away my air conditioner/it'll make it hard for me to sleep" singer Kevin begs, and you have the feeling he really needs that air conditioner. Like it might be the last thing standing between his sanity and a shooting spree at a fast-food establishment. Portraits of everyday despair against a clanging guitar backdrop and skeletal drums (reminds me vaguely of Mick Collin's post-Gories project Blacktop). Rock n roll bread n butter.

Wish I had more good things to say about Birthday Suits; I like 'em live just fine, but I don't ever feel a need to hear them on record. They're fantastically explosive onstage but the songs don't stick. They work so hard, though, I really want to root for them. Someone recommend something, a 7" or something, that will change my mind.

You're more artgay + Talbot Tagora (urban boogie) aka i'm more punk than You

Shit, I forgot this blog existed. Didn't catch that Daily Void set a few weeks back, but I have that record. All the songs sort of sound the same, but when that one song is pretty good you'll get no complaints from me. Oh yeah, they're extremely punk too.

My new fave record is the self-released Talbot Tagora 7" that came out late last year. No labels, no nuthin'. That's pretty damn punk too. fuck labels. they're not punk. But I am, so fuck you.

They named themselves after some shitty, early 80's executive car made by Chrysler Europe that was discontinued after only being on the assembly line for like three years. Only 20,000 ever made. Now that's some history kids.

Whudda they sound like? Just buy it yourself, 'cuz I'm no good at describing music. too many adjectives maybe? Or maybe music is just impossible to describe accurately. I mean, I could sit here and tell you all about the Selznick/Hitchcock film "Rebecca", but that has some narrative structure, a plot, you know?
But for real, this is lo-fi. or is it no-fi? what's the difference? I dunno. how 'bout just fi?

okay, sick of writing now. I'm only posting something because Laura did anyway. Gotta one up her or something, prove i'm still here.

Check out SSSSSSSSSTT records(no, i don't mean SST). gotta lot great stuff comin' in '08.

We're back

After a long hiatus UR So Artgay!! is back, with 100% more vitriol than ever before ... we'll be callin' 'em like we see 'em, kickin' ass, takin' names, etc. etc. etc. Oh yes, and reviewing records and shows, too. Speaking of ...

Caught Daily Void and TV Ghost at Bourbon St. on Friday night, wow. Awesome weirdness reigned. Chicago's Daily Void vacillate between Crass-ish hardcore and a more swinging Jay Reatard brand of punk (the vocals especially recall Reatard's stuff). Occasionally they leaned toward the latter maybe a bit too much but I'm not a hater so I'm not going to take points off an overall blazing set for petty shit like that. Lafayette, IN's TV Ghost, as usual, ripped my fucking head off with their lurching monster-punk. Abrasive keyboard whoops and wails atop spidery guitar lines and beyond-the-grave vocals, non-stop hostile energy. These teen sensations are going places, make no mistake. Missed Vegetative State yet again, caught the end of the Burndowns' set ... the Pittsburgh punk-poppers play fast, fun, melodic songs with gruff Rancid-esque vocals and the occasional careening guitar lead. Nothing wrong with that at all, so stop sneering. I love Rancid.

Boring Bands

What's up with boring bands? I'll tell you what's up. A lot of bands out right now just bore the hell out of me, despite their current hip streak in underground/indie rock circles . Blues Control(SNooze Control), Wooden Shjips (what a dumb name), Jerusalem and the Star Baskets(don't even get me started on that one) and Ex-Cocaine(well, I did enjoy them when I was extremely high) to name just a few, are all in the current crop of bands that just don't seem to live up to the hype. Okay, I'm not doubting any of these groups' sincerity or devotion to their craft, its just that I'm goddamn sick of hearing about how good they are and I can't help but think that I've heard a lot of bands do what they do way better. In fact, I know I have wiseguy.

Stuff I've heard these year that I actually like: Electric Bunnies, Pyramids, Factums, The Terminals(the one from Nebraska, although there is a trippier, kinda Doors sounding band with the same name that I liked too).

There it is, kid. (james reference). not the band, although laid is pretty sweet.

Transcendence

Tuesday night found me at Skylab, digging the way-out shit and chugging PBR tallboys. A surprisingly edifying combination. Witness to: a dude named Jalso, who ran his saxophone through multiple pedals to not unpleasing effect. Also fellow noise-mongers/droners Twink Bully, who I frankly don't remember a whole lot of, except for the Kenneth Anger film that accompanied the set. And my roommate Ryan Jewell, who I mostly missed due to getting locked out of the building post-cigarette and despite frantic calls to those inside to let me back in (although the 5 minutes of Ryan I did catch was more inspiring than an hour of most other bands ... if you're not familiar, Ryan uses drums, bike tires, vibrators, and everything else in his reach to vibrate/pound/hum you into a state of enlightened bliss. Really.) "Headlining," if you will, was Brooklyn trio La Otracina, who ride the psych-prog wave currently cresting at Holy Mountain, among other places. They brought the heavy, they brought the tribal, they brought the blissed-out jam ... I was into it, due no doubt in large part to the PBR pounders. Everyone else I quizzed on their impressions of the set seemed nonplussed, even though I heard elements of stuff most everyone seems to dig on these days: modern Japanese psych (Ghost, Acid Mothers Temple), old-school krauty stuff (Neu!, Can, blahblahblah), classic prog, etc. Yeah, they're "musicians," (I mean, they had some fucking mean-ass chops), yeah, they jammed, no, it wasn't very concise ... but I dunno, they took me with 'em. Check 'em out for yourself: http://www.myspace.com/laotracina. Your thoughts?

Last night at Little Brother's Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments offered transcendence of a different sort. I guess. Transcendence is transcendence after all, that's why it, you know, "transcends" things. Some thoughts:

• Looking around the crowd, I remarked to Dave Artgay that this was one ugly fuckin' crowd. Us included. Good lord, what a bunch of broke-ass, drowned-rat-lookin' motherfuckers.
• Bob Petric: one of the great unheralded guitarists of our time. Apparently one of the biggest assholes too. Can you have one without the other? Anyone who can wrest that kind of strangled beauty from his guitar has amassed some kind of rock and roll karma, however. All is forgiven Bob.
• Ron House: lettin' it all hang out, mantitties and all. The most graceless and freakish of frontmen. He's delved deep into the bottle to come back up with the most retarded of profundities, and he generously continues to share his hard-won, and -drunk, wisdom with us. I for one am grateful.
• Songs played: "My Mysterious Death (Turn It Up)," "Rump Government," "Bottle Island," "Quarrel With the World, something else I can't remember, and "Cheater's Heaven," of course.

I paid 5 bucks to get in, so that's less than a dollar a song. A bargain for that kind sweaty, boozy redemption. Leaving, I felt both much dirtier and much cleaner than I had upon arrival.

I saw approximately 2,000 bands this weekend!

Many of which I am trying to forget. I am tired--deeply, deeply tired, at the cellular level. And deef. Here is a small sampling of what put me in this dreadful state:

Mike Rep & the Quotas (Comfest, Sat. 6/23): Despite Rep's "legend" status among those who care about such things (and I am one), I never got into these guys. But Saturday the majesty of Johnny Furnace's echo-drenched guitar solos hit me full force. Eerily reminiscent of Grateful Dead-style noodling. I was at Comfest and that might have had something to do with its appeal. I will have to check them out again to make sure it wasn't just all the tie-dye seeping into my brain.

Unholy Two (Bourbon St., Sat. 6/23): Saw them at the post-CDR-BQ show last summer and then studiously avoided them after that. Now, whaddaya know: with Bo and Adam of Necropolis lending a hand to the proceedings the Two now produce mechanistic skullfuckery that is quite nearly danceable (I did, as a matter of fact). Bo laid into his pots and pans (I think there were some real drums, too) like an autistic kid who's been fed a buncha shots and set loose onstage, Lutzko's guitar was as blown-out as [insert gay/anus/Pride Weekend joke here], the whole mess floated in a fluffy cloud of Adam's corrosive feedback, which he sculpted with a massive bank of pedals (I usually don't enjoy watching people twiddle knobs but he made it worth my while [lots of thrashing/writhing], thanks Adam). Pussy Galore with less "fuck you" and more "JUST FUCK IT." Lutzko also wore the most ball-crushingly tight pants I've seen yet on a man. Mad props dude.
http://www.myspace.com/theunholytwosucks

Jerusalem and the Starbaskets (Bourbon St., Sat. 6/23): Sorry, I tried to like these guys but I just couldn't. I was bored. I will admit I was nearly too drunk to stand by the time they played so that probably didn't help. Just a drummer, a dude with a guitar, and some naive, starry-eyed hippy-folk. Recalls the Velvet Underground in Mo Tucker-on-vox mode at some times and the Go-Betweens at others (and why do bands like this get the "psychedelic" tag all the time these days? I hear not one iota of "psych" in this stuff). Not BAD exactly, I just couldn't pay attention to it. I like some of the songs on Myspace better now so it might just be one of those things where it doesn't translate to a live setting very well. Or I could just be a drunk asshole with no attention span.

http://www.myspace.com/jerusalemandthestarbasket

Gut Reactions (Carabar, Sun. 6/24): I'd be lying if I said that I haven't seen caveman garage-rock done better than these guys are doing it. But of course the whole thing about caveman garage-rock is that you're not SUPPOSED to be trying to do it better than the next guy. Gut Reactions are not possessed of any sense of melody, dynamics, or polished presentation that can't be found on any given Teenage Shutdown comp, but they: 1) looked like they were having a supergood time, 2) wore sunglasses onstage, 3) have a lead singer that did such a good impression of a retarded kid I was afraid he was going to poop his pants onstage, and 4) appeared to be the biggest nerds ever. I am a nerd, too, so I have a fine-tuned appreciation of nerddom. Anytime I get to see a band look this unselfconscious while playing I feel grateful. I think I might be a fan.

http://www.myspace.com/thegutreactions

NO THANKS ...

... to whatever fucking sucky band at Carabar last night that was so bad we had to leave before seeing Greg Ashley from Gris Gris. I went and listened to some of Ashley's stuff on Myspace today and it was quite good (weird slow drugginess ... some organ-laden '50s rock balladry ... some other stuff in there too) and now I would have like to have checked it out live and I COULD HAVE had it not been for this bunch of total vaginas lisping out some watered-down Eliot Smith/Iron & Wine excrement for what seemed like hours. I'm not sure that I have the right dudes but it MIGHT have been this band called Romantica from Minneapolis, if the show listing for last night in the Other Paper is correct. If so, they apparently are very excited about having come in second place in the International Songwriting Competition (the what?) in the Americana (!) category and love, love, love Jeff Buckley and the Wallflowers. Too much funny stuff there to even begin.

I guess I could blame myself for being lame and going home to eat pizza but I'd rather blame these dumbfucks, as they deserve it.

Whoa ...

... way to bring the vitriol, Dave! Wait ... are you talking to me??? Cuz I personally need EVERY PRECIOUS FUCKING WORD in the posts below to communicate how I feel about albums/bands people have long since formed their own opinions of. But I agree, for all you other bloggers out there, keep it short and sweet, OK?

In other news ... I am SUPEREXCITED because I have finally found the soundtrack to my nervous breakdown! It hasn't happened yet, but when I move to an abandoned house in rural Ohio and hole up with a bottle of whiskey and a shotgun, I know exactly what will be playing in the background: Neil Young's After the Gold Rush. Perfect! I can tell I'm well on the way to said breakdown because I am completely and totally obsessed with this album at the moment. It's pretty much all I've been listening to. Supposedly it is loosely based on a screenplay for a movie of the same name, written by Dean Stockwell (Al from Quantum Leap!). Well, actually, that piece of trivia really has no bearing on the experience of the album itself. Repeated listenings do reveal a loose theme of some kind (although that could just be the breakdown kicking in)--you know, loss blah blah leaving blah blah the end of modern civilization blah blah ... something like that. In any case, the title track is the most moving song about alien abduction featuring a french horn solo you'll ever hear, "Don't Let it Bring You Down" is much better without the visual accompaniment of Kevin Spacey trying to seduce a hot teen (if you remember its inclusion via Annie Lennox's cover on the American Beauty soundtrack), and "Tell Me Why" is totally about YOU, my rapidly-aging rock n roll friend: "Tell me why ... is it hard to make arrangements with yourself/When you're old enough to repay/but young enough to sell?"

Gotta go, the bottle's callin' ...

25 cats named sam and one blue pussy

I really hate people who write music reviews that are too long. If you write say more than 100 words about one band or record than you're a self-indulgent, excessive doucebag who's opinion can't be trusted. I mean, if you want to say something, say it. Spit it out already. A review doesn't need some long winded expression with a host full of contrived analogies and metaphors to get the message across. "Wow, I really love the fuzzed-out, cathartic sound of Davey Demon's guitar playing, he's really one of the most esoteric musicians out there." Being skilled in rhetoric doesn't mean putting me to sleep, asshole. Let's face it, if you really knew something about music then you probably wouldn't be writing about it anyway. There are two types of people in this world, those who like music and those who hate it. If you're a critic or play in a band then you have a passionate distaste for music. If you listen to it soley for the pleasure of it and bypass all of the other pointless delusional crap, than I think you actually might be a fan! Let's hear it for the talentless, tuneless fools who don't care whether they get to make clowns of themselves in front of some vapid audience in a damp, divey bar. I think one day I will dump all of my guitars and musical equipment into a river and watch it all sail away until somebody comes by and asks, "what'd you do that for?" I'd tell them, "maybe if you stopped reading the want ads so much, you'd understand." Then I'd go home and put on some Ricky Nelson, but I haven't decided for sure on that one yet.

In praise of the local, pt. 2

"People let me tell you
about these kinda blues
All your friends have left
and you've got no one left to lose." --Cheater Slicks, "Train of Dreams"

Let me come clean: I used to HATE the Cheater Slicks. In fact I hated them right up until about a month or so ago. It's the weirdest thing and I wish I could figure out what in my psychological makeup changed to make me go from borderline contempt for them to complete enchantment, and with such rapidity. It's possible that it has something to do with an increased alcohol intake, but of course that can lead to the enjoyment of any number of bands. Most of which I do not. Something just has to kind of click in your head with these guys, as my friend Kevin said the other day. It's like that with a lot of music but learning to like the Cheater Slicks is REALLY going down a certain rabbit hole, the very entrance to which you can't even see unless you're ready to take the plunge.

"Mother holds me in her arms

and she takes the pain away

Why'd she ever give me life

if she knew it'd end this way?"

Holy shit man. That's pretty bleak stuff. I never believed that any white man could really sing the blues ... I mean people obviously have tried and you either end up with some sort of constipated aping of black dudes (George Thoroughgood), or stuff that, while depressing, is just so ... y'know, white. Like Joy Division. Obviously that plumbs some sort of depths and that shit's pretty heavy, but not in the same way. JD's jittery punk side give the music a certain levity, not the mention the romanticism of songs like "Love Will Tear Us Apart." A quick gander at the track listing for one of my favorite Slicks albums, Yer Last Record, reveals the following list of lyrical topics:

• complete, utter, unmitigated despair and resentment at the very fact of your birth ("Train of Dreams," see lyrical excerpts above)
• complete, utter, unmitigated humiliation and loss of personal dignity ("Pants Down")
• the futility of life and a resultant anti-procreation stance ("Stop Breeding"). When you hate life this much, you certainly don't want to create any more of it.
• suicide recommended as a way to escape said loathesome existence: "Why try? Why cry? DIE DIE DIE" ("Just Do It")

And there's more where that came from, of course ... that's not even going into the devastating album closer, "Goodbye," where Tom Shannon wails, "everybody's lonely ... all that's between us has died ... let's just say goodbye."

Add to that the band's scrape n drone--somehow they get the guitar to sound exactly the way ALL guitars sound when you're (OK, I'm) hungover, i.e. tuned just slightly sour and brain-searingly jangly--and you've got a completely soul-poisoning, yet life-affirming, musical experience. That's pretty much the blues as I understand them.

Most of you are probably saying "no shit" right about now. Many of my Columbus cohorts were and are longtime fans of the Slicks, and of course the band is practically WORSHIPPED in many locales outside the Cbus city limits (when the Hunches, from Portland, played here with them a few years ago, they were transformed into giddy, snapshot-taking schoolgirls as the Slicks launched into their set). But I'm just stunned at how little I liked these guys mere weeks ago and how much I like them now. I guess what I'm saying is, even if you don't get them now, you might eventually. Don't give up. It's worth another shot. A few days ago I got retardedly high in the middle of the afternoon and laid down on the couch to listen to this album. I was so exhausted and fucked up I actually experienced sleep paralysis, you know when you try to move your body but you can't? At that exact moment the dour 7-minute dirge "Green Light" came on and a cold chill went through my body. For a minute, I actually thought I knew what it was like to be dead.

That's pretty much the highest recommendation I can give an album.

In praise of the local, pt. 1

Update: I've been really fucking lazy about posting anything. In other news ...

I friend of mine once said that "local bands are 'local' for a reason." Hmmmm ... don't know if I agree with the value judgment behind that (i.e. "they deserve it"). But I mean, it definitely IS true that it takes some special combination of hooks/looks to really get over with the masses of college-indie-type girls in tight jeans and eyeliner, especially in today's crowded music market. I guess I just wonder whether there is even such a thing as a "local" band these days given the mushrooming of music blogs, websites, labels, etc.etc.etc. A band beloved almost solely of their roommates. In some ways, the massive proliferation of music chatter out here in the electronic wild creates even more of a gap between bands that are going to have an audience somewhere, anywhere, and those that will continue to provide the soundtrack to local house parties. I'm not talking about a bunch of skinny dudes in tight tshirts with highly atmospheric (read: pussy-ass) songs and lots of guitar pedals (I'm not, but Pitchfork definitely is, right this very moment). Those guys are pretty hot and they'll be OK, even if they are pussies. I'm talking about your friends' band, the ugly dudes who have been wearing the same jeans for 2 years straight and take a swig of leftover beer in the morning instead of brushing. The ones who get so drunk they can't remember their own songs half the time. The ones that are definitely not going to be getting laid by said college girls after their show.

The subtext of that statement is, of course, that too much "local" is a bad thing. Make something too context-specific and any chance of it being appreciated by people outside your circle is pretty much shot. Like I said, I honestly am not sure if this is entirely possible these days--even if your band has never left your basement, someone, somewhere is playing a cassette you made on a boombox 4 years ago and trying to impress their friends with obscurity and non-existent sound "quality" ("no-fi, man!"). But I think that if you look in the right places the truly local band still exists. And this, my friends, is a good, good thing ... both the fact of such a band's existence, and the fact that no one other than their friends will ever crack the code of their charm.

I started thinking about this last weekend at the last-ever Tree of Snakes show at Bernie's. I've pretty much given up trying to explain the appeal of Tree of Snakes for people that don't already get it. I've often tried to imagine I don't know the (incredibly charismatic) Snakes: would I still like their music? I think so but I can't be sure. In any case, the Snakes would consider this question completely irrelevant and would probably spit beer on you if you raised it in their presence. They exist for the very same reason rock and roll itself exists: to get so wasted you can't think, then use your primitive reptilian brain to yelp tunelessly about girls and money, or lack thereof, until you fall down.

That said I still find myself trying to convince unbelievers that the songs are as solid and timeless as anything in the Ramones catalog and that sadness lurks in the background of "Throw a Rock at Me." I mean: "if you see me walk away/if you see me walk away/throw a rock at me/I deserve it anyway/throw a rock at/throw a rock at me"--nothing if not a paean to self-loathing, no? Albeit one issued from the mouth of a drunken 6-year-old.

Anyway ... Tree of Snakes rendered this entire douchey discussion completely moot last Friday. It was a classic sweaty free-for-all, all smashed bottles, drunken groping (it was like Woodstock '99 in reverse, I had my crotch grabbed by a GIRL), aerosol-can flamethrowers, and of course TOS classics bellowed hoarsely into a mic that was unplugged anyway. They graciously included hits like "I Am a Lion" and "Orange" and more recent favorites like "Alexandria" and "Big Tomato." It didn't matter if anyone else outside of Columbus, or Bernie's, for that matter, got it ... they were playing for us, and no one else.

I still think that someday some nerd is gonna come across "The Ottoman Empire Strikes Back" and will have a fit over these lost pop gems, but if not, that's OK too. I recommend going here and checking out the tuneage for yourself if you don't want to wait for the great Tree of Snakes renaissance.

For another account of that glorious evening go to Kevin Elliot's World of Wumme, where he too sings the praises of the band's anarchic final performance. And also references the Ramones. Shit. Well, it pretty much all comes down to the Ramones, anyway, doesn't it?

Down n Dirty

Betty Davis - They Say I'm Different - Light in the Attic (2007)

A Nasty gal indeed. Raunch, Filth, bad taste, Betty Davis brings it all to the table sounding like she's deep throatin' while she's on the mic. She's "anti-love", but don't call her no tramp, 'cuz she's no goody-goody. You can smell her panties dripping as she rips through "He was a big freak", with a raspy howl like a soul child from outer space. Deep sci-fi funk. Much thanks to Light in the Attic for reissuing the first two out of print releases from this sorely overlooked singer. Yeah, she was married to Miles Davis. So what. Yeah, she probably got it on with Hendrix. Big whoop. Just listen to this fucked-up, funk, freak-weird shit.

Welcome, "Sirs"

I am listening to this CD-R that fellow Artgayist Dave burned for me. It was his big bro Jon's band (although I think he's no longer a member). Seattle's Welcome could on the one hand be mistaken for a gang of long-lost British post-punkers--songs like "All Set" and "Natural Frost" combine that era's distinctive guitar clangor with Nikki Sudden-esque vocals. On tracks like "Bunky," though, dispassionate girl-vocals make me think of '90s indie-pop of the Pastels/Vaselines variety. Most of the best songs don't even clear 3 minutes. Idiosyncratic and passive-aggressive ... no "in-your-face"-ness to it, just a subtle melancholy pervading the entire affair. Not without teeth, though. Reminds of me of something I might have heard while falling asleep to 120 Minutes in high school. With a weird cut-and-paste video featuring grainy hand-held-camera footage of the band interspersed with hand-scratched/colored frames of film.

"Sirs" was released this spring on the UK's Fat Cat records. Welcome will be at Little Brother's on June 10th with The Mary Timony Band. Check out www.myspace.com/yrwelcome for more info.

OK, I'm back

Shit, I forgot I ever had this thing. My last post was that drunken missive from last November, after which I promptly neglected to communicate via this blog thingy ever again. Is "blogging" stupid? Do I hate the word "blog"? Do we need more people's opinions on music and the surrounding culture? Yes, yes, and no. Beat ya to it. So, yeah ... I need things to review. Good things, preferably, but I'll take bad things too. I'll try to be nice but I can't promise anything.

My address: 2490 N. 4th Street Columbus OH 43202 c/o Laura

If you use this address for anything other than sending me shitty 7"s I'll be sure to greet you at the door naked with hairy legs, a croquet mallet and a bloody tampon hanging out of my girl parts. You'll think twice before you stalk me again.