Left Handed Cypher 1.0 ft. The Real Clash, Direwood, Abstract Machine and more
Saturday, 15th November 2014
The Fuzz Factory, Gulfport, FL

Promised a night of left field, avant-garde and weird hip hop, I am confused when super friendly guy Rest in Satin Silence (RISS) announces he'll be kicking the night off with "bad hip hop."  Luckily RISS not only makes music that is left field, avant-garde, weird and good, it would turn out to be perhaps the most left field thing at this Left Handed Cypher event.  He kneels down calmly to record a loop of his own voice, slowly but steadily building up at just the right speed during a 20-minute set.  RISS churns his repeated self sample down to Aphex Twin terror levels, while at other times the scratchy, jerky darkness of the music is reminiscent of producer Burial.  This comparison is only strengthened by a tune where the word "bass" is repeated over and over.  The recordings work with then take a back seat to rapping as the set ends.  Not even the cat tail and ears that RISS is sporting (reminding me of my 9 - 5 in a party supply shop) make me think that the coming evening is going to be anything less than fun.

Somewhere online MC Figment says she will rap for bus fare, but tonight with Florida finally daring to get cold I distinctly hear her ask for a jacket from her car.  (A later disappointment being when I find out that I did not, in fact, see RISS on the 19 on the way to the gig).  Transport credentials aside, the St. Pete artist is from the more traditional realm of hip hop than the opener -- or at least as traditional as a white, female, nonsexualised act can be considered.  Figment's rock solid beats and great voice can be best heard on the Etta James/Pretty Lights/everyone-sampling/Flo Rida-smashing "Mrs Right," available for free download along with a handful of other songs at the link below.  The speed of her delivery is dizzying, but not overwhelming.  For a dose of conscious anger also check out "Contrabanned."

As he has before each act, promoter Michael Patrick Couling gives a brief introduction for Paco Escobar.   It's a nice touch that links the artists of the night together, and further helps to foster the community, underground feeling made possible at a warehouse venue like The Fuzz Factory.  Last-minute fill in Escobar, coming from Orlando, apparently does anime-themed hip hop.  Knowing next to nothing about anime I can't comment on how fun the content is, but it's something a bit different, and this dude's voice reminds me of Del the Funky Homosapien, which is no terrible thing.  I didn't know how to interpret his ode to the Razr and its association with 2006 as I fumbled with the flip phone in my pocket, but it seems like there was quite a lot I wasn't qualified to analyse during this set.  Are more people outside than inside merely to smoke, or are they not feeling this guy?  Personally put off by more than a few uses of the b-word, I wondered (once again) whether the closing track about being his "waifu" was pro-women or not.  Apparently it's an affectionate term for a fictional love interest.  Someone else can unpack that one.  

Cansouled also hails from Orlando.  He is the kind of admirably ego-fearing person whose music more than does the talking for him (see the beautifully downbeat "Midnight Dives").  He politely asks for patience while he takes breathers and drinks, such as sips of Newcastle Brown Ale, which is apparently "delicious piss".  On two occasions, Cansouled kills a track partway through ("fuck this track") because he believes he is not doing a decent job.  Even those partial songs sounded good to me, with their occasional rapid fire rapping and trance beats.  He blames his lack of preparation on having a child, in a non-malicious manner, of course.  In a victory for the bad in people over their nice instincts, Cansouled has his phone stolen at some time during the evening.  Maybe he can borrow an old Razr from Paco Escobar?  With a comforting musical style akin to some of the best conscious rappers of the past 15 years (Sage Francis, Yasiin Bey), it will be worth your time to listen to and download some of this material.

It's been a great night so far, but it needs some more weirdness, so when Abstract Machine steps forward in his suit, I wonder hopefully if there's going to be some Juice Rap News stylings.  Not exactly, as the suit is removed to reveal a shirt a la David Byrne, with synth and pop music to match, and a tad of RnB.  Mr. Machine is joined by his new brother partner Bay Sir on about 3 songs, adding rap to the mix.  If there's been a theme of being pro-high-tech tonight (almost everyone has had their own smartphone or laptop setup), and another theme of me being cynically 'phobic about it all, it reaches a height here with a series of acute pro-tools misplays.  The last act was abruptly ending his beats even when he wasn't cutting them short, but Abstract Machine fighting with his computer in between comically threatening any audience member who doesn't come to watch him takes the cake.  Still very enjoyable though.  

Compere Michael finally takes the microphone rather than just shouting introductions, but don't think he's without his own welcoming.  A line-up of incense and skulls, some of them sporting cigars and aviation goggles, are there at the front of the stage to set the tone.  Humour melded with a dead serious side is the order for Michael and DJ Hollow Life, collectively known as Direwood.  This is their 43rd gig and it shows.  If there's a nerdcore leaning here, it just means there's an abundance of influences from various mediums, hot beats chiptune and otherwise, and a self-awareness and awareness of hip hop that utterly keeps it real.  An audience request for "Wonderwall" gets denied because the Gallagher brothers are apparently dicks.  Lyrics "Get up stand up" become my 5th Bob Marley reference of the day, while the repeated line "EBT, yeah you know me" points out that the food stamp system is nothing if not naughty, nasty and crappy by nature.  

"Like the Black Eyed Peas if they didn't suck" are Michael's final words as we await gig closers The Real Clash.  While their singer Eliana "Voxx" Blanchard is unavailable for this performance, The Real Clash are just as good, experienced in adapting to their situation (though we might hope they stop short of adapting in the way the Peas did about 10 years ago).  They sound loud and brilliant in the confined space here, with funk, rock and rap all complementing one another.  Eat your heart out Body Count.  The funk is sent higher when Isaac "I-Sick" Reidt's bass strap breaks, sending him into a physically wild solo fury.  Uniting the people and fellow artists in the room who have stayed up this late vocalists Jay Acolyte and Shadcore step off the wood pallet stage during the last song and fuse their cacophony into the crowd.  Long having shed any status as a mere college band, TRC put the finishing touch on a satisfying evening.  The debut album Clash Wednesdays will be out March 3rd.  

Notorious S.A.D.
D.I.L.F. EP
Self-released, 2014
 
This 6-track EP is a golden nugget of wonderfun. At 4am when you're working overnights, exchanging Halloween tat for Christmas tat, blasting this downloadable slab into your lugholes is guaranteed to blow the spiderwebs off -- that's the metaphorical and the decorative kinds! DILF gets the working class seal of approval from all Notorious SADDOS, alternating between punk styles with the greatest of ease. Dude, I'm lost in the crazy part of my brain! Where's the sleep? Where's the telephone? Who cares, just get this free goodness while you can, you filthy dogmonsters! Time is nigh on your life, so fucking rock out, and get to Cuttin' Loose!
 
https://www.facebook.com/Sugar-Dynamite-Delight-674668342590037/

In Defense of Dog Shit
Originally privately commissioned

Dog shit is one of the most underrated contributors to human culture and experience.  Like many donations made to the rich tapestry of life on this planet by our animal friends it is often scorned and dismissed, simply because we judge everything by the standards of a human effort -- including shits.

It is said that you cannot enjoy the good of people without the not-so-good.  Dark days lend definition and contrast to those days of pure joy.  And in this way perhaps you cannot love our canine companions without loving their shit.  There may well be times when you wish dogs could be trained to use a toilet like all self-respecting species. I mean, if they can be taught to skateboard, and all the other kinds of bollocks you can find on youtube, it should be possible.  But would we really want to even if we could?  

Donning those plastic bags as gloves teaches us much needed humility.  Dodging in a particularly well-bombed area can provide an activity as carefree as a little girls' hopscotch game.  Dull, grey roads, endlessly reproduced by the lifelessness of modern capitalism, are doused with flickers of life in a dazzling array of colours.  And every time we set eyes on one of the little turds, we are faced with the lies we tell ourselves.  For not only does our shit, in fact, stink, but it does not go away when we flush it -- it careens around impressive u-bends into complicated sewer systems, but it's fate of having nowhere particularly desirable to go is the same as those piles you find discarded at the bus stop.  The dog is connected to her surroundings, and she knows it. For her, there is no bullshit -- only dogshit.

In its marginalisation, in its unfortunate ability to be associated with all that is bad and terrible, dogshit has also ballooned greatly our literary language.  Say, for example, that you have a manager who seems singlehandedly to prove the complete unjustness of our society.  You could say that he has shit for brains. Or you could raise it to the level of creative escapism from your inane, debilitating work, by saying you have come across dogshits with more brains than him.  He could be compared to a canine extraction floating to the top of a tank of previously unsullied water.  You could say that his utter fecklessness, his overblown sense of self-importance and stupid bloody laugh are a shower of dog shit that speckles the workplace even during those many hours when he hasn't the decency to show up and actually attempt to do anything of worth.

If you remain unconvinced that dog 'crap' (as prudes call it) is both a philosophers' dream topic and a source of endless wonder and fascination, see this website. It has a .eu country code domain, and if the Europeans are paying their respects to the little brown mountains, you should take note before the rest of the yanks catch on: http://www.dogshit.eu/ (you'll also find many images of goats, if you're into that sort of thing).

I would like to end with a take on an old Marx Brothers joke. Outside of a dog, a book is a mans best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too utterly stuffed with dogshit to find any room to read.

Notorious S.A.D.
Saturday, March 1st 2014
Planet Retro Gallery, St. Petersburg, FL

A store by the name of Planet Retro appears, at first, to fit perfectly into Simon Reynolds' depressing vision of Retromania -- a musical culture increasingly mining it's own past for lack of interesting developments in the present.  But, an awareness that the past will eventually run out if we don't make new stuff must be present within the owners of Planet Retro, as they also host gigs for local bands. Tonight's is a donation-based fundraiser for Brother Sister Sessions, St. Pete makers of retro-point boosting music videos.

When the drummer for Notorious S.A.D., Andrew Turner, starts singing, I think of the singing drummer from Snuff -- as always in this scenario.  The idea is put to bed when the other two members join the vocals as well.  It's quickly clear that NSAD come more from the slice of the punky pie where you'll find The Vandals or The Queers, dishing out fruity silliness in great doses (with a bit more musical skill than those acts, admittedly).  In this sense, their name is the best purposefully inaccurate moniker since Parks and Recreation's optimistic bureaucrat, Leslie Knope.  The only time sadness rears its head during their 25 minute set is when you think a song by the acronym of DILF stands for the obvious; in fact, it is the tale of a Dude being Lost in Florida.  By just the third tune of this their second performance, Notorious "D" Devon Mackinnon is dancing around on his back, snaking upside down towards the audience whilst playing guitar.  At the age of 24 he will either be this animated for the rest of his life, or become a shitheap by this time next spring.

The band members are planning a move to Austin later this year, so we should hope that they do end up getting lost in Florida.  Failing that, just go and see them while you have the chance.  An EP is on the way (review here).  

Two other bands performed this evening, but this review is being filed under 'abandoned.'  It seems only fair to include their pages though. Go give them a listen:

Madame Albatross: https://www.facebook.com/MadameAlbatross
the patients: https://www.facebook.com/thepatientsband

Black Russian Roulette

Right Kinda Wrong EP

Self-released, 2013

 

Full disclaimer: Black Russian Roulette’s lead guitarist is my nephew.  Actually — wait a second.  There’s probably not a reviewer in underground rock music who’s not written something for a friend’s band.  Why should it be a big deal if it’s for a family member?  I’m free to be honest. This EP is the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard.

Well not really.

Political Russian roulette has become a heightened game in the last 18 months.  On the one hand Russia is apparently taking care of global hero Edward Snowden, and blocking invasion in Syria, even if it probably is primarily to upset the yanks. On the other hand, it’s locking up feminist punk bands and passing anti-gay laws in a fashion that would make the Ugandan government proud.  You never know which Russia you’re going to get.  Supposedly Putin is going to go for the holy trinity of bigotry soon by further aligning himself with neo-nazis and doing something overtly outrageous to the country’s black population.  Which brings us to this new band, from the political powerhouse of Leigh in Greater Manchester.

Black Russian Roulette are a heavy rock band who formed in summer 2012.  Their influences include 70s pioneers of hard music from England (Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath), Ireland (Thin Lizzy), Australia (AC/DC) and the Moscow folk scene (possibly untrue).  The genres origins of blues and Americana are evident in much of the subject matter of the lyrics, with allusions to outrunning cops, tanks of gas and criminality (‘One in the Chamber,’ ‘Outlaw’).  Connecting to the driving stuff, there’s also a couple of tracks dealing with that ever popular rock theme of pursuing women but escaping domesticity (‘Holdin On,’ ‘She Devil’).  This all fits really well with a band so potently named as to incorporate both contained violence and drinking into their title.

Musically, there’s a lot of body here, with the drums and 3 guitars coming together in a way that never feels like too much is going on at once.  Noodling is used to complement rather than stand out egotistically.  This is evidenced well on the re-recorded version of ‘She Devil’ (previously released as a demo), featuring 40% more beef.  Matt Cooper’s vocals ride the wave of rock smoothly, even with that necessary rough edge due to (it seems) consuming too much smoke and booze in some Gulf Coast dive bar.  Right Kinda Wrong is a neat little package that flows well from the opening track of ‘Holdin On’ to ‘Shout,’ hitting that sweet spot between variety and cohesiveness.  If, like me, you’re into music with speed, you might like ‘One in the Chamber’ and the title track (a melodic number which is the shortest on the release by almost a minute).

Growing steadily in just a year, Black Russian Roulette are doing a lot of gigging in the North West in the next few months.  Even if hard rock isn’t normally your thing, you could do worse than getting this EP or getting your arse out of the house to go and see them.  Just don’t tell President Vlad that you’re having too much fun or he’ll probably come after you, shirtless, riding a horse.


 
Wild Stallions! 

You can hear the entire EP, and buy it (£5), at this page: http://www.reverbnation.com/blackrussianroulette

The Real Clash of the Titans

Thursday, November 15th 2012

St. Petersburg College Music Center, FL

In some rock scenes, the concept of 'Battle of the Bands' has taken a nosedive in acceptability over the years.  This is due to a general belief that musicians should not be competing.  Hip hop, on the other hand, has always had an internal dynamic of competition built in from it's earliest days.  But could that now also be on the wane?  This evening showcase for St. Petersburg College's Real Clash of The Titans was intended to include a rap battle.  Despite decent efforts to find "golden tongued" MCs, after a few warm up performances, the night turns into a regular gig.

 

This is not such a bad thing however, as the Hip Hop Ensemble's first show is fantastic.  Jay Acolyte begins by saying what conscious rappers have been saying for decades now: that their intention is to show the intelligent commentary hip hop can provide.  Decked out in glasses and a Mario t-shirt, Jay looks the part of the conscious rapper (though veering close to the conscious nerdcore stylings of MC Frontalot), and for the first song of many he is joined by fellow lyricist Rashad "Shadcore" Harrell. It's a strong opener, and by the time of second song 'Stupid,' 2 more people have joined the microphone wall of sound.  A bit of inverse nu-metal (growling over a beat) takes place before, briefly, a fifth lyricist joins them! (Special guest Doug Leto.)

 

Real Clash of the Titans are taking it back to the concrete streets with not just real live MCs but original beats.  This showcase features all kinds of musicians, and their combining does not feel forced. Each instrument and vocal style is given a chance to shine: 2 drums, bongos, turntables, piano, keyboard, bass, guitar, singing, cowbell, beatboxing, flamingos. Their well-mixed mash-up and also sheer numbers are reminiscent of The Polyphonic Spree or Asian Dub Foundation.  And if you don't think Asian Dub Foundation comparisons are something to get worked up about, you're missing out (the similarities are even closer than that: ADF began as a youth music project at a community center, while RCOTT are from a music department at a community college).

 

There's yet more artistic breadth on display here.  Most of the event has taken place under darkness with deft use of spotlights.  During an instrumental moment, a total lack of light allows for a theater-like moving of scenery, and when the lights come up we're treated to a trash can performance in the vein of Stomp.  French surrealism makes an appearance in the track 'Tribute to Marcel Duchamp,'  and a slower number called 'Chalkboard' acknowledges where the ensemble is rooted in the here and now.  Just when you think no more variety can be crammed in, Dawn Pufahl joins everyone else, playing viola on the Titans anthem, 'Effigy.'  We even get to hear it almost twice as DJay Acolyte kindly stops the piece halfway through so that the viola can be adjusted and properly heard.

 

I am glad these friendly and talented people are The Real Clash of the Titans, as the recent films starring Liam Neeson have been crap.  When the next installment of the franchise comes out, go and see this lot instead. 

 

You can see and hear The Real Clash of the Titans performing at the Tarpon Springs campus, on December 1st, here. 

James Lamont is host of Transatlantic Tunnel on the MYRA Radio Network.

OFF!/Negative Approach/Double Negative
Tuesday, September 25th 2012
State Theatre, St. Petersburg, Florida

The tired impression that punk is nothing but nihilism gets a breath of life with a line-up of bands named like this.  It’s time for some mathcore: a Double Negative equals a (presumably) single positive, plus another Negative (Approach) brings us back to zero in which case the music stays Off!.  Goddamn Christ, imagine if Negative FX (hardcore band that NOFX took their name from) or any other number of miserable bastard-sounding bands had managed to show up, we’d be here all night.

And between a door time of 7pm and North Carolina’s Double Negative not coming on until 9:20, for a while it’s starting to look like we will be. Playing with Off! does not mean that you never come on stage.  Double Negative may not have been to blame of course, and they have the decency to be pretty good, if not exactly amazing.  Singer Scott Williams (aka, ‘Epic Warfare’) provides crisp vocals to music that while not mere noise, does reject the oxymoron of ‘melodic’ hardcore in favour of wandering experimentation that doesn’t find anywhere that interesting.  (Having now listened to their recordings a few times without feeling impatient or knackered, I have a better impression. Nice stuff.)

It is not so much a Negative Approach as a slow-and-steady approach for the Detroit band who perform next.  Not their music, which is a mixture of short fast hardcore and dirty rock n roll; this is their very first visit to St. Pete since they originally formed in 1981.  John Brannon live sounds a bit like Dennis Lyxzén (Refused/T(I)NC) screaming over metal-tinged rock with fat and beefy riffs.  Fittingly for a band with a great song like ‘Dead Stop,’ Negative Approach have the satisfying sudden ending down to a T.  When, on a couple of occasions, the band needs to fix something or get in tune, there is either pleasant banter or calm intermissions.  The guitarist might need to come back to St. Pete at a future date though if he saw the city the way he saw the crowd: his back was facing us the entire time.

Like in those intermissions, it is strangely quiet in the venue between the sets of Negative Approach and Off!.  I decided before this gig that the back-to-basics nature of Off!’s music meant I should also try to embrace simple fun by getting the crap kicked out of myself.  After an initially slow reaction from the crowd, a few songs in a circle pit in the shape of the bands opening letter viciously forms and puts to bed any thoughts I had about getting in there.  Keith Morris is manic and wide-eyed as usual, blasting through songs so short and intense that his extended stage rants are needed to make the set long enough.  Telling people to vote: not normally considered all that punk of an activity. But the way Morris stares at you when he says it (“they don’t WANT you to vote”), as if he’s stabbing daggers of self-evident truth into your brain, is very compelling.

Before ‘Borrow and Bomb’ he complains about the flaccid argument that the US is broke as well as its drone strikes, in a refreshingly straightforward (or simplistic) way that most of Off!’s 65-second songs mirror.  The song ‘Jeffrey Lee Pierce’ is a eulogy for the blues-punk pioneer, in which we are all invited to insert the name of somebody we have lost.  Some arsehole who has never lost anyone shouts “nobody cares.”  From the look on Morris’s face, it’s hard to tell if he is being truthful when he pauses then says that he can’t hear very well on stage.  Another cock decides that ‘Peace in Hermosa’ (“this one’s about peace”) is the perfect time to shoulder launch into unsuspecting people.  There is no time to worry about such shit though — Off! hammer through something close to their entire output of music before leaving without an encore.  Their set was a lot like their recordings both in sound and vibe, and for that we should be happy.

Pennywise
All or Nothing (whole album stream here)
Epitaph, 2012


The Black Pacific
The Black Pacific (sample tracks here)
SideOneDummy, 2010

This week I got the latest album by Pennywise (All or Nothing), and The Black Pacific’s self-titled debut, for a combined total of $7.  One was used, one was a promo copy; talk about pennywise.  Treating them like competing records would be stupid, and The Black Pacific album has been out for 2 years, but I thought it would be interesting to review them together.  How do the former bandmates stack up under the daunting pressure of performing separately?

Jim Lindberg was Pennywise’s singer for 20 years, so the expectations upon him to go in a different direction with The Black Pacific were considerable.  On opening track ‘The System’ you can hear Jim straining both his vocal chords and desire to do just that, and this heavier tint comes back intermittently throughout the album.  Perhaps predictably, however, it’s for the most part not a huge break, either lyrically or musically.  This isn’t necessarily a bad thing: at their best, Pennywise delivered albums with small, practically indescribable steps of evolution over previous recordings.

The new blood have provided Jim with a deeper, chunkier, larger backing sound, worthy of a band with ‘Pacific’ in their name.  ‘Kill Your Idols,’ for example, is not a dedication to that earlier SideOneDummy act, but an indie band at its most punk and exciting.  ‘Put Down Your Weapons’ and ‘No Purpose,’ at the end of the album, both show original territory and vocal techniques if not themes.  Most importantly, The Black Pacific aren’t running out of energy by the time they get to these songs, a trait that plagued recent Pennywise records.  Lindberg genuinely sounds like he is enjoying his return to music after spending time writing a book (Punk Rock Dad) and taking the leading role in a documentary inspired by that book (The Other F-Word).  Right now things appear quiet in the BP camp (yeah, Black Pacific could indeed be a spoof name for the deepwater-drilling oil company), but new material has supposedly been in the works for a while, so keep an ear out.

Despite the comfort of still being together, the remaining members of Pennywise also had considerable pressure going into this release. Not only were they showcasing a new vocalist (Zoli Téglás of Ignite), but the growing impression that they had nothing left to offer must have been evident to them.  You can see it in the album cover claim that All or Nothing is a “return to their roots,” as well as the fact that it bears a close resemblance to the design of their self-titled 1991 classic.  They also make a thankful return to Epitaph, after 2008’s close to un-listenable Reason to Believe came out (in the U.S.) on Myspace Records.  And as for the title…

The first impression is a good one.  The title track and particularly its opening line, “What’s the fucking problem with this world today?,” are so blastingly well delivered that you’re forced to give the revised line-up a chance.  By the third and forth track the band sound like they are desperately using speed to avoid running out of steam — and succeeding pretty well.  What exactly has led Pennywise back to this encouraging place?  The addition of Téglás must have something to do with it, as they largely avoid sounding like just another EpiFat band without Lindberg’s distinctive voice.  Stopping the cycle of rushing albums out every 2 years must also have helped.  Just as listeners sometimes need to take time off from their CDs to refresh how they sound, the band really needed to take stock. 

All the problems haven’t been fixed though.  The cliché expressions we’ve come to expect are still around despite coming from a different mouth, like “hypocrisy” (‘Tomorrow’ and ‘United’), “all along” (‘X Generation’ and uh, ‘All Along’) and my god, the bloody “woah-oh” filler.  It even gets to the point where you don’t know if lines are clever homages and references or lazily written.  The aforementioned opening track features “We’ll never know until we try,” which is strikingly close to “How will we know until we try?” from Pennywise‘s amazing blast-off, ‘Wouldn’t it Be Nice’.  ‘Seeing Red’ might be a Minor Threat reference, and Fletcher Dragge’s only stand-out line on the album, “Fuck off and die,” might well be a nod to Lindberg’s same stand-out shout on Unknown Road‘s ‘Nothing’.  Who the hell knows?  Despite a succinct 12 tracks, the last third still lags.

It might seem sad to acknowledge that both camps, as of now, seem to be doing better work apart.  Fans of old Pennywise will find these albums easily enjoyable, even if they don’t exactly reinvent the skateboard wheel.  It’s because a little change makes for a vast improvement: Pennywise were never that different, on paper, between making great and rubbish music.  So while they may not have quite come full circle, as the Pennywise logo shows, a jagged attempt at a rough circle can be cool as well.

Edit: In October 2012, Jim rejoined Pennwise, rendering some of the thoughts in this review really dumb. For the time being anyway. The Black Pacific isn’t over, but looks like it will be on the back-burner for the foreseeable future.

Comeback Kid/Foundation/Living With Lions/Such Gold/Close Your Eyes
Wednesday, March 21st 2012
Local 662, St. Petersburg, FL

Looking at the line-up, it seemed like it was going to be a crowded evening.  Not so -- several unfortunate events transpired, and while the remaining bands were still extremely good, more quantity of their quality would have been welcome.  So what happened?  Christian hardcore band Close Your Eyes either pulled out or were mistakenly included on the poster.  New York's heavy pop-punkers Such Gold apparently broke down on their way to St. Pete.  And Living With Lions, from Vancouver, did make it, but sadly I only caught a few songs.  They sounded cool, so having given them a closer listen online, I decided they come across like an international smörgåsbord of Millencolin, Taking Back Sunday and fellow Canadians Belvedere.  Further national solidarity was noted through one members wearing of a Propagandhi shirt.  Since that's all I have to say, I'll just end by paraphrasing The Damned: linklinklink!  http://www.last.fm/music/Close+Your+Eyes, http://suchgold.bandcamp.com/, http://www.punknews.org/bands/livingwithlions. 

It's the first time in Tampa Bay for Foundation, but you would never know from the love that the crowd showers upon them.  Apparently not disappointed by the lack of 'Build Me Up Buttercup' [er, that's The Foundations], the audience goes for it with this Atlanta straight-edge hardcore band, who communicate with them perfectly.  Or at least they would have, if they had let their music do the talking for them.  Vocalist Tomas Pearson fronts everything with fantastic passion, but falls prey to doing a hardcore sermon from the punk pulpit.  It's not offputting or terrible compared to some straight edge ensembles, but rather cliché.  If nothing else though, his enthusiasm at the age of 28 does perhaps show that being in a band is the best way to keep ones cynicism about music and punk pushed evermore into the future.  A solid foundation for the headliners built, and two welcome false-endings later ("this is that same song but part 2!"), they exit.  

Comeback Kid scare the crap out of me with their sudden opening, devoid of clues such as warm-up noises or a hello.  Pit enthusiasts impersonate the kamikaze bugs from Starship Troopers, piling themselves all the way up to the head-height of stagebound and very tall frontman, Andrew Neufeld.  The drums are immense and command excitement.  Last time I saw Comeback Kid was in Manchester, England in 2006, and they were underwhelming.  Maybe at the time they were getting used to their new line-up or the venue had bad sound, but it doesn't matter now -- this band, so aptly named for a second chance, do a great job.  They play a mix of material, including huge tracks like 'All in a Year' and 'Die Tonight' from their equally appropriately named 'Turn It Around' debut.  The State Theatre across the street, where the band tell us they have always performed in the past, surely couldn't measure up to the intimacy here.  Not so intimate though, that giant dickheads can keep themselves from throwing trash cans across the room on multiple occasions, landing un-comically on peoples heads.  Getting hurt at these gigs might be par for the course, but for some reason this just seems a different situation to being clocked by a flying windmill arm (which I was).  Perhaps hoping to soothe our injuries (this is the Symptoms + Cures tour after all), Comeback Kid end with the somewhat tired 'Wake The Dead'.  But, with some assistance from another Propagandhi shirt, they leave having overall reminded us that Canada often just does things right.  

set and setting/Windhand/Flying Snakes/Old Soul
Fubar, St. Petersburg, FL
Thursday March 8th, 2012

 

In the land of the rising sun, shows sometimes end by 9pm or so, to allow time for other activities afterwards.  So it is perhaps fitting that this evening of dark, distinctly non-rising-sun music should start as late as 9:30.  Openers Old Soul (who are up past their bedtime if they think that name really describes them) are on tour from Michigan.  They play black metal-tinged screamo complete with loud and quiet parts, across a selection of songs with one word titles like Forest.  I only caught a couple of them, so either they started early to help move things along or the time allotment was just the price they had to pay for being added to the bill last minute.  They recently released a record, Who are Willing to Draw Close, the second part of a concept album.

 

Before the next act, a man comes up to me talking with a Grateful Dead attititude and what he calls an Oliver Twist accent.  This proved to be coincidental.  When Flying Snakes begin performing, it’s obvious that These Arms Are Not Snakes but canvases for tattoos, and one display appears to be of Big Ben or some similar clock.  Their arms are also used to play brilliant rhythmic heaviness, a mixture of sludge and punk.  The band only come to a full stop at one point in the set, and the only thing close to a gimmick is when a sound almost like a siren is heard.  But it was probably just more guitar. 

 

Screenshots from the upcoming Doom 4 game were leaked online a few weeks ago, showing scenes of a post-hell nightmare on Earth.  The sight of Virginia doom metal band Windhand is thankfully a lot more pleasant.  First, vocalist Dorthia is single-handedly representing female musicianship here on this International Women’s Day.  Second, bassist Nathan is wearing a white Mr Bungle t-shirt, and looking refreshingly un-the-part.  Their driving sound is really cool and a welcome change of pace, until two apparently amusing fuck-ups (equipment?), the second of which leads to their early exit.

 

As if to make up for gained time, set and setting spend a long period setting up.  Aha.  Anyway, during this lull a huge crowd builds, and by the time the set (groan) is going Fubar is basically wall-to-wall with people.  I say going, because their particular style of Mogwai, Day For Airstrikes, et al instrumental ambience is so politely woven into the evening that I barely noticed they had started before being entranced (a loud cheer from the audience was the tip-off).  The subtle build-up of intensity always makes bands such as this one seem intelligent, so it’s only right that set and setting have taken the misunderstood poster-child for stupid musicians — the drummer — and given him a twin. (The group does feature literal siblings, but only one is a drummer).  Actually, they so believe in the potential of the stick-bearer that there are two and a half of them.  A guy is sitting on the stage by the wall, occasionally hitting a cymbol, though whether the sitting or the hitting is incidental isn’t all that clear.  There comes a point where the connection to the other acts on the bill is more obvious, as some in the crowd are overtaken with headbanging desires and dual guitars.  The influence of pairs next leads set and setting to perform two encores, which also reach heavy heights.  At 1am perhaps it’s a bridge too far, but as tonight is the start of a 36 day tour, going big is understandable.  The sun may set, but it will rise again tomorrow!

The Tim Version/Your Pest Band/Holy Shit!/Nothing in the Dark/Bobby Joe Ebola and the Children Macnuggits
Saturday, 24th September 2011
Fubar, St. Petersburg, FL

I am sat on a damaged stool, glancing around the bar at familiar characters from home.  A moments thought reveals them not to be those same people, and another moment made up of silly disappointment follows.  A track by a soulful, melancholic woman plays in the background to help capture the instant.  Then some crappy pop comes on and really ruins it.

I think at this time that I've missed the band Nothing in the Dark (who I was particularly excited about seeing), because Bobby Joe Ebola and the Children Macnuggits have just started performing and I was under the impression they were going on second.  This turns out not to be true, but for the moment I'm bummed, and the youtube humour of BJECM isn't helping.  'Youtube humour' is a reference to the lower standards we place on comedy when it's in an internet video, and the same is true of much 'comedic' music.  It's not personal - Tenacious D don't do anything for me either - and maybe the specifics of the songs are cleverer than you might initially think.  But themes of zombies and beer need more going for them than quirk factor, in my opinion.  On the plus side, they do cover Billy Bragg, and venture into posi/political territory with the chorus "life is excellent (the tap water tastes like excrement)."  

Gripping my Nothing in the Dark free demo, I move to the front of the venue.  I see a snare drum onstage with a picture of a topless, sexualised, black woman on it, and continue to be grumpy, thinking about what a stupid white boys club punk can continue to be.  I don't know which band owns the drum, but the guys setting up have a guitarist in a cast, which is uh, progressive!  Or cool anyway.  It is revealed that this is in fact NITD, giving me the burst of punk I most heavily needed, and wearing surprisingly bright blue and yellow shirts for a band so-named (and the cast is orange!)  The vocal style is similar to Leftover Crack, but the music is more consistently good, bearing a pinch of pre-shitty Against Me!.  Their (excellent) song 'Drink Hard With a Vengeance" sounds a lot like something else that I can't place.  Though I suspect its obvious and I'll feel stupid later.  They have a few great solos and are one of the best acts I've heard in a while.  

Holy Shit! are a band with a name that can be applied numerous ways, which is relatively genius.  It pulls the rug out from under any would-be critics.  "Harhar, you think we're holy shit? Yes, very witty."  They take a while to get started, informing us that the Japanese name for Jigglypuff is Pudding, and playfully mocking.  To be honest, I don't think Americans are in any position to question what the Japanese call a computerised marshmallow with a face, given some of the names of real, human children in this country.  Talk about holy shit moments.  Anyway, once they get going it's clear they play a lovely shitstorm (no pun intended) of noise/power/arse/whatever and very enjoyable it is too.  It's the kind of music that could sound like a chaotic mess, but an element in there is holding it together in an unconventional way.  They do suffer from a bit of 'When do I clap?' syndrome due to the storm's structure, so hopefully they understand they are not unloved.  

In quick and exciting succession come Your Pest Band from Tokyo.  They also have a touch of 'When do I clap?' syndrome but are more melodic than Holy Shit!.  Their driving punk rock is anything but pest-like and and as they have invited us all to be honourary members of their band, I welcome them to come play near me at anytime.  They "love PBR" and yet they "hate PBR" (like all those with sense).  They love NOFX enough to cover them but hate wearing t-shirts.  Really brilliant.  Considering how far they have traveled it's a shame they don't perform for longer.  Check out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OhClKnwOiHY and the connected videos on the right-hand side. (Edit: and see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vliC1hHo1jQ for this particular performance!)

The short set of YPB is made just a tad more disheartening by the long wait for The Tim Version.  The energy in the room starts to dissipate, but there's promise at the sight of a band member wearing a Leatherface shirt, and, elsewhere, a Public Enemy sticker on a guitar.  The raspy, mush-y vocals here are inspired by some strand of punk, but I can't for the life of me think which, not even when listening to their song 'Leatherface.'  All I know is that the beard at this point seems to have become an instrument in its own right, filtering regular vocal chords into pools of warm and comforting awesomeness.  A beautiful dog, with a full-body beard, is being walked around the venue, and it agrees and approves.  At times, the slow epics aren't quite making the grade for 1am.  However, a crowd-enforced encore of their opening number makes me think a differently-timed version of The Tim Version would make the jump from good to great. 

The Bigger They Are, the Harder They Fall

How Simple Geography Insulates Centres of Power

Originally published at Dissident Voice

What needs to be done to stand out in 2011?  Aside from the problematic blind spots that the media normally sports, so much has been happening around the world during the first two-thirds of this year that it takes something pretty special to get on the radar.  The rolling protests against the Keystone XL tar sands pipeline — recently concluded at the White House — seem like a good contender for coverage.  Despite the normally smart-but-tough environmentalist Bill Mckibben stating that “[t]he last thing we want to do is harass the president,” and a policy of only allowing sit-down tactics, the action is gutsy, huge, exciting, and the level at which the climate movement needs to be thinking.  Over 1,200 were arrested between August 20th and the finale on September 3rd.

The ease with which so many splintered greens agreed to come together is an indicator of what a disaster the dirty fuel corridor would be.  Through its sheer 1,700 mile proposed stretch from Alberta to the Gulf of Mexico, however, the pipeline and the protests it has prompted draw attention to a more subtle subject that affects many of the biggest issues we face.  That subject is distance: getting to Washington DC or any particular place in a continent-spanning country is extremely difficult.  The unspectacular but useful insulation that this provides to those causing harm in the world is something we have failed to properly acknowledge.

There are, of course, many reasons why it’s hard to get large numbers of people together here for an event worthy of 2011.  An openly smashed and undermined public transport system coupled with the extreme normalization of the car plays a part.  As does the criminalizing and marginalizing of protest.  A bad economy makes any kind of travel expensive, and even in the good times those who most needed to voice their discontent had a hard time getting cash together or time off work.  And in the case of environmentalism, the desire to not be seen as hypocrites who drive or fly to protests is an understandable if misguided notion.

Geographic realities, however, may appear free of blame, and to some extent, they are.  Despite the best efforts of industrialism to reshape the Earth’s crust and coasts, no human is responsible for the overall shape of the Americas or any other landmass.  But significant decisions made over centuries have dictated where people will live and of what nationality they will be.  There is irony in the fact that the past imperial expansion of Manifest Destiny, scattering populations until they started to pile up on the West coast, today provides protection to the architects of further expansion.  The American founders made no secret of their wishes to see their country bathing over a massive area; among the objections to King George III in The Declaration of Independence is his “raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.”

It makes sense that they would seek to grow.  There is a connection between physical country size and power.  Medium-sized Western European nations managed to attain global rule through a groundbreaking form of energy exploitation that allowed them to mimic bigger places: a single barrel of oil contains the equivalent energy of five agricultural laborers, working 12 hour days, 365 days a year.  As the glorious new pathway to prosperity spread, it was, in the words of British economic historian John Clapham, inevitable that “a continent would . . . raise more coal and make more steel than one small island”¹ – thus came the rise of the United States and the USSR.  We see this today in the increasing influence (however bogeyman-style distorted by current rulers) of coal-filled China, biofuel-powered Brazil and even Harper’s Canada, which is not pushing tar sands for fun or social programs.  In this age where fossil fuels are at the epicenter of many issues, irony is compounded, as those countries most in need of dissent (mainly still the US) are the ones with the best geographic insulation.

In what way should we frame this problem?  Some may think back to that old phrase “think globally, act locally.”  As our oil-hungry and autistic economic systems² continue to unravel, local work is essential.  But the centers of power are not going to collapse politely.  Large, confrontational events are essential as well, as we have seen across the Middle East, North Africa and Europe.  Simply turning our backs on the places where big decisions are made will give the players there further free reign.

The Declaration of Independence also complained that the Monarchy had “endeavoured to prevent the population of these States.” Could population growth be part of the solution here?  Perhaps, but it is a very blunt instrument.  As the population rises, more space is taken up and proposals for better mass transit could emerge – but a certain density is needed, and by the time any significant impact was to be felt in this regard, the destruction of hundreds of millions more American lifestyles would be evident.  With over half the world’s people living now living in cities, it’s also obvious that we tend to live in places that are already more on the heavily populated side.  And although it’s not a direct correlation, more citizens mean you need more protesters for the same impact: this is one reason we don’t hear about China experiencing “. . . riots worse than those in England every single week.” (Another reason is we’re being groomed to think that the Chinese are a monolithic hive-mind who are going to steal our freedom or our African oil or something.)

Building better long-distance transport should remain a goal, but it would be a mammoth task to get even a modest amount of the population an improved way into D.C.  Plus, in the short term at least, high-speed rail will remain as expensive for passengers and around as polluting as cars and planes.  Dynamiting the continent into smaller pieces is probably not a popular or sensible option.  This appears to leave reshaping the arbitrary map lines in which we put so much stock, and how we relate to them.  Perhaps it is because of the presence of strong regional and state identities — coupled with the balance of state/federal power — that Americans seem more concerned about the possibility of separatism than people of other nations.  The name of the country might be a powerful sedative, but neither it nor the fact that 50 is a lovely round number should be sufficient argument for holding together.  And then there’s the memory of the civil war – an occasion when preventing a perverse practice (to stick with the usual simplistic narrative) was a good, ethical reason to overrule Southern autonomy.  Not all — or even many — conditions meet this grade.  While the politics that dominate in some states today may be ugly, they are not akin to chattel slavery.

At the risk of upsetting liberals, there is nothing inherently more progressive or effective about governments that preside over large populations and areas than those that work in one-fiftieth of that space.  Even governments of much smaller countries are often clueless about what life is like beyond a certain radius of the capital city.  Conservatives who advocate states rights are on to something (where they fall down is identity confusion).  The thought of having to win political victories in 50 (or more) separate locations as opposed to one may seem daunting, but that’s because we lie to ourselves if we think getting anything done at the current federal level is in any way easy.  If it seemed, under a revised geopolitics, that raising objections weren’t so pointless, you might even get more protesters from within any individual state than you would in making a US-wide call-out for everyone to converge on that state.

It is a prime time for this topic to be discussed, as several actions even more ambitious than the Keystone XL demonstration are coming up soon, and their success may depend in part on whether distance keeps numbers down. On September 17th a group suggesting a “US Day of Rage” wants non-violent assemblies to take place at the local and national level, demanding that the influence of money be booted out of politics.  In an associated event, the magazine Adbusters is behind a call to occupy Wall Street with a tent city on the same date making similar demands, and hopes people will stay for the long haul.  In October, the Afghanistan War goes into an 11th year, the 2012 federal austerity budget begins, and on the 6th another ongoing square takeover is planned for Freedom Plaza in D.C.  The former of these plans acknowledges that local options are necessary, though it comes with the risk of diminishing totals at the main event.

Even though protest targets and decision makers know that any number of activists suggests wider support, the likes of square occupations require physical bodies to have the desired effect.  Cautious optimism suggests that if nothing else these mobilizations will be stepping stones and warning shots, but pessimism whispers that if they do not produce results, it will harden the perception that change and revolution are things by, and for, other people in other places.  For an example of what it would be like to live in a different kind of place, see Iceland.  In November 2008 when the neoliberal dream died there, 9000 people took to the streets against banks and government, as a modest part of a more radical movement.  Mathematically adjusted, that is the equivalent of 9.5million Americans.  That many converging on the White House is physically unlikely and a logistical and safety nightmare.  That many across a continent of autonomous and easily accessible small governments would be a big moment of excess.

1. J. H. Clapham, qtd in The End of Influence: What Happens When Other Countries Have the Money, Stephen S. Cohen and J. Bradford DeLong, 2010, Basic Books, p38
2. The author realizes that there is a spectrum of autistic conditions; however, the use of the term to describe an intelligent but tunnel-vision economy is not his own.

Captain of Industry

Review of Captain America: The First Avenger

Originally published at Dissident Voice

Spoiler alert: America wins! (But seriously, spoiler alert.)

If you want a picture of the future, imagine a man masturbating with an American flag — forever.  That is at least part of the message that I took away from Captain America: The First Avenger.¹ The US is that unique superpower that will never fall, and as evidence for such a position withers, the way that the history of such a power is presented can make all the difference in the remaining number of true believers.

The film is set during the final years of World War II, when the US was kicking Nazi ass and preparing to become captain-in-chief of the post-war planet.  In the 21st century, Nazis are incredibly useful storytelling tools.  They were white, so you don’t have to worry about those annoying charges of racism and the hard work of checking for privilege in the script writing.  They’re the nearest there is to a consensus when it comes to identifying real-life bad guys (so you don’t have to worry about alienating too many potential customers), whereas every murderous rampage since has been morally murky and not suited to superhero simplifications.  And for an increasingly large majority of people, they are not known by memory, and can thus be embodied with whatever evil or comical characteristics suit the occasion (and of the minority who do remember, not too many go to summer blockbusters). If the country has been waging war in the name of peace since before we can remember, why shouldn’t we think that it will extend at least that far again into the future, if not indefinitely?

Whilst we’ve been continually retelling the story of our ‘finest hour,’ however, the world has, in fact, changed.  Domestic dollars no longer provide enough of the monetary expansion needed, and while the proportion of the global population mired in poverty has scarcely changed (thanks to decades of neoliberalism and economy crushing depressions), there are still more opportunities abroad than in 1945.  Just as the gangrenous News Of The World was severed by Murdoch, the filmmakers have cut out a lot of the overt pig-headed chauvinism embodied in a character who is so laughably named (aside from the occasional “there’s flags in MY future” comments; i.e., the American flag; i.e., the American nation).  The script makes fun of cheesy wartime bond-selling efforts.  It doesn’t mention the dictator Mussolini or his military even when a significant part of the plot takes place in 1943 Italy, separating that group of potential ticket holders from the “real” villains, the Nazis (a trick employed with more sophistication in the forward-thinking 1943 Humphrey Bogart film, Sahara).² The story of German defector Abraham Erskine, an anti-Hitler scientist who develops the “super soldier” serum but is then immediately and unfortunately assassinated out of the rest of the series, is retained.

A Frenchman is given one line, and looked at funny for saying it in French.  Unlike the actual army, Captain America’s handpicked team is integrated, yet the Nazis are apparently so well documented that the white supremacist nature of their threat is never even mentioned, lest we notice the glaring contradiction of Allied powers with legal systematic racism and centuries-old empires fighting for freedom.  In fact, since the real baddies of the film are not Nazis but a weird fictional cult who don’t think the Nazis can manage the job, Germans are further assured that their money is welcome.  At one point an English soldier says “Mind the gap” for no logical reason, purely for the amusement of American viewers, but hell, those limeys should be happy that they were even bloody well included.

Which brings us to the English love interest, patronisingly dolled-up for the modern era with a feisty right hook and some military knowledge.  Despite such skills she, of course, falls for the muscleman in the stupid rubbery outfit and does her best to support him in his serious manly tasks.  Like their involvement in American conflicts since at least the first Gulf War, the point of the UK soldier in this case is to serve as a fig-leaf for international co-operation.  No matter the size of the deployment, they are generally presented as enough proof that the US is not the testosterone-fueled lone ranger serial killer that it secretly fears itself to be, and the adventures can continue.  It is important to show that not only was the US the big dog of power even way back then (bigger than it actually was, extending the imaginary future), but that it was viewed and admired as such by select foreigners.  Despite the desire of Churchill to involve the US in the war in the early years, that was a matter of practicality, not worship.  At the time many English people viewed the US in the way Westerners view more recently freed colonies today: a quaint little pseudo-country, which can be tolerated as long as it doesn’t get too ambitious.  You see, arrogance in declining imperial nations takes a generation or two to even begin to subside (as the US is now learning). But never mind accuracy — here, England is the lapdog. England has always been the lapdog.

Several other myths are dragged out of our grandparents age to serve the current agenda.  America is the humble little shit who believes in justice and tries his best, then through ingenuity and new technology improves his situation and clambers to the top of the heap, where he deserves to be.  Having gotten there, with many jealously still picking on him, he turns the other cheek and saves them in glorious fashion.  Our enemies, the Islamo-/fascists, have the same destructive technology as us, but cannot be trusted to be responsible with it (whether super soldier serum or nuclear weapons).  When Captain America saves New York from a suicidal plane by taking it down early and sacrificing himself, you can practically hear the writers soapboxing: this world of fictional history is around us today!  September 11th is a one-dimensional tale of good versus evil and could have been prevented had we realised it in time!  We don’t need to worry about the details and complexity that surround us or about our role in terrorism, because superheroes fight bad guys and always win!  Just in case this isn’t obvious enough, the Captain is then frozen in ice and wakes up in the present day — in New York.

Yes, the character was created in 1941, and we should make some allowances for the prejudices and viewpoints of the day.  Yes, Captain America is sent to the future to set up the next Marvel film, The Avengers (also laughably named. It would more suit an un-American group. Al-Avengers perhaps.)  No, the observations made here were not necessarily the goals of the people involved.  But that does not mean that the film is incapable of unwittingly pushing certain agendas or fitting certain convenient narratives.  If you want to prolong an empire, keeping up the confidence of its inhabitants will ensure that they continue to work hard for it.  The subheading for the film, character accuracy aside, should not be The First Avenger  but The First Shots.  It was during the mid-1940’s that the United States went for global domination while it had the chance, setting up the UN Security Council, IMF and World Bank to work in its favour³, and dropping nukes to tell the USSR to back off.  The makers of this film are both desperate to return to this time of glory and reshape it to make Americans feel good today.  When both the past and present are distorted, the future becomes an unnerving blur.

1. Captain America: The First Avenger (2011), a film by Marvel Studios/Paramount Pictures. Starring Chris Evans, Hayley Atwell, Hugo Weaving. Directed by Joe Johnston.
2. See part of the impassioned speech that seeks to draw a distinction between wartime Germany and Italy here.
3. George Monbiot, How to Stop America, New Statesman, 9th June 2003.