egos/Bitchmouth/Window Liquor/Ask For Tiger 
Monday, January 5th 2015
The Fuzz Factory, Gulfport, FL

Originally published at Zero Warning 

Bullshit. It’s a term that a lot of different things fall under. One of the characteristics that’s appealing about punk, and traditional hardcore in particular, is that it allows no room for bullshit, at least in theory. Everything unnecessary is stripped away. The bands at this gig all eschewed bullshit in their own styles, and I thought I would attempt to write about it in a similar, honorary manner. If you consider everything that isn’t necessary to be bullshit though, I’m fairly sure I failed when I started this rambling introduction. I might even be having a crisis right now about whether any of this review is worth doing. Fuck. Why are we here? …
Ask For Tiger start right at 9pm as I walk in the door. This is apparently only their second or third gig, which is probably the reason they don’t appear to have any online presence. In these times though, it could be considered a mightily punk showing of no bullshit. Ask For Tiger have long rock songs that vary without meandering aimlessly or outstaying their welcome. Having simply two guitars joined by drummer Caleb of UFO Sex Scene (how many awesome bands is he in?) gives them a dense sound full of great instrumental bridges. More bridges than streets, actually. Someone who didn’t get the memo that we’re meant to be asking for tigers is standing front and centre, wearing a bearsuit. “Do you know who the bear is?” “No, I was going to ask if they came with you.” I did come across this one piece of footage of AFT, though it’s from an earlier performance at Fuzz Factory, so it is free of both bearshit and bullshit. And tigershit.

Despite their name the first of the touring bands, Philadelphia’s Window Liquor, couldn’t be said to share much in common with Aphex Twin aside from an affinity for images of children with disturbing faces (look at that demo). Then again I haven’t heard much of the new Aphex Twin album, so you never know. Making a din of punk clangs, distortion and drone all wrapped in a shroud composed of the gnarliest bits of Nirvanaaahh shit the singer has shaggy blond hair, it’s too damn obvious. After a while bassist Astro Spacebag drops his still whining instrument and storms out into the crowd, before getting back on stage, opening a Budweiser and throwing it right over the top of his head at the whole lot of us (specifically me). This sort of thing might explain why guitarist Johnny Trash often appears to be tonguing his microphone as he sings, playing the part of lager licker rather than liquor licker. At one point the noises are the wrong kind and WL stop to get some help from their tourmates Bitchmouth, who have lent them a piece of equipment. Then they restart and so does the odd Cobain-like behaviour, with everyone wandering around, Trash disappearing off to the toilet during the final song, then appearing to my immediate left clapping during the final wall of distortions. I’d question whether all this buggering off and weirdness indicated that they didn’t even want to be here, but apparently it just means they were enjoying the venue, and presumably going off on little explorations of it.

I’m worried that the next act, Virginia’s feminist hardcore finest Bitchmouth, might be set to increase the unrest built by the preceding band. “Where’s the bear!?” comes the demand from all the touring musicians. An attempt to placate them with Fuzzy, the Fuzz Factory money box, ends badly for him when chants of “That’s the wrong fucking bear!” are followed by the opening chords and he falls from an amp to his unfortunate demise. I still feel bad about putting him there. There’s little time to mourn though, as before Bitchmouth are even done with their first 90 second hardcore blitz the space is being dominated by moshing furry beasts and guys going crazy because there’s no liquor or windows anywhere in sight. Warehouse! Part of the bearsuit ends up on vocalist Kelsey Hulvey’s head, turning the band temporarily into Bearmouth. Raging music is being presented in such a fun way, with an ill-advised pit exploding above the concrete floor (Warehouse!), that for added safety is now coated in a layer of beer, beer that’s been flying across the room at a rate not seen at a gig since I was back in England. Roaming trashcans, pain and bedlam, the set is over way too fast and before anyone is really able to get hurt (thankfully). If I had to guess at the circumstances under which I finally met my decade-long Livejournal friend Rachel Sparkman (Bitchmouth’s bassist), I could not have come up with something better. The two groups have just released a split EP. 

If there’s a creative place with less window dressing bullshit than old school hardcore, its noise. Some might argue that it’s shit minus the bull, but they’d be missing out. On quick are noise-punk band egos, who bring the evening’s theme to a perfect close between their genre choice, name choice and once again, lack of internet fluff choice (that link is a free WMNF session). The vocals are buried deep under the instruments, and there is little talking from the members other than “support the touring bands and Fuzz. Don’t spend money on other shit” (paraphrased due to an absence of total quiet at any point). They couldn’t very well stage banter even if they wanted to: only the drummer of the 3-piece is on the stage, a result more of practicality than grandstanding. None of the performers tonight had a lot going on in the BS department. This is something else though. They don’t even list their first names on their lowercased and minimalist Facebook page. I’d like to think that egos’ drive for egolessness is akin to All’s quest for ALL. Like folk music, you can delve and push the boundaries of noise using great skill, yet there’s also a straightforwardness to the genre that means anybody could realistically have a go. I’m not at the point where I want everything I hear to reflect this, and I’m far from saying that egos’ music is of the lowest common denominator; you could certainly do worse than listen to these guys when you’re feeling a bit out there. But it does indicate a kind of humility where you don’t emphasise yourself in your art, don’t lift yourself up by stepping on the heads of others, those currently unaware of or less impressed by their own talents. When they’re finished, the egos drummer does the opposite of a rock star, and throws his sticks backwards.

Propagandhi/RVIVR/War On Women
Saturday, January 3rd 2015
The State Theatre, St. Petersburg, FL

Originally published at Zero Warning 

How To Clean Everything, including forests. A St. Pete Tribune story I read on the way to this gig writes of a deal struck between Oregon environmentalists and loggers, to reduce the risk of wildfires through select cutting. Propagandhi are people who might like the sound of that, and so do I: the last time I went to see them play (in Sheffield, England), an onstage blaze caused the abandonment of thrashings just halfway through. Flames are a menace. Hopefully by now these non-rock stars have learned that you have to keep your equipment fires controlled.

Mans environmental destruction is intricately bound with the oppression of women. War On Women (WOW), from Baltimore, came up with their name before it became a catchphrase on the latest GOP idiocy, that newest chapter in the infinite history of patriarchy. In this way the assault is ironically like WOWs music; a fresh take but well rooted in it's past. You get old hardcore as if women and their perspectives had been represented or respected (how does no-one know the name of the Descendents' original singer?) with hints of the alt rock addition made by riot girl, all while feeling new and relevant. The singing and dancing of singer Shawna Potter is often unapologetically feminine, but the wildness in her eyes as she does so has some Keith Morris to it. (Jello Biafra also appears to see a parallel between Morris's pure throwback project OFF! and War On Women.) That wildness is certainly preferable to the Goat-like, white-people assery of their tribal introduction tones. Everything that came after though made WOW likeable: utterly musically spot on, from the drumming to the strumming. Potter tells the audience they can get free condoms or tampons with their merch, but if you missed out, pre-order their self-titled album due out in February -- I'm sure they'll press one or two into the envelope for you.

On second was PRML SCRM. I mean RVIVR. Brief exposure to their line ups and politics indicates that these three bands go well together for a tour (Sue from WOW performed bass duties tonight). But it goes further than that. Like War on Women, RVIVR take a well-loved scene that is past its heyday and improve it for 2015, making it more closely resemble its punk idealism. This is euphoric skate rock, complete with rad social politics on gender, sexuality and capitalism, smaller numbers of straight white males and bags of woah-ohs. Musically they're not so much early Propagandhi -- skate with hints that they would later become heavier -- but similar to Strike Anywhere, Tsunami Bomb or Bouncing Souls (any song named "Manthem" would probably have a different slant, though). Co-singer-guitarist Mattie Jo Canino starts singing "Party Queen," then excitedly crashes his own vocal to speak before re-commencing. This is a quieter track, reminiscent of The Jesus And Mary Chain if they were fronted by Laura Jane Grace (think of the dynamic on "Sink, Florida, Sink"). Do you reckon anyone has ever referenced two Bobby Gillespie acts in one punk review before? Upbeat hooks, positivity, brilliant co-ed harmonies, and on this night an absolute corker to close with -- that is the kind of revival I can get behind.

I've always thought "Dear Coaches Corner" was a top song with a solid point, but a little bit ridiculous. You cannot compare your ideological opponents to Nazi propaganda officials unless you're a member of a mainstream political party. But when I hear those commentators chatting idly about the good ol' troops and the headbutting riff that follows, it's amazing in it's own right and because it reifies that Propagandhi are here and they have begun. It's the last date of the tour but aside from the fact that they let their music do most of the talking you'd think it was the last date ever; Propagandhi bounce between their various releases picking some of the best off each. The trend of bands playing classic albums in their entirety is given a nod with chronological mini-sets for Less Talk, More Rock ("Apparently I'm a P.C. Fascist," "Nation States Were a Bad Idea," the title track) and How To Clean Everything ("Shove the Fucking Flag," "Haille Sellasse"). Yes, I had to shorten every single title there. They may recently have embraced occasional wordy brevity on both recordings and stage, but for a band that have constantly evolved like few others their songs all sit together surprisingly nicely. This even includes the couple of new songs the audience is treated to. There's constant guest singing from Propagandhi's tourmates, and an encore that includes the inevitable "Back to The Motor League" and a slightly surprising "Anti-Manifesto," the first track on their debut album. This high number of glance backs, attempts to make the tour less of a sausage fest and continued progressive politics all meld to show a band surely conscious of the fact that they've now been pissing about and making excellent music for almost thirty years, but determined to stay worthwhile. If anyone can make punk grow up in an admirable way, it's Propagandhi.

...
You can't just go right home after a gig like that! What are you out of your fuckin' mind? Am I not a doctor? You need to come down off the high first, or risk getting whiplash. We head across the street to The Local 662 for free entry into the so-called after party. At the Local are four appropriately local bands to cleanse your palette -- the musical one that is -- while you drink beer. Whether you get yourself weened back to Earth by street punk (Not for Nothing), pop-punk (Awkward Age), understated indiemo (Betterment) or hardcore/skacore/jah-core (Station Cases) coverage is available. All sound great even as the crowd slims and are definitely worth checking out next time they aren't just following in someone's shadow. Propagandhi can't be here every week, but these kinds of acts are, so support them. Those noisy foreigners probably wouldn't want you thinking they were doing anything you couldn't do with a bunch of friends anyway.

The 13th Night of Christmas: O.P.H.E.L.I.A/Infinite Third/Mountain Holler/Kersey Williams

Friday, December 26th 2014

Fubar Downtown, St. Petersburg, FL

Originally published at Zero Warning

 

Surrounding this review is a barrage of scattered attempts at writing other ones.  Originally planning to work on my Archaic Interest piece from the previous week, my roommate invited me out and I decided that amassing more notes was more appealing than trying to spread out existing ones (I come from the "sit at the typewriter and open a vein" school of reviewing).  I also saw the headliners Ophelia (as they were then styled) back in June and despite determination at the time, never typed up those notes either.  My usual pack-rat tendencies failed so they've since been lost.  Which is a shame as I was hoping to steal some wise words from my past self.

Fubar Downtown also appears to be in a state of scattering, with the two foot stage that previously occupied the spot next to the door replaced with some scaffolding.  But the event that would go on to take place here showed well that beautiful things can come out of messy environments.  You could hardly ask for a more smoothing audio antidote to the harsh visual of indoor construction than Kersey Williams.  I only catch ten minutes, but she and her baritone ukelele don't take a long time to get your attention, with a visit to her soundcloud page reaffirming.  Her final performed song, described as "super sappy," is "Fern," and it compares people to plants and is very pleasant.  Among other things, Williams apparently wants to make you feel, create and fart.  Which I did.

The nature-within-concrete theme continues as Mountain Holler (Mark Etherington of set and setting/RedFeather) helps to raise up a white screen in front of the former stage space.  Upon it quickly begins a DVD of the BBC/Discovery programme Planet Earth.  If that isn't enough animal for you, how about a comparison to the band Gorillaz?  Aside from being in as many acts as Damon Albarn, Etherington removes himself from the performance by playing behind this screen.  It's the first time he's tried it and he says we should only expect a little cohesiveness with the video.  That said, Planet Earth has been going for a while before he begins his set, but they immediately compliment each other, and you can see why Mountain Holler is described as music from the city about the country.  The sheet ripples like water through the long and flowing songs reminiscent of Etherington's post-rock ties.  The last three are run together as a compilation called "Prometheus," a reference fitting the singers' point of intersection between art and the natural world.  That tension between anthropogenic activities -- as most creative ventures are -- and nature is present when you see a silhouetted arm and remote moving around trying to get the DVD to restart.  The set could maybe have been shorter, as when Mountain Holler suggested we close our eyes prior to the final lengthy piece I almost fell asleep standing up.  Then again it could have been the getting up at 5am the day after a major holiday.  (This seems to be coming up in every recent review.  Evidently I need to spend less time at work and more time camping.)

On third is Infinite Third AKA Billy Mays the Third.  I have never been good at maths but does an infinite third get smaller forever without ever disappearing or get exponentially larger?  The performance by this man seems to attempt to do both, building to huge heights then winding back down like a collapsing universe, as if to tell Mountain Holler that his "entire globe" message was tiny potatoes.  With the screen taken away and the reminder that the stage is gone it's returned to being less claustrophobic, even if the area is filled with a Homer Simpson cubicle-sized array of dials and peddles.  Infinite Third couldn't be accused of slacking during the nuclear power plant collapse though -- his mix of big beat and haunting guitars and post rock and eccentric spoken samples makes as much commotion as a whole ensemble.  It's interesting but somewhat overwhelming, both musically and philosophically.  Let's not get too existential here now lest we disappear up our own arses; is that a painting of comedy punks Wolf-Face on the Fubar wall?  Proof if needed that humanity is still part of nature and nature part of us.  By the end of the set I am sitting on the floor in what appears to be a journo playpen of photographers and scribblers.  We may just be babies when it comes to understanding the universe, but we'll learn by observing.  (There is footage of this performance, recorded by fellow playpen occupant Jim Grinaker, here.)

Well where do you go from there?  Physically it's pretty much over, so it's into the subconscious: this gig was put on by Remember You are Dreaming, an artist collective that includes Infinite Third, Williams and the next act, O.P.H.E.L.I.A.  Originally the brainchild of singer-songwriter Roger Lanfranchi, O.P.H.E.L.I.A is now a full-on five-piece.  This does not include the man I saw Lanfranchi playing with during the summer (he had a flute and did fine work) nor does it mean there are just five instruments.  One guy, Brad Myers, is on the xylophone, violin and ukelele, and at one point at least there are three people sharing the drum kit.  All this should give you an idea of not just breadth of this project but how many different kinds of elements can be fused with and into Lanfranchi's music.  His uniquely high singing voice combined with neatly honed folk guitar strumming (amongst much else) is relatively joyous, and you can see that it emanates from him in the way that he smiles a lot while playing.  Mr. Music Man Myers later pulls out a flute as well, of course.  The xylophone and bass come together to form a Christmassy funk, but sadly, there is no take on Winter Wonderland as described in a recent Florida Folk Scene show.  On the bright side, even though today is Boxing Day, I feel very peaceful watching this act and all the ones that preceded it.  Not like an insignificant speck floating through space.

The evening title "The 13th Night of Christmas" refers to how long I get to write this thing, yeah?

Archaic Interest/Sonic Graffiti/Concord America/Gunther Doug

Friday, December 19th 2014

The Fuzz Factory, Gulfport, FL 

Originally published at Zero Warning 

Do you like bands with two words in their names?  Then read on.

Gunther Doug are originally from Sarasota, but now call Nashville home.  From the outset their modern take on cow-punk is captivating, with definite similarities to the likes of the Meat Puppets II album, and vocal and volume changes akin to La Dispute or Listener.  Country post-hardcore, perhaps?  Singer-guitarist Devin wails and shreds through your typical country stories (church, killing your friends, etc), and also your less typical.  "This song is about getting lost in a cave," advice to be careful when combining weed with spelunking.  "This next song is an instrumental song about turtles. Go turtles."  That one featured some lovely second wave emo strumming.   The rocking chair in The Fuzz Factory is being very appropriately used in front of me, but rest assured, even when Gunther Doug play their last number and describe it as Nashville country, it's still fast and punky.  I'm not sure if they did it, but their track "Christmas Song" makes a good addition to your non-shit holiday playlist.  

This is the second-to-last "Happy Holidays" tour date Gunther Doug have with their management company rostermates, Concord America.  Similar in energy and essence to the former band but with a Southern punk rock 'n' roll sound, Concord America are 3 loud guys from Atlanta, piloting a set full of dual vocals and dueling photographers.  Guitarist and lead vocalist Ben Presley violently jerks his head from side-to-side as the band play through songs from their recent Suns Out Guns Out EP, such as "Vanilla Bastard" and "So Gay."  The latter is reminiscent of The Hives' better garage punk moments (and is just as vaguely apolitical, for better or worse).  While they might bear little resemblance to Jets to Brazil, Concord America are often as big and fast as the Concorde supersonic jet (well, until it was retired in 2003) and as big as America (well, until it implodes under its' own imperial hubris where we might also consider 2003 a turning point).  They're going on tour again in the latter half of January, through a range of different states, and you can see those, as well as the "So Gay" music video, here.

The crowd has built steadily up to high numbers as Sonic Graffiti's singer Drew begins with a pleasant solo piece.  Once the full group takes up instruments, the night of band names that appear on the surface at least to be inconsequential comes to an end, as the blender of blues, funk, punk and more that Sonic Graffiti produces is a fair audio equivalent to wild flashes of colour on a blank canvas wall.  The erratic way Drew moves as he plays also fits despite the fact that he tells us he is sick, with every mammoth song coming, justifiably, with a guitar swing-and-stab ending.  New tune "Fuck the Police, Fuck the Jesus Freaks" is unveiled just in time for both the protests against racist cop violence and all those annoying as shit "Keep Christ in Christmas" car magnets.  Do you think there's going to be a breather between songs?  Sonic Graffiti fear any significant breather is the touch of death: "NOBODYLEAVEWE'REGONNAPLAYMORESONGSIPROMISE," an insistence which causes everybody to absolutely not leave.  "Get up for Another Breakdown" is what they choose to close with, an apropos title because I wish that I could get things done as well as a guy who plays guitar with his teeth when he's been ill all week. 

I have to confess that for a while I had been confusing Sonic Graffiti with the fellow local band that follows them here, though there's next-to-no musical basis for it.  Archaic Interest are up quick but their swaying beach music is relaxed.  The first three acts featured three dudes each, and as great as they were, thank god these lot changed things up, with five members, one of whom is female (punchy double-worded titles are one thing, but jesus).  The vocals are hidden low among the psychedelic surf, as if My Bloody Valentine were spending time in a place with a tonne more sun than Dublin.  In spite of not remembering who exactly was who I do remember seeing Archaic Interest at Don't Stop 2013 and being very impressed.  Whether its that the rest of the bill here was so hard rocking or that their fairly short set became a tad repetitive I couldn't say, but it just wasn't the peak of the night.  Maybe next time.

It turns out The Fuzz Factory snuck another gig in before the end of the year after this one that I didn't even know about.  Learning this saddened me, as I can't remember the last time I felt a pull to go to gigs simply because of the venue -- which can only say positive things about The Factory and its new location.  There's nothing fuzzy about it: supporting this space during 2015 will not be something you regret.

Broken Things/UFO Sex Scene/Luxury Mane/Golden Coastal Grizzlies

Friday, 28th November 2014

The Fuzz Factory, Gulfport, FL

Originally published at Zero Warning

When you pay others to entertain you, are you partaking in the consumer mindset that is driven to its furthest extreme on the dark date known as Black Friday?  Even if the entertainers are interesting, independent musicians, playing in a socially conscious local venue and the door price is merely a suggested donation, could you be accused of taking the indirect route of work and payment to get kicks that you could have provided yourself on a ukulele from the local anarchist free shop?  Or is that an absurd interpretation of Buying Nothing, promoting atomisation over community just because our alternative circles still exist within a world of employment and cash that we shouldn’t feel sheepish about having no choice but to interact with?

There is plenty of time for this kind of contemplation on the big questions whilst waiting for the first band to eventually start playing, whoever they might be: not a single act this evening performs at the point that the flyer would have you assume.  At 9:45, Golden Coastal Grizzlies (GCG) from Lakeland get things going with their combination of surf and no-name/garage rock.  The song that seems to best showcase their particular combo is new one “Vineyards,” which could have been taken off a Pebbles compilation.  Aside from musing, another activity I take part in while waiting for my entertainment that I damn well paid for and DEMAND IMMEDIATELY as a customer, was drawing a David Bowie lighting bolt on the self-portraited face of a local photographer.  GCG guitarist and singer Danny has a similar bolt on his strap, even though the music his band is playing is too pleasant to warrant such a climatological outburst.  I initially think that they sound a bit like Morrissey with spangley guitars, but I realise that is utterly wrong when it suddenly strikes me (like lightning or a grizzly attack) that Danny sounds very similar to Tim Wheeler from Ash.  In a show of anti-bravado that is almost too adorable for words, some of his last utterances of their very good set are “I want to get off stage now.”

Luxury Mane provide more hairily-named, spangly surf-themed Fuzzness.  It’s a pleasure to see artists with such warm sounds on this beautifully, horribly cold dark night.  Their new album Gold Standard is certainly appropriate in terms of capturing the colour of their music.  Up till now I’ve been getting something of a 90s vibe from this event, whether it’s the Weezer clothing around me or thoughts of Britpop groups, but about halfway through Luxury Mane I am struck again by a vocalist comparison that excites me: Billy’s voice bears a resemblance to Bernard Sumner of New Order.  That this man is decidedly associated with the 80s is no bad thing, though it does seem to fit with a crack made about retirement homes and missing the bingo and cream corn.  Even though I barely remember the 1980s, I feel as though I’m the one who needs to be in the retirement home, eyeing the venues’ chairs and comfy couches as the end of Luxury Mane’s show lulls me.  I am at this point torn as to whether to blame the lateness of the proceedings or my day spent consumer-pushing for rent money.

The next band seem to agree that it’s late, rushing to get set up.  It might also turn out that UFO Sex Scene are just enthusiastic to play, as their performance shimmers in a manner that is quite different to the shimmer of the previous two acts.  Keyboard player, singer and “soundscapist” Vanessa sets the tone when she comes on as what I at first think is the yellow Teletubby (Laa-Laa), but then learn is actually the green one (Dipsy).  For whatever reason the days when a costume like this would remind me of a fuckwit university student are over, and I’m as intrigued as I am by the colourful hand-bells sitting at the edge of the stage.  As the band gets into its Melt Banana-with-some-melody set, Dipsy is shed, I start to warm up for the first time all evening and shed the weight of my four Thanksgiving meals, and the bells are handed out to the nearest crowd members who then make as much noise as if they’re trapped in a garden shed.  After one song the bells are spontaneously returned and a surprising (but maybe not so surprising) pit breaks out.  There’s moments of post-punk and the drummer Caleb looks like he’s having a friggin’ religious experience.  If this sounds chaotic, it is, but without the problem of “glut,” where an acts’ overabundance of influences form a horrendous stew of nothing.  UFO Sex Scene are fascinating but during the moment I feel both encouraged and disheartened that I don’t have a clue how to describe this.  I am a fake fake journalist.

If there’s a final image at the end of Black Friday, it’s one of destruction: old possessions, human bodies and spirits, living planets.  So Broken Things coming on when it’s all over after midnight is perfect, and I denounce the former mild irritation I had as a supposedly scorned consumer earlier in the evening.  While tuning up it’s said that they “could do Avail covers all night,” and as I just wrote, I have grown as a person and am no longer equating time with money and value, so am fine with staying here all night.  Broken Things are — in this particular unrepeatable snowflake instance of here and now — loud, distorted and deafening, and that’s apparently with one guitar player absent.  They play melodic punk with understated vocals (think Leatherface, or fellow melodic St. Pete indie punks Dead Sound).  Problem is, at first it’s overly understated.  The mic is fixed just in time for a special song about a recently passed friend of theirs named LeRoi DuVal.  Even if amplified music is decided too throughputty for any potential Ecotopia, the positive relationships between people will undoubtedly prove useful and essential for a society doing better than eating itself and its young.  The Broken Things EP Four Songs came out in October and can be found on their bandcamp.

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.