This blog has been a little neglected of late (though not as comprehensively neglected as my two other blogs, ayearinsex.blogspot.com and ayearinnutritiousbreakfasts.blogspot.com (and you can keep your idle speculation about which one of those gets updated most often to yourself, thankyou very much), mostly due to a nasty case of the end-of-winter lurgy. If it weren't for antipodean folk going to outstanding shows, this would be a paltry exercise in web-publishing (and don't think I don't expect a review of the Kiss/Alice Cooper/Wilco weekender - you know who you are).
So, in between watching Caddyshack (awesome), Caddyshack 2 (stick to the original) and the Breakfast Club (and practising my Emilio Estevez dance), and groaning on my deathbed, I've been nurturing the seeds of a desperate yearning to get out of the house and see some shows. And it's weeks like this one that make Vancouver a fantastic place to be - there's 5 shows I could conceivably see myself at over the next four nights, and I think I'll end up at least 3 of them for sure (and I'm so very very excited for YACHT on Thursday night - and the so-called-"Buzz" band he's playing with).
But all that enthusiasm was very nearly rent asunder by my first can of Colt 45. While I may have waxed lyrical in these very pages about the joys of said beverage previously, my initial excitement was tempered by the immediate realization that it is nigh on undrinkable. Even the faintest taste makes me gag, and I'm beginning to realize why the last time I drank it, they were giving it away for free in a Chicago nightclub (in other news, somehow I'm on Colt 45's mailing list, and they keep sending me mail asking me to submit stories of nights I've been retarded on their product, to be turned into comic format, a la this. I've definitely got a couple for them.). So after two cans (I could throw it away, but I'm yet to sink to the level where I can happily throw away alcohol), I was feeling sick to the stomach, but I washed it down with some whiskey, and merrily stepped out to the Media Club.
Support for the night was billed as No Gold, although I'm not sure if the band that showed up actually were - I swear I heard them introduce themselves as something else involving an acronym. I could have misheard, as the young man delivering the banter was mumbling, and while I got the impression that what he was saying was quite witty, and he'd been working on it for weeks, but I couldn't understand a word. Enunciate, young sir, enunciate. Anyway, what I can tell you about the mystery possibly-no-gold is that they sported at least one cardigan (my father called me (in an international toll-call, no less) to tell me there'd been a feature on the NZ national news about cardigans are hip again, only to hang up. My mother then called back ten minutes later to tell me that they'd actually won the lottery, and that my father was supposed to relate that information, but he was too excited about the cardigan thing, and forgot), engaged in plenty of instrument swapping, and belted out six or seven country-tinged shambling rock and roll numbers of varying degrees of quality. They employed one of my top 5 stage moves, of having the singer grab a drumstick and lock down a beat on the splash cymbal while the drummer played, so points need to be awarded there, but they also let some of the rhythm section wigouts play out a little too long, which saw those same points being removed.
I'll admit, as I often do, that I wasn't paying much attention to the support, as I was belting out conversational gold/previous untold levels of obnoxiousness. There's something about the media club that leads me to crystalline perception of the human condition, which I then relate to the unfortunate folk in my immediate vicinity. I decided this evening that the reason that tall men have much better taste in music than short men (I was one of the shorter folk at the MC, and I'm well above the national average - compared with being at the Bourbon a couple of weeks prior, where I stood head and shoulders above the other gentlemen (if you can call them that) in attendance) is that the short man's desire for acceptedness sees him jumping on any bandwagon that comes past, while the tall man's greater confidence means he has more inclination to go out on a limb and enjoy something a little riskier, but eventually more fulfilling. Or something like that.
I also decided that dying at 27 could be my ticket to rocknroll superstardom, a piece of news that any short folk reading this will be applauding heartily. Having said that, I do need to finish the two songs that may or may not become as universal as I Wanna Hold Your Hand, but I've got six months left to work that out. Incidentally, any ladies out there who have been holding yourselves back, you may also have only six months, so I'd go for it if I were you.
So after probably unknowingly making a dozen conversational faux-pas, as Plants and Animals came out, I was mentally sharpening my literary knives. I've been waiting to see a band that I definitively hate, or at the very least have bad facial hair, so I can rip them mercilessly to shreds. Everyone knows it's a thousand times more fun to write a rippingly bad review than a good one - for instance, this is still the best record review of all time.
And things were looking good for me. The band sport the kind of patchy facial hair beloved of French-Canadians everywhere, and the lead singer's plaintive Kings of Leon-esque wail had me eagerly thumbing my thesaurus for synonyms for 'apocryphal'.
But alas, my enthusiasm was short lived. As I was prepared to write them off as yet another country-rock MOR 3-piece, these Montreal natives showed me up. The KOL wail softened into a soulful tenor, and was joined in charming 3-part harmony by the other two members of the band. Some of the rowdier songs dispensed with the bass entirely, running a guitar-guitar-drums lineup to great effect, and at times the sheer noise being produced belies the limited lineup - at times it sounded like the Polyphonic Spree were up there, but the softer songs were executed with tenderness, thoughfulness and care, and provided both a neat contrast and a chance for a breather.
The encore came and went, and was enthusiastically requested, and they finished up with Bye Bye Bye, a song so good it deserves repeated listens from everyone reading this. The live version posted above differs considerably from the recorded version I've heard previously, which can get a little too Coldplay in parts. Firstly there's no piano, everything runs a little bit faster, and the harmonies are more shouted than sung. It sounds like a bastard child of the Beatles, the Kinks, and the Beach Boys, only to break down halfway through into Exile-era Stones, with the Flying Burrito Brothers loitering somewhere in the background. Seriously, it's that good, and everyone in the crowd left into the wintry (1 degree in March? are you serious?) night with a spring in the step. Good work, young sirs.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
The Datsuns, The Dirtbombs, The Bellrays: The King's Arms, Auckland, New Zealand, 11/03/08
Holy Antipodes, Batman! A Year In Shows has just gone multicity, multinational, multihempishere. Your New Zealand correspondent is awfully glad to be here, and really likes that thing you’ve done with your hair.
++++
Tuesday morning started with breakfast TV and radio lamenting the NZ High Court decision to overturn a Youth Court ruling to make the family of a teenage crime enthusiast pay his victims back, sparking all sorts of hell/handbasket commentary and tender eulogies for dear old common sense. By Tuesday night, it seemed to me that the freshly buried hand of Mr Sense, Snr had thrust itself back through the soil next to its headstone, and was ready to bust out the Thriller dance. For I was at the King’s Arms in Newton, Auckland, and the marvellous garden bar recently rhapsodised over in these very pages as a great place for an al fresco Lion Red pre-, between and post-bands had a whopping great stage in it. The KA has been around for a long time (their website says 1880 and who’d lie about something online?), but in the last few years has fallen foul of the residents of newly built apartment blocks in the nearby streets, who really wanted to live in the city so they could be part of the crackling atmosphere, but can you please turn the band down at the pub that created that atmosphere and long pre-dates my poxy leaky home? So to placate the council, who evidently decided the apartment grinches held right of way, the KA stuck a couple of shipping containers in their carpark to deaden the noise, and a year or two later replaced them with a hefty second wall. Given that the shows that caused the complaints were inside, it seemed to me that a garage rock (I can’t remember what Pitchfork wants me to call it these days) triple bill on a school night in the garden bar might be asking for trouble. But tonight Zombie Common Sense, with maggots crawling out of the holes in his sensible shoes, was lurching about groaning for brains, and if the best rnr venue in town wanted to put three loud bands on in its garden bar, then consequences and torpedoes would be damned.
When the Bellrays hit the stage at the very civilised time of 8pm, another possibility emerged. Maybe Mr & Mrs John Q Apartment couldn’t get a ticket, and had given the KA a heads-up that they didn’t want to miss the fun. Sometimes you come across a concept that seems so obviously a good idea it’s just amazing that no-one’s done it before, or at least that no-one does it more often. A couple of these hit at once: outdoor gigs on late summer evenings are a bloody good idea; and a singer with a juggernaut soul voice and a mighty afro fronting a tight, white nerdy rock band isn’t far behind in the simple genius stakes. It was 10 out of 10 until the sun set around 6 songs in, and too many slower numbers almost derailed things, but a few old chestnuts from Soul Revue 101 got hammered home again before the end: if in doubt, wear black; stage presence is table stakes; the more time your drummer’s mouth is grotesquely contorted, the better he is; and if there’s not a hummable hook, don’t bother. Sometimes we all need reminding.
The Dirtbombs were last here about four years ago, and while the word incendiary is fairly high up on the Words That Make You Look Like A Dick When Writing About Music list, they may well have been the reason Mr Apartment first got on the blower to his MP. In the same why-didn’t-we-think-of-that-before vein as outdoor gigs and the Bellrays, doubling up your bottom end is hardly rocket science, but four-ish years is long enough to forget just how cool two drum kits look side by side. And while saying so may amount to sacrilege on a site named after a Brighten the Corners lyric, if you’ve got two drummers, the second one oughta do a little more on stage than make toast. Like pound them really hard, just like the dude next door, while two basses, one clean and one running through the devil’s own effects pedal, get a fair old hammering. Four years is also long enough to forget what a hulking big guy Mick Collins seems on stage, more like Man of the Year Jerry Collins, even if his stature is slightly exaggerated by placement next to the fun-size hell-fuzz player. Mr Collins is also lucky enough to be one of the approximately 32 people on the planet who can wear dark glasses at night without looking like an idiot, and takes good advantage of this fact. If you’ve found you’re way to this blog, and you’re still reading, chances are you’re either a) really, really bored at work, b) my mum, or c) someone who doesn’t need me to tell them how excellent the Dirtbombs are live. And they were, although not quite as great as I remembered or expected: maybe it was the nagging feeling that they’re only at their very best as a covers band (albeit arguably the finest one around); or maybe I was just having a little sulk that they didn’t play “Cedar Point ‘76”.
The Datsuns have had a funny old life: from smallish town outsider obscurity in Cambridge to minor league student radio success in NZ; to all sorts of glorious, and gloriously ridiculous, hyperbole in the NME; to a critically panned sophomore slump (that’s actually pretty darn good in the main); to the low-key release of a mixed bag third record and relocation to the less fickle rock scene in Germany; then back to headline a high class triple bill at a great, but in the scheme of things, pretty small, venue back home. Full disclosure: I really rather like the Datsuns. I can’t claim to have been there from the very start, but I saw them play a fair few times in my varsity years, before the British press hailed them as Ritchie Blackmore’s illegitimate heirs and it all went a bit crazy. Along with the much-missed D4, they soundtracked some of the best bits of a really fun part of my life, and I have several crystal clear memories: the first time I saw them live, a bunch of Waikato longhairs throwing nutbar guitar solo shapes on top of picnic tables in the quad; buying the 7” “MF From Hell”/”Lady” from the band after a Shadows show and being highly stoked by the free badge; playing said record to my mum, prompting her to bring out Deep Purple in Rock for the first time in umpteen years; a horribly hungover (mine, not theirs) bFM Summer Series show in Albert Park where “Hong Kong Fury” did what two Panadol could not; and a few years later, making a three hour round trip in the dark and rain to see a Datsuns/D4 double header in Whangamata. You’ll have a band like this in your past too: insert “I saw them back before they were…” story above. So much for objective journalism, but I was pretty keen to hear how the Smoke and Mirrors tracks held up live, and the presence of newbies from the latest European recordings was strongly rumoured. First impressions weren’t great: namely, turn it up; get rid of the stupid beard, Dolf, you look like Jared Leto; and the filler tracks from the third record aren’t much better in 3D. As with all good friends who’ve been away for a while though, sometimes you just need time to get used to each other again. “Harmonic Generator” helped, as did its weird militant cousin “System Overload”. “Waiting For Your Time to Come”, fairly leaden Zeppelin on record, made a lot more sense in person, while “Stuck Here for Days”, another tune that fairly obviously fell off the back of a truck called LZIII, was given a life of its own by Christian Datsun’s Ginsu-2000 slide lines. Anyone left reading will be pleased to note that the noobs turned out well too: a couple of ragged, pacy numbers; a keyboard-driven oddity called “Paranoid People”; the clearly Guitar Hero Aotearoa-bound “Your Bones”; and best of all a big doomy Sabbath-covering-The Verve style number right at the end. To be honest though, nothing sounded as good as the early songs, even if “Maximum Heartbreak” does a pretty close approximation. Putting “MF From Hell” after Smoke and Mirrors’ average “Emperor’s New Clothes” is a bit like following The Ladykillers with No Country for Old Men: when you remind people how much you rule, your C+s don’t stand the comparison too well.
The night ended with a gentle reminder to Zombie Common Sense (you know, that guy I introduced about eight million words of waffle ago) that there are a few people lurking about with the zombie equivalents of silver bullets, wooden stakes and garlic (horrible duets with Paul McCartney made worse by Will.I.Am perhaps?). Dolf had promised one more oldie to close the night, but the band got the nod that curfew was up and they had to down tools. There were still forty minutes before the zombie became a pumpkin, but when you’ve had three solid performances by three great bands under a cloudless, starlit sky, even the undead know that sometimes you should just quit while you’re ahead.
(Reposted at http://www.undertheradar.co.nz/utr/liveReview/CID/8/N/The_Datsuns,_The_Dirtbombs,_The_Bellrays:_The_King's_Arms,_Auckland,_New_Zealand,_11/03/08.utr )
++++
Tuesday morning started with breakfast TV and radio lamenting the NZ High Court decision to overturn a Youth Court ruling to make the family of a teenage crime enthusiast pay his victims back, sparking all sorts of hell/handbasket commentary and tender eulogies for dear old common sense. By Tuesday night, it seemed to me that the freshly buried hand of Mr Sense, Snr had thrust itself back through the soil next to its headstone, and was ready to bust out the Thriller dance. For I was at the King’s Arms in Newton, Auckland, and the marvellous garden bar recently rhapsodised over in these very pages as a great place for an al fresco Lion Red pre-, between and post-bands had a whopping great stage in it. The KA has been around for a long time (their website says 1880 and who’d lie about something online?), but in the last few years has fallen foul of the residents of newly built apartment blocks in the nearby streets, who really wanted to live in the city so they could be part of the crackling atmosphere, but can you please turn the band down at the pub that created that atmosphere and long pre-dates my poxy leaky home? So to placate the council, who evidently decided the apartment grinches held right of way, the KA stuck a couple of shipping containers in their carpark to deaden the noise, and a year or two later replaced them with a hefty second wall. Given that the shows that caused the complaints were inside, it seemed to me that a garage rock (I can’t remember what Pitchfork wants me to call it these days) triple bill on a school night in the garden bar might be asking for trouble. But tonight Zombie Common Sense, with maggots crawling out of the holes in his sensible shoes, was lurching about groaning for brains, and if the best rnr venue in town wanted to put three loud bands on in its garden bar, then consequences and torpedoes would be damned.
When the Bellrays hit the stage at the very civilised time of 8pm, another possibility emerged. Maybe Mr & Mrs John Q Apartment couldn’t get a ticket, and had given the KA a heads-up that they didn’t want to miss the fun. Sometimes you come across a concept that seems so obviously a good idea it’s just amazing that no-one’s done it before, or at least that no-one does it more often. A couple of these hit at once: outdoor gigs on late summer evenings are a bloody good idea; and a singer with a juggernaut soul voice and a mighty afro fronting a tight, white nerdy rock band isn’t far behind in the simple genius stakes. It was 10 out of 10 until the sun set around 6 songs in, and too many slower numbers almost derailed things, but a few old chestnuts from Soul Revue 101 got hammered home again before the end: if in doubt, wear black; stage presence is table stakes; the more time your drummer’s mouth is grotesquely contorted, the better he is; and if there’s not a hummable hook, don’t bother. Sometimes we all need reminding.
The Dirtbombs were last here about four years ago, and while the word incendiary is fairly high up on the Words That Make You Look Like A Dick When Writing About Music list, they may well have been the reason Mr Apartment first got on the blower to his MP. In the same why-didn’t-we-think-of-that-before vein as outdoor gigs and the Bellrays, doubling up your bottom end is hardly rocket science, but four-ish years is long enough to forget just how cool two drum kits look side by side. And while saying so may amount to sacrilege on a site named after a Brighten the Corners lyric, if you’ve got two drummers, the second one oughta do a little more on stage than make toast. Like pound them really hard, just like the dude next door, while two basses, one clean and one running through the devil’s own effects pedal, get a fair old hammering. Four years is also long enough to forget what a hulking big guy Mick Collins seems on stage, more like Man of the Year Jerry Collins, even if his stature is slightly exaggerated by placement next to the fun-size hell-fuzz player. Mr Collins is also lucky enough to be one of the approximately 32 people on the planet who can wear dark glasses at night without looking like an idiot, and takes good advantage of this fact. If you’ve found you’re way to this blog, and you’re still reading, chances are you’re either a) really, really bored at work, b) my mum, or c) someone who doesn’t need me to tell them how excellent the Dirtbombs are live. And they were, although not quite as great as I remembered or expected: maybe it was the nagging feeling that they’re only at their very best as a covers band (albeit arguably the finest one around); or maybe I was just having a little sulk that they didn’t play “Cedar Point ‘76”.
The Datsuns have had a funny old life: from smallish town outsider obscurity in Cambridge to minor league student radio success in NZ; to all sorts of glorious, and gloriously ridiculous, hyperbole in the NME; to a critically panned sophomore slump (that’s actually pretty darn good in the main); to the low-key release of a mixed bag third record and relocation to the less fickle rock scene in Germany; then back to headline a high class triple bill at a great, but in the scheme of things, pretty small, venue back home. Full disclosure: I really rather like the Datsuns. I can’t claim to have been there from the very start, but I saw them play a fair few times in my varsity years, before the British press hailed them as Ritchie Blackmore’s illegitimate heirs and it all went a bit crazy. Along with the much-missed D4, they soundtracked some of the best bits of a really fun part of my life, and I have several crystal clear memories: the first time I saw them live, a bunch of Waikato longhairs throwing nutbar guitar solo shapes on top of picnic tables in the quad; buying the 7” “MF From Hell”/”Lady” from the band after a Shadows show and being highly stoked by the free badge; playing said record to my mum, prompting her to bring out Deep Purple in Rock for the first time in umpteen years; a horribly hungover (mine, not theirs) bFM Summer Series show in Albert Park where “Hong Kong Fury” did what two Panadol could not; and a few years later, making a three hour round trip in the dark and rain to see a Datsuns/D4 double header in Whangamata. You’ll have a band like this in your past too: insert “I saw them back before they were…” story above. So much for objective journalism, but I was pretty keen to hear how the Smoke and Mirrors tracks held up live, and the presence of newbies from the latest European recordings was strongly rumoured. First impressions weren’t great: namely, turn it up; get rid of the stupid beard, Dolf, you look like Jared Leto; and the filler tracks from the third record aren’t much better in 3D. As with all good friends who’ve been away for a while though, sometimes you just need time to get used to each other again. “Harmonic Generator” helped, as did its weird militant cousin “System Overload”. “Waiting For Your Time to Come”, fairly leaden Zeppelin on record, made a lot more sense in person, while “Stuck Here for Days”, another tune that fairly obviously fell off the back of a truck called LZIII, was given a life of its own by Christian Datsun’s Ginsu-2000 slide lines. Anyone left reading will be pleased to note that the noobs turned out well too: a couple of ragged, pacy numbers; a keyboard-driven oddity called “Paranoid People”; the clearly Guitar Hero Aotearoa-bound “Your Bones”; and best of all a big doomy Sabbath-covering-The Verve style number right at the end. To be honest though, nothing sounded as good as the early songs, even if “Maximum Heartbreak” does a pretty close approximation. Putting “MF From Hell” after Smoke and Mirrors’ average “Emperor’s New Clothes” is a bit like following The Ladykillers with No Country for Old Men: when you remind people how much you rule, your C+s don’t stand the comparison too well.
The night ended with a gentle reminder to Zombie Common Sense (you know, that guy I introduced about eight million words of waffle ago) that there are a few people lurking about with the zombie equivalents of silver bullets, wooden stakes and garlic (horrible duets with Paul McCartney made worse by Will.I.Am perhaps?). Dolf had promised one more oldie to close the night, but the band got the nod that curfew was up and they had to down tools. There were still forty minutes before the zombie became a pumpkin, but when you’ve had three solid performances by three great bands under a cloudless, starlit sky, even the undead know that sometimes you should just quit while you’re ahead.
(Reposted at http://www.undertheradar.co.nz
Monday, March 10, 2008
2008 pitchfork lineup
ok, so it's not strictly a live review, but it was the best thing I did last year, and pitchfork don't even have the lineup on their site yet, so I thought I'd post this.
I'd highly recommend getting yourself to Chicago between the 18th and 20th of July for:
and some of the most fun you'll ever have at a festival. Hipster basketball, anyone? and the three days will cost you less than $70. genius.
I'd highly recommend getting yourself to Chicago between the 18th and 20th of July for:
Friday
Pitchfork Music Festival and All Tomorrow's Parties Present: "Don't Look Back" - featuring Public Enemy performing "It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back"
Saturday
Animal Collective, !!!, Vampire Weekend, Dizzee Rascal, No Age, Atlas Sound, Fleet Foxes
Sunday
Spiritualized, M. Ward, Boris, Extra Golden, El Guincho
and some of the most fun you'll ever have at a festival. Hipster basketball, anyone? and the three days will cost you less than $70. genius.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Finding Friday, The Bourbon, Vancouver
I had bold plans to have a quiet night in tonight, curled up with some text commentary of test cricket (my dream job is to write wry, funny, and charming text commentary of cricket matches, much like the folk on cricinfo do), my copy of the new LC! record
(which proves that if you drown pretty much anything in enough glockenspiel, you can make it sound wonderful - and it's got enough snappy one liners to keep me in facebook statuses for a month), and hunting the internet for news of a Pavement reunion (an enterprise that is always positive - even if you don't find any concrete news, you can take solace in the fact that everyone involved realizes that it would probably be an unmitigated disaster (I mean, they kinda sucked live while they were together orginally), and probably shouldn't happen). So I dropped in to the record store on the way home, picked up their last Dirtbombs ticket (and thus begins the countdown to the greatest live garage rock band in the universe), and a sixer of Colt 45 (8% and still only $11 a six pack? how do they stay in business), and went home to settle in on the couch.
But then I get home, and my boss IMs me to tell me to go get drunk, and expense it, and because I have the willpower and spine of a sea cucumber, I find myself at the Bourbon in Gastown, watching Finding Friday.
When I used to spend a lot of time in suburban pubs, I'd be amazed at the musicianship of the covers bands that played there. They could snap out note-perfect renditions of remarkably mundane MOR rock and roll songs (there was one that had a singer that looked a lot like the guy from Creed, and even seemed to cut his hair at roughly the same time as the Creed guy - I think this covers band also used to employ a front-of-stage rotating fan to blow the singer's hair back while he sang), and I always wondered why you'd spend all that time getting that good at your instruments only to waste it by playing junky songs to a shitty crowd. As soon as I was good enough not to be totally embarrassed playing in public (and whether I've actually reached that level is still up for debate), I wanted to get out there and play our own stuff, hoping that one day we'd put together a pop-gem that was even a small fraction as good as I wanna hold your hand. Admittedly, in a covers band I imagine you get paid, people actually come to watch, and I imagine there's a certain type of suburban girl that finds that attractive, all three of which didn't really happen for my band. But at least I got to dream.
Having said that, Finding Friday aren't a covers band. But I think if they decided to go that way, they'd make a damn good one. There was probably more musical talent on stage than at the last 5 indie shows I went to put together, the singer has a great soulful voice, and the rest of the band is tight, sharp, and not unattractive. Their songs are standard fare, but not without hooks, even if the rhythm section does occasionally get a little bit of a RHCP funk thing happening, and there was one point where something about the wahwah pedal made me think I could have sworn I was listening to the Doobie Brothers. This is not a good thing. And if I were them, I'd shelve the midset banter about their new lighting rig, and the constant requests to buy their t-shirts - Matchbox 20 tried the corporate thing, and look where it got them - playing second fiddle to Alanis Morrissette.
Regardless, they're not going to change the world (but then again, neither is Bono), or teach you how to talk to the girl in the stripes, but once I got over my rockandroll snobbery, I had a cracking time. There's worse ways to spend a Friday night than dancing to a competent rock and roll band in the company of an appreciative crowd with some good friends.
Post-show the DJ started off by announcing that he was going to play a mixture of stuff, which normally means he'll play both "progressive" and "commercial" house music, but this dude was bananas. Everything from the Stones, to Daft Punk, to C and C Music Factory (it's always good to dust off my running man, it was getting a little rusty). The enjoyment level was aided by the fact that I was talking to and dancing with the cutest blond girl I've seen in Vancouver (albeit without fruition - any other short girls in black dresses with librarian glasses can post their phone numbers in the comments thread), and I finally got back home to resume my quiet night in at around 3 in the morning (although I walked home just so I could listen to the LC! record again on my ipod - if anyone lives under or near granville bridge, and heard someone shouting "nothing says I miss you like poetry cut in your door with a stanley knife", "every sentence began and ended with ellipsis" or "when the smaller picture's the same as the bigger picture, you know that you're fucked", that was just me. Sorry.)
And luv, I'm sorry, but I'm not gonna teach your boyfriend how to dance with you.
(which proves that if you drown pretty much anything in enough glockenspiel, you can make it sound wonderful - and it's got enough snappy one liners to keep me in facebook statuses for a month), and hunting the internet for news of a Pavement reunion (an enterprise that is always positive - even if you don't find any concrete news, you can take solace in the fact that everyone involved realizes that it would probably be an unmitigated disaster (I mean, they kinda sucked live while they were together orginally), and probably shouldn't happen). So I dropped in to the record store on the way home, picked up their last Dirtbombs ticket (and thus begins the countdown to the greatest live garage rock band in the universe), and a sixer of Colt 45 (8% and still only $11 a six pack? how do they stay in business), and went home to settle in on the couch.
But then I get home, and my boss IMs me to tell me to go get drunk, and expense it, and because I have the willpower and spine of a sea cucumber, I find myself at the Bourbon in Gastown, watching Finding Friday.
When I used to spend a lot of time in suburban pubs, I'd be amazed at the musicianship of the covers bands that played there. They could snap out note-perfect renditions of remarkably mundane MOR rock and roll songs (there was one that had a singer that looked a lot like the guy from Creed, and even seemed to cut his hair at roughly the same time as the Creed guy - I think this covers band also used to employ a front-of-stage rotating fan to blow the singer's hair back while he sang), and I always wondered why you'd spend all that time getting that good at your instruments only to waste it by playing junky songs to a shitty crowd. As soon as I was good enough not to be totally embarrassed playing in public (and whether I've actually reached that level is still up for debate), I wanted to get out there and play our own stuff, hoping that one day we'd put together a pop-gem that was even a small fraction as good as I wanna hold your hand. Admittedly, in a covers band I imagine you get paid, people actually come to watch, and I imagine there's a certain type of suburban girl that finds that attractive, all three of which didn't really happen for my band. But at least I got to dream.
Having said that, Finding Friday aren't a covers band. But I think if they decided to go that way, they'd make a damn good one. There was probably more musical talent on stage than at the last 5 indie shows I went to put together, the singer has a great soulful voice, and the rest of the band is tight, sharp, and not unattractive. Their songs are standard fare, but not without hooks, even if the rhythm section does occasionally get a little bit of a RHCP funk thing happening, and there was one point where something about the wahwah pedal made me think I could have sworn I was listening to the Doobie Brothers. This is not a good thing. And if I were them, I'd shelve the midset banter about their new lighting rig, and the constant requests to buy their t-shirts - Matchbox 20 tried the corporate thing, and look where it got them - playing second fiddle to Alanis Morrissette.
Regardless, they're not going to change the world (but then again, neither is Bono), or teach you how to talk to the girl in the stripes, but once I got over my rockandroll snobbery, I had a cracking time. There's worse ways to spend a Friday night than dancing to a competent rock and roll band in the company of an appreciative crowd with some good friends.
Post-show the DJ started off by announcing that he was going to play a mixture of stuff, which normally means he'll play both "progressive" and "commercial" house music, but this dude was bananas. Everything from the Stones, to Daft Punk, to C and C Music Factory (it's always good to dust off my running man, it was getting a little rusty). The enjoyment level was aided by the fact that I was talking to and dancing with the cutest blond girl I've seen in Vancouver (albeit without fruition - any other short girls in black dresses with librarian glasses can post their phone numbers in the comments thread), and I finally got back home to resume my quiet night in at around 3 in the morning (although I walked home just so I could listen to the LC! record again on my ipod - if anyone lives under or near granville bridge, and heard someone shouting "nothing says I miss you like poetry cut in your door with a stanley knife", "every sentence began and ended with ellipsis" or "when the smaller picture's the same as the bigger picture, you know that you're fucked", that was just me. Sorry.)
And luv, I'm sorry, but I'm not gonna teach your boyfriend how to dance with you.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Holy Fuck, A Place To Bury Strangers, The Clips, Richards on Richards, Vancouver, February 25
Everything was coming up 'me' on Monday. For some reason I was in an unfathomably good mood, I had a relatively gentle day at work, and I'd newly discovered the joys of hypemachine (thanks for the assist, sis), which lets me listen to new Stephen Malkmus songs in a neverending loop, and around lunchtime the Sasquatch lineup was posted, and it was of supreme quality (The Cure, the Malk, Destroyer, Flight of the Conchords and Christmas on Mars, the most eagerly awaited piece of bad cinema this side of the next Rocky or Rambo remake).
Actually, I'm gonna digress here. If I was ever asked to compete on the television quiz show Mastermind, I think my area of specialist knowledge would probably be "Charming anecdotes about how nuts the Flaming Lips are" (that or "Jarvis Cocker's haircuts"). And one of my favourite Lips moments is from the Fearless Freaks movie, where they admit they had to halt scriptwriting for the film because they weren't sure if Stephen Drozd was going to kill himself with his heroin addiction or not - and as he played the lead character, that would have been a problem.
My other favourite thing about the Flaming Lips is that at special shows, they have a goddamn UFO, and they're bringing said UFO to Sasquatch. Given that the last time they played out there it was the most surreal experience of my life (doing a karaoke singalong of "War Pigs" at 2 in the morning after a torrential hailstorm while pouring fake blood on yourself is exactly why I wish Wayne Coyne was my dad (I don't really mean that, dad)).
But anyway, enough digression. It should be relatively clear that I was in a pretty good mood. So I returned home from work, and was contemplating my evening, when I decided on the spur of the moment that I was gonna go to the Holy Fuck/A Place to Bury Strangers show that I'd been loosely contemplating. And I'm remarkably glad I did.
I was surprised to note that I haven't actually been to Richards yet this year, which is a shame, because it's my favourite venue in town, and I normally end up sneaking along there about once every two weeks. It's got a pretty sweet upstairs area, where if you're early enough and smart enough, you can stand behind and above the band, and I've never waited more than 3 minutes for a drink at the little bar tucked in the back corner. It is a happy place.
I rolled in at 9.30ish to a surprisingly full Richards - I'm not hyperfamiliar with either of the headliners, but the venue was a good 2/3 full. I walked in to a band playing, so I ended up playing the good old-fashioned guessing game to deduce how far through the bill they were (tips for new players - see how many drum kits are still stored at the back of stage). In this case, there were two, which meant that I was watching the last half of the set by the Clips, who seemed a competent little shoegazey/stomp-pop - the one song that sticks in the memory had a neat little ooey-ooey-oo refrain. As I normally do during support bands (and lets face it, during headliners as well) I started scanning the faces of those around me - and noticed two things - that they were undeniably attentive (for a support band) and almost exclusively male, and in their late 20s or early 30s. I made a mental note to suggest that shows by art-noise bands were awesome places to meet your future husband, until I moved across the room, and found that the other side of the room was predominantly female. I don't really know where this anecdote is going, but for some reason (i.e. alcohol) I thought it was a fascinating point last night).
A Place To Bury Strangers (henceforth aPtBs - I love bands that you can acronymise) were not nearly as much like Joy Division as I had prepared myself for- all the stuff I've heard from them thus far has been characterized by the singers deep voice and clipped delivery, a la Mr Curtis (and possibly the fact that nearly everyone in the world seems to have a Joy Division obsession right about now). They sounded a little more like a more interesting, faster Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (and note that I'm a child of the mainstream (as much as I don't like to admit it), so while I imagine there's a bunch of bands that are much better comparisons, I'm gonna have to stick with what I know).
I believe there was dancing, and plenty of toe-tapping, the bassist had one of the prettiest Thunderbird basses I've seen in a while (actually, is there such a thing as a non-pretty thunderbird bass? It could quite possibly be one of the most aesthetically pleasing pieces of machinery ever) and aPtBS were a whole bunch of fun. But they had nothing on Holy Fuck, who are from Toronto and play instrumental electronic music, but there's nary a computer in sight. There was a sizeable delay while one of their mixers caught fire, and was replaced with a different one. The band were most apologetic, but once they got started, it was worth the wait.
With a stage setup that features a keyboard set up across from a mixing desk, with a drummer and bassist in the middle, the band play off each other right throughout, and they're obviously pretty excited to be up there playing, the smile doesn't leave their faces. There's a rotating cast of quirky assorted noisemaking devices, from a child's microphone, which delivered some incredibly distorted vocals reminiscent of the otherworldly squeaks in that Battles single that gets posted everywhere, to one of those keyboards with a tube that you blow into to generate the noise (which I last saw in the Los Campesinos! video for the International Tweexcore Underground.
All this enthusiasm and quirkiness can obscure the fact that they play hip, danceable, electronic music, and after a couple of tracks the toe-tapping metamorphosed into full scale dancing - unheard of for Vancouver on a Monday night. For a moment, it felt like a Girl Talk show without the frat boys and retro samples. So after an hour of this, a dig at how bad their Calgary show was the previous evening (the second best way to endear yourself to a Vancouver crowd, is to tell them they're better than the crowd in Calgary - the best way? - compare it to Toronto) a delightfully brief, and enthustiastically filled pre-encore break, and you had one fucking good time. Nice work, sirs.
show of the year thus far. But they'll face some stiff competition from the Lips in May)
I had about a thousand things I wanted to add to this in my head last night, but I'm pretty sure that the drunk fairy came and took all my original thoughts away, and didn't even have the decency to leave me a quarter in return. bitch.
Actually, I'm gonna digress here. If I was ever asked to compete on the television quiz show Mastermind, I think my area of specialist knowledge would probably be "Charming anecdotes about how nuts the Flaming Lips are" (that or "Jarvis Cocker's haircuts"). And one of my favourite Lips moments is from the Fearless Freaks movie, where they admit they had to halt scriptwriting for the film because they weren't sure if Stephen Drozd was going to kill himself with his heroin addiction or not - and as he played the lead character, that would have been a problem.
My other favourite thing about the Flaming Lips is that at special shows, they have a goddamn UFO, and they're bringing said UFO to Sasquatch. Given that the last time they played out there it was the most surreal experience of my life (doing a karaoke singalong of "War Pigs" at 2 in the morning after a torrential hailstorm while pouring fake blood on yourself is exactly why I wish Wayne Coyne was my dad (I don't really mean that, dad)).
But anyway, enough digression. It should be relatively clear that I was in a pretty good mood. So I returned home from work, and was contemplating my evening, when I decided on the spur of the moment that I was gonna go to the Holy Fuck/A Place to Bury Strangers show that I'd been loosely contemplating. And I'm remarkably glad I did.
I was surprised to note that I haven't actually been to Richards yet this year, which is a shame, because it's my favourite venue in town, and I normally end up sneaking along there about once every two weeks. It's got a pretty sweet upstairs area, where if you're early enough and smart enough, you can stand behind and above the band, and I've never waited more than 3 minutes for a drink at the little bar tucked in the back corner. It is a happy place.
I rolled in at 9.30ish to a surprisingly full Richards - I'm not hyperfamiliar with either of the headliners, but the venue was a good 2/3 full. I walked in to a band playing, so I ended up playing the good old-fashioned guessing game to deduce how far through the bill they were (tips for new players - see how many drum kits are still stored at the back of stage). In this case, there were two, which meant that I was watching the last half of the set by the Clips, who seemed a competent little shoegazey/stomp-pop - the one song that sticks in the memory had a neat little ooey-ooey-oo refrain. As I normally do during support bands (and lets face it, during headliners as well) I started scanning the faces of those around me - and noticed two things - that they were undeniably attentive (for a support band) and almost exclusively male, and in their late 20s or early 30s. I made a mental note to suggest that shows by art-noise bands were awesome places to meet your future husband, until I moved across the room, and found that the other side of the room was predominantly female. I don't really know where this anecdote is going, but for some reason (i.e. alcohol) I thought it was a fascinating point last night).
A Place To Bury Strangers (henceforth aPtBs - I love bands that you can acronymise) were not nearly as much like Joy Division as I had prepared myself for- all the stuff I've heard from them thus far has been characterized by the singers deep voice and clipped delivery, a la Mr Curtis (and possibly the fact that nearly everyone in the world seems to have a Joy Division obsession right about now). They sounded a little more like a more interesting, faster Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (and note that I'm a child of the mainstream (as much as I don't like to admit it), so while I imagine there's a bunch of bands that are much better comparisons, I'm gonna have to stick with what I know).
I believe there was dancing, and plenty of toe-tapping, the bassist had one of the prettiest Thunderbird basses I've seen in a while (actually, is there such a thing as a non-pretty thunderbird bass? It could quite possibly be one of the most aesthetically pleasing pieces of machinery ever) and aPtBS were a whole bunch of fun. But they had nothing on Holy Fuck, who are from Toronto and play instrumental electronic music, but there's nary a computer in sight. There was a sizeable delay while one of their mixers caught fire, and was replaced with a different one. The band were most apologetic, but once they got started, it was worth the wait.
With a stage setup that features a keyboard set up across from a mixing desk, with a drummer and bassist in the middle, the band play off each other right throughout, and they're obviously pretty excited to be up there playing, the smile doesn't leave their faces. There's a rotating cast of quirky assorted noisemaking devices, from a child's microphone, which delivered some incredibly distorted vocals reminiscent of the otherworldly squeaks in that Battles single that gets posted everywhere, to one of those keyboards with a tube that you blow into to generate the noise (which I last saw in the Los Campesinos! video for the International Tweexcore Underground.
All this enthusiasm and quirkiness can obscure the fact that they play hip, danceable, electronic music, and after a couple of tracks the toe-tapping metamorphosed into full scale dancing - unheard of for Vancouver on a Monday night. For a moment, it felt like a Girl Talk show without the frat boys and retro samples. So after an hour of this, a dig at how bad their Calgary show was the previous evening (the second best way to endear yourself to a Vancouver crowd, is to tell them they're better than the crowd in Calgary - the best way? - compare it to Toronto) a delightfully brief, and enthustiastically filled pre-encore break, and you had one fucking good time. Nice work, sirs.
show of the year thus far. But they'll face some stiff competition from the Lips in May)
I had about a thousand things I wanted to add to this in my head last night, but I'm pretty sure that the drunk fairy came and took all my original thoughts away, and didn't even have the decency to leave me a quarter in return. bitch.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Cassette, Ned Collette, Bachelorette, February 14, Whammy Bar, Auckland
This post was supposed to be a stirring account of the grand return of Auckland's least favourite hung-over country rock band, a 2-drummer/drunk-singer extravaganza of enthusiasm failing to overtake a complete and utter lack of talent.
Alas, it wasn't to be, and the Alpha Males weren't to be playing this evening. There was a show tentatively booked, but it fell through, and attempts to wrangle a second show at show notice were also unsuccessful. Which was a shame, because it may have also featured the international debut of the Nested Ifs, although, having never practised, I'm not sure if that would have been a good thing.
Incidentally, the reason the original show fell through was because it was booked for Valentines Day, and those organizing the show figured, albeit correctly, that most of our friends, who are generally coupled, would choose to have a romantic dinner somewhere and not come to our show. However, I think an opportunity was missed to get a whole bunch of single girls to come along and be charmed by our sonic prowess, because everyone knows that there's a certain type of girl to whom spending Valentines Day alone is the equivalent of hell on earth, and you know that if a girl does turn up to your show alone, that her boyfriend is either a) lazy or b) imaginary. We could have been the skinny, underfed, pasty indie rock equivalent of Manpower. or not - last time I stripped on stage it wasn't received well.
But instead, I found myself at Whammy Bar in St Kevin's Arcade watching Cassette et al. Admittedly, there's several things that Cassette have that Alpha Males don't - namely talent, good looks, good songs, fans, a hit EP and witty stage banter, so I'll have to concede that I wasn't too upset to be in the audience rather than on stage this evening. Tonight was my first trip to the Whammy Bar, when I was last in Auckland it was home to an exclusive dance club (which was actually kinda cool, for a dance club), which I know I've been to, but I must have been messed up last time I went there, as I remembered nothing about the interior). It's apparently affiliated with the excellent Wine Cellar, further down St Kevin's Arcade, where I spent an outstanding Tuesday evening at the Eavesdrop Listening Party (here's a concept someone needs to export to North America - you pay 4 dollars to the knowledgeable gentleman at the door, who hands you a pamphlet, which has reviews of 10-15 albums coming out in the recent past or the near future, and throughout the evening you listen to a selection of songs off those records, while lounging on couches and sipping outstanding wine, while being periodically given chances to win said records).
Anyway, the bar is a cosy little underground nook, with a small step of a stage, but plenty of seating and a neat little atmosphere. The standard assortment of rocknroll illuminati was in attendance, (the singer from the Reduction Agents and the bassist from TransAm were standing in my sphere of view) and at one point my sister pointed out Liam Finn's girlfriend. I was tempted to attempt to cut his lunch, just for being a precociously talented little goofball, but then I remembered that every time I've met him he's been lovely, and that the poor girl was far too intelligent to be fooled in to going for a guy like me.
and the female turnout was a little low-key - there was one lonely looking girl over in the corner, but I wasn't feeling particularly attractive with a spectacularly burnt and peeling nose, so I decided that pretending I wasn't interested was preferable to a extravagant crash and burn, so I thought I'd concentrate instead on the music.
Which, incidentally, was first rate. Opening was Bachelorette, who I thought were a jangly little 3 piece all girl outfit, but turned out to be one girl, some loops and electronica, and a couple of keyboards (I have no idea who the jangly 3 piece were), and she was entertaining, although mid-show banter isn't her strong point.
Ned Collette was a pointy-shoed, pointy-sideburned australian, but I'm not going to hold either of those three things against him. He played some gentle acoustic songs, that sounded a little like quiet, introspective Tim Rogers songs (I'm thinking the slow parts of "What Rhymes with Cars and Girls" or "The Luxury of Hysteria", and some countrified rocknroll stomp reminiscent of countrified Tim Rogers "Spit Polish", or "Dirty Ron". That's possibly a little oversimplistic as a description, but Ned had some snappy songs, a great laid-back stage presence, and sounded better with a backing band than on his own (but it's a rare performer that doesn't).
Cassette too have their laid back stage presence down. The band was formed around a couple of guys who played with some seminal Wellington rock/metal bands, (the letterbox lambs, and head like a hole, the latter of which you may be familiar with, and if you're not, you should be, for their cover of "summer nights" alone (which incidentally I sang at a school assembly when I was 15).
The stage show mostly consists of the drummer and the guitarist lofting verbal barbs at each other (more on that later), but Cassette specialise in low key dreamy pop songs. They released a six song EP called emo (they were emo before it even existed) a long long time ago, (2001, apparently) and put out a debut record last year. In between they've been living in Melbourne, and obviously playing a lot of shows, because they're super-comfortable passing the time live on stage. Their best songs, "nothing to do", "don't let anyone" and the new single that they play on the b (the greatest radio station in the universe) that I haven't caught the name of yet, were all in the offing tonight, and they were perfect for a small, low-key midweek gathering. The late hour (it was nearly 12.30 before they went on) made it seem even more appropriate, like a country balladeer playing in a southern honkytown long after all the respectable folk had gone home, and everyone was lying drunk in the corners.
The onstage banter was of the highest calibre, with most inter-song moments filled with some sort of anecdote. I'm a little regretful that I waited a week to write about this, as I've forgotten most of the best bits. one story involved their night in Taupo the night before, where a young local said "you guys dress like homos", to which they replied "i think the word you are looking for is "dandys". The crowning glory was after the last song, when there was some genuine cheering for an encore, and the drummer said "instead of a encore, how about we play that last one again, but a little bit faster". He then asked for a show of hands, and those who wanted the last song again narrowly outvoted those who wanted a different song, so they played it again, a little bit faster. it was genius.
Alright, you must excuse me, I need to go search the internet obsessively for a way to get hold of the new Los Campesinos album " Hold on now, youngster" (complete with the requisite comma) before its north america release date in a ridiculously 2 months time. The pitchfork review featured this line, if they weren't already my favourite band, they would be more so after this "they document it with an emotional vividness that should have Pete Wentz friending them in no time. (Even though he probably won't get most of their jokes.)" genius.
(reposted at http://www.undertheradar.co.nz/utr/liveReview/CID/9/N/Cassette,_Ned_Collette,_Bachelorette,_February_14,_Whammy_Bar,_Auckland.utr )
Alas, it wasn't to be, and the Alpha Males weren't to be playing this evening. There was a show tentatively booked, but it fell through, and attempts to wrangle a second show at show notice were also unsuccessful. Which was a shame, because it may have also featured the international debut of the Nested Ifs, although, having never practised, I'm not sure if that would have been a good thing.
Incidentally, the reason the original show fell through was because it was booked for Valentines Day, and those organizing the show figured, albeit correctly, that most of our friends, who are generally coupled, would choose to have a romantic dinner somewhere and not come to our show. However, I think an opportunity was missed to get a whole bunch of single girls to come along and be charmed by our sonic prowess, because everyone knows that there's a certain type of girl to whom spending Valentines Day alone is the equivalent of hell on earth, and you know that if a girl does turn up to your show alone, that her boyfriend is either a) lazy or b) imaginary. We could have been the skinny, underfed, pasty indie rock equivalent of Manpower. or not - last time I stripped on stage it wasn't received well.
But instead, I found myself at Whammy Bar in St Kevin's Arcade watching Cassette et al. Admittedly, there's several things that Cassette have that Alpha Males don't - namely talent, good looks, good songs, fans, a hit EP and witty stage banter, so I'll have to concede that I wasn't too upset to be in the audience rather than on stage this evening. Tonight was my first trip to the Whammy Bar, when I was last in Auckland it was home to an exclusive dance club (which was actually kinda cool, for a dance club), which I know I've been to, but I must have been messed up last time I went there, as I remembered nothing about the interior). It's apparently affiliated with the excellent Wine Cellar, further down St Kevin's Arcade, where I spent an outstanding Tuesday evening at the Eavesdrop Listening Party (here's a concept someone needs to export to North America - you pay 4 dollars to the knowledgeable gentleman at the door, who hands you a pamphlet, which has reviews of 10-15 albums coming out in the recent past or the near future, and throughout the evening you listen to a selection of songs off those records, while lounging on couches and sipping outstanding wine, while being periodically given chances to win said records).
Anyway, the bar is a cosy little underground nook, with a small step of a stage, but plenty of seating and a neat little atmosphere. The standard assortment of rocknroll illuminati was in attendance, (the singer from the Reduction Agents and the bassist from TransAm were standing in my sphere of view) and at one point my sister pointed out Liam Finn's girlfriend. I was tempted to attempt to cut his lunch, just for being a precociously talented little goofball, but then I remembered that every time I've met him he's been lovely, and that the poor girl was far too intelligent to be fooled in to going for a guy like me.
and the female turnout was a little low-key - there was one lonely looking girl over in the corner, but I wasn't feeling particularly attractive with a spectacularly burnt and peeling nose, so I decided that pretending I wasn't interested was preferable to a extravagant crash and burn, so I thought I'd concentrate instead on the music.
Which, incidentally, was first rate. Opening was Bachelorette, who I thought were a jangly little 3 piece all girl outfit, but turned out to be one girl, some loops and electronica, and a couple of keyboards (I have no idea who the jangly 3 piece were), and she was entertaining, although mid-show banter isn't her strong point.
Ned Collette was a pointy-shoed, pointy-sideburned australian, but I'm not going to hold either of those three things against him. He played some gentle acoustic songs, that sounded a little like quiet, introspective Tim Rogers songs (I'm thinking the slow parts of "What Rhymes with Cars and Girls" or "The Luxury of Hysteria", and some countrified rocknroll stomp reminiscent of countrified Tim Rogers "Spit Polish", or "Dirty Ron". That's possibly a little oversimplistic as a description, but Ned had some snappy songs, a great laid-back stage presence, and sounded better with a backing band than on his own (but it's a rare performer that doesn't).
Cassette too have their laid back stage presence down. The band was formed around a couple of guys who played with some seminal Wellington rock/metal bands, (the letterbox lambs, and head like a hole, the latter of which you may be familiar with, and if you're not, you should be, for their cover of "summer nights" alone (which incidentally I sang at a school assembly when I was 15).
The stage show mostly consists of the drummer and the guitarist lofting verbal barbs at each other (more on that later), but Cassette specialise in low key dreamy pop songs. They released a six song EP called emo (they were emo before it even existed) a long long time ago, (2001, apparently) and put out a debut record last year. In between they've been living in Melbourne, and obviously playing a lot of shows, because they're super-comfortable passing the time live on stage. Their best songs, "nothing to do", "don't let anyone" and the new single that they play on the b (the greatest radio station in the universe) that I haven't caught the name of yet, were all in the offing tonight, and they were perfect for a small, low-key midweek gathering. The late hour (it was nearly 12.30 before they went on) made it seem even more appropriate, like a country balladeer playing in a southern honkytown long after all the respectable folk had gone home, and everyone was lying drunk in the corners.
The onstage banter was of the highest calibre, with most inter-song moments filled with some sort of anecdote. I'm a little regretful that I waited a week to write about this, as I've forgotten most of the best bits. one story involved their night in Taupo the night before, where a young local said "you guys dress like homos", to which they replied "i think the word you are looking for is "dandys". The crowning glory was after the last song, when there was some genuine cheering for an encore, and the drummer said "instead of a encore, how about we play that last one again, but a little bit faster". He then asked for a show of hands, and those who wanted the last song again narrowly outvoted those who wanted a different song, so they played it again, a little bit faster. it was genius.
Alright, you must excuse me, I need to go search the internet obsessively for a way to get hold of the new Los Campesinos album " Hold on now, youngster" (complete with the requisite comma) before its north america release date in a ridiculously 2 months time. The pitchfork review featured this line, if they weren't already my favourite band, they would be more so after this "they document it with an emotional vividness that should have Pete Wentz friending them in no time. (Even though he probably won't get most of their jokes.)" genius.
(reposted at http://www.undertheradar.co.nz
Sunday, February 17, 2008
The Ruby Suns, Kill Surf City, The Nudie Suits, The Kings Arms, Auckland, 8 Feb 2008
I no longer live in Auckland, New Zealand, a fact that frequently pains me. Especially when I come home to visit in the midst of a relatively bleak Vancouver winter, into a golden summer of sunshine, beaches, cricket and meat pies (all of which I'd experienced within 36 hours of touching down on NZ soil). I spent a great week catching up with old friends, but it wasn't until Friday night that I got to check in on another old chestnut, the Kings Arms.
The Kings Arms goes pretty close to being my favourite venue in the universe, not just because it is normally the best place in Auckland to see everything from local up and comers, to touring international bands that you'd actually want to see, but also because of its unique layout and antipodean charm.
Right at the front of the dancefloor, immediately to the right of the stage are a couple of glass doors which open out into an enormous, sprawling garden bar, with picnic tables and stools spread around a sumptuous lawn. There's nothing better than to wander out there between bands or before the show starts and enjoy a couple of drinks on a warm summer's evening. If you play your cards right, and undertake the correct pre-show maneouvering, you can snare a table where you can still see the stage (as long as nobody stands in front of you), which is a rare treat indeed.
The other neat thing about the Kings Arms is that the "backstage" area pretty much consists of a couple of office partition walls set up in a corner of the garden bar, but this less-than-resplendent green room means that bands often opt to just stand in the crowd and visit the bar with the regular folk during the support bands and after the show. New Zealand seems to have a weird attitude towards celebrity where any action that acknowledges fame is frowned upon. So Julian Casablancas from the Strokes could be standing at the bar next to you and all that anyone will do to recognize this fact is a barely impercetible nod in his direction (although there was the time when my good friend approached Meg White as she was leaving the bathroom to ask if she'd like to accompany him back to his place to watch Dazed and Confused - she politely indicated that while she respected it as a piece of cinema, she had other plans for the evening, and couldn't partake - she's a classy lady, that Meg.)
But anyway, I rolled up lateish on Friday night to catch the recently re-staffed (and pitchfork reviewed) Ruby Suns, and was impressed to see much of the Lil' Chief artistic roster at the front of the audience watching the Nudie Suits, which was a pleasant surprise, as I hadn't seen them billed for this show anywhere. Lil' Chief Records is an Auckland label that puts out releases from a number of local bands that specialize in a particular brand of sunny pop music, with bands like the Brunettes and the Reduction Agents the star attractions. They're a little DIY label that are doing some big things now, and there's almost an incestuous level of member sharing between the various bands, even though each group retains a unique sound and attitude. But everyone was there tonight, a quick head count revealed at least three Brunettes, a Tokey Tone, and a Reduction Agent.
The Nudie Suits, who opened tonight, are a great little 50s themed country rock band, fronted by Mark on guitar and Dionne on Hawaiian Steel guitar (and her sister, whose name I regrettably forget, on violin). They always look the part (but having encountered them at Foodtown Mt Eden (the rockandroll supermarket) I realised they always dress like that), and write witty charming country pop songs about suburban life and black comedians (a topic always close to my heart). Every Nudie Suits show is a good show, and this one was as charming and low key as ever.
The second band were Kill Surf City, who I haven't seen before (at least not that I remember), and I'll have to do them a disservice and admit that I ran in to an old friend in the garden bar between sets, and didn't end up catching too much of them. They seemed to play some perfectly serviceable laid back guitar rock, but I can't remember any particular high points or elements of interest, so I'll need to move along.
However, there are several points of interest about the Ruby Suns that are worth addressing. Like most of the New Zealand population, Ryan McPhun, (the singer and principal songwriter of the Ruby Suns) used to be the drummer in the Brunettes, and after leaving he put together a sunny eponymously-titled pop record, which had at least three pretty fancy songs on it, that used to remind of sunny summer evenings, until I used the CD as a coaster for a candle, and wrecked it. Last time I saw them, they were a six or seven piece multi-instrumental affair, but they always seemed a little bland live. This time, I was a little surprised to see that they'd stripped down to a three piece - Ryan plays the drums and the guitar, with backing guitars, bass and keys shared between the other two members. The guitar/drums combination is an interesting one that seems to be gaining some traction in NZ indie circles, I see Liam Finn (Son of Neil of Split Enz and Crowded House fame) runs a similar setup live (and I don't want to start any inter-band name calling by suggesting who started doing it first). Generally they'll start off on the drums and lay down the beat, and then loop that up using an effects pedal, and play the guitar over the top of it. It makes for some great visual chemistry, especially when they come back to the drums at various points in the song to add different elements to the loop, and I've decided that I've become a big fan of people playing the drums standing up.
Songs off the Ruby Suns new record, Sea Lion, (edit - which was recently Best New Music'd!) seem to have more of a tribal african/polynesian atmosphere to them (or it could have been the singers kaftan (and I realise that kaftan is possibly the wrong word, but it's far as my vocabulary extends, and I don't know if many of the reading audience will know what a muumuu is). The songs also sound a little more focused (at least in a live setting) and it turned out to be a pretty goddamn fun night, which was finished up with their current radio hit "Tane Mahuta", which is sung in Maori, and is about a large tree, of which I am acquainted. I was impressed to see that as soon as the band finished, someone put a record on, and the dancing started (I've been there on nights where people stand tapping their feet waiting for the bands to finish so that the real party can get started), but alas, I had commitments the next day that prevented me from partaking with the gusto I wished to.
I was also a little sad that those commitments prevented me coming back the next night to see James Milne (also ex-Brunette) play in three different bands (The Reduction Agents, Lawrence of Arabia, and Auckland's finest Paul McCartney and Wings covers band, The Disciples of Macca)
and I'm even sadder that I'll be back in Canada by the time the Datsuns and Dirtbombs play a show together. Imagine that - Cambridge's finest, who bleed garage rock when you cut them, and the Detroit collective that feature two bassists, two drummers, and a cross between Marvin Gaye and Iggy Pop on lead vocals. The afterparty for that one will go long into the wee hours, I'm sure.
Speaking of the wee hours, it was awfully refreshing to find myself still dancing to "Teenage Kicks" at 5am the next night, without being forced unceremoniously onto the streets, but that, I believe, is a story for another time.
EDIT - I just remembered a story from Saturday night that is tenuously relevant. While walking outside the casino, we ran in to a young man who looked suspiciously like Luke from the Phoenix Foundation (North American listeners may be familiar with them from the Eagle Vs Shark Soundtrack). So we asked him to wax my colleagues upper thigh, and he graciously obliged. Those New Zealand musicians are always happy to help out their fellow man.
The Kings Arms goes pretty close to being my favourite venue in the universe, not just because it is normally the best place in Auckland to see everything from local up and comers, to touring international bands that you'd actually want to see, but also because of its unique layout and antipodean charm.
Right at the front of the dancefloor, immediately to the right of the stage are a couple of glass doors which open out into an enormous, sprawling garden bar, with picnic tables and stools spread around a sumptuous lawn. There's nothing better than to wander out there between bands or before the show starts and enjoy a couple of drinks on a warm summer's evening. If you play your cards right, and undertake the correct pre-show maneouvering, you can snare a table where you can still see the stage (as long as nobody stands in front of you), which is a rare treat indeed.
The other neat thing about the Kings Arms is that the "backstage" area pretty much consists of a couple of office partition walls set up in a corner of the garden bar, but this less-than-resplendent green room means that bands often opt to just stand in the crowd and visit the bar with the regular folk during the support bands and after the show. New Zealand seems to have a weird attitude towards celebrity where any action that acknowledges fame is frowned upon. So Julian Casablancas from the Strokes could be standing at the bar next to you and all that anyone will do to recognize this fact is a barely impercetible nod in his direction (although there was the time when my good friend approached Meg White as she was leaving the bathroom to ask if she'd like to accompany him back to his place to watch Dazed and Confused - she politely indicated that while she respected it as a piece of cinema, she had other plans for the evening, and couldn't partake - she's a classy lady, that Meg.)
But anyway, I rolled up lateish on Friday night to catch the recently re-staffed (and pitchfork reviewed) Ruby Suns, and was impressed to see much of the Lil' Chief artistic roster at the front of the audience watching the Nudie Suits, which was a pleasant surprise, as I hadn't seen them billed for this show anywhere. Lil' Chief Records is an Auckland label that puts out releases from a number of local bands that specialize in a particular brand of sunny pop music, with bands like the Brunettes and the Reduction Agents the star attractions. They're a little DIY label that are doing some big things now, and there's almost an incestuous level of member sharing between the various bands, even though each group retains a unique sound and attitude. But everyone was there tonight, a quick head count revealed at least three Brunettes, a Tokey Tone, and a Reduction Agent.
The Nudie Suits, who opened tonight, are a great little 50s themed country rock band, fronted by Mark on guitar and Dionne on Hawaiian Steel guitar (and her sister, whose name I regrettably forget, on violin). They always look the part (but having encountered them at Foodtown Mt Eden (the rockandroll supermarket) I realised they always dress like that), and write witty charming country pop songs about suburban life and black comedians (a topic always close to my heart). Every Nudie Suits show is a good show, and this one was as charming and low key as ever.
The second band were Kill Surf City, who I haven't seen before (at least not that I remember), and I'll have to do them a disservice and admit that I ran in to an old friend in the garden bar between sets, and didn't end up catching too much of them. They seemed to play some perfectly serviceable laid back guitar rock, but I can't remember any particular high points or elements of interest, so I'll need to move along.
However, there are several points of interest about the Ruby Suns that are worth addressing. Like most of the New Zealand population, Ryan McPhun, (the singer and principal songwriter of the Ruby Suns) used to be the drummer in the Brunettes, and after leaving he put together a sunny eponymously-titled pop record, which had at least three pretty fancy songs on it, that used to remind of sunny summer evenings, until I used the CD as a coaster for a candle, and wrecked it. Last time I saw them, they were a six or seven piece multi-instrumental affair, but they always seemed a little bland live. This time, I was a little surprised to see that they'd stripped down to a three piece - Ryan plays the drums and the guitar, with backing guitars, bass and keys shared between the other two members. The guitar/drums combination is an interesting one that seems to be gaining some traction in NZ indie circles, I see Liam Finn (Son of Neil of Split Enz and Crowded House fame) runs a similar setup live (and I don't want to start any inter-band name calling by suggesting who started doing it first). Generally they'll start off on the drums and lay down the beat, and then loop that up using an effects pedal, and play the guitar over the top of it. It makes for some great visual chemistry, especially when they come back to the drums at various points in the song to add different elements to the loop, and I've decided that I've become a big fan of people playing the drums standing up.
Songs off the Ruby Suns new record, Sea Lion, (edit - which was recently Best New Music'd!) seem to have more of a tribal african/polynesian atmosphere to them (or it could have been the singers kaftan (and I realise that kaftan is possibly the wrong word, but it's far as my vocabulary extends, and I don't know if many of the reading audience will know what a muumuu is). The songs also sound a little more focused (at least in a live setting) and it turned out to be a pretty goddamn fun night, which was finished up with their current radio hit "Tane Mahuta", which is sung in Maori, and is about a large tree, of which I am acquainted. I was impressed to see that as soon as the band finished, someone put a record on, and the dancing started (I've been there on nights where people stand tapping their feet waiting for the bands to finish so that the real party can get started), but alas, I had commitments the next day that prevented me from partaking with the gusto I wished to.
I was also a little sad that those commitments prevented me coming back the next night to see James Milne (also ex-Brunette) play in three different bands (The Reduction Agents, Lawrence of Arabia, and Auckland's finest Paul McCartney and Wings covers band, The Disciples of Macca)
and I'm even sadder that I'll be back in Canada by the time the Datsuns and Dirtbombs play a show together. Imagine that - Cambridge's finest, who bleed garage rock when you cut them, and the Detroit collective that feature two bassists, two drummers, and a cross between Marvin Gaye and Iggy Pop on lead vocals. The afterparty for that one will go long into the wee hours, I'm sure.
Speaking of the wee hours, it was awfully refreshing to find myself still dancing to "Teenage Kicks" at 5am the next night, without being forced unceremoniously onto the streets, but that, I believe, is a story for another time.
EDIT - I just remembered a story from Saturday night that is tenuously relevant. While walking outside the casino, we ran in to a young man who looked suspiciously like Luke from the Phoenix Foundation (North American listeners may be familiar with them from the Eagle Vs Shark Soundtrack). So we asked him to wax my colleagues upper thigh, and he graciously obliged. Those New Zealand musicians are always happy to help out their fellow man.
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