Any and all movements have to have a distinct name, as not to be confused with any other past or present movements. Otherwise, titles from other failed or successful movements will be applied to describe a current movement, weakening both its distinct existence as well as adding a shade of grey to what that movement is and represents where that has lost any distinction at all.
There is a movement brewing in West Kentucky, regardless if the 'civilized' world is paying attention. Writers capture bits and pieces in print, artists capture the essence of the moment, musicians play in dirty bars, living rooms, and holes in the wall for their salvation. This movement is an escape from the garbage on the radio and TV, in print, and on canvas because it is real, genuine, and completely ours.
Paducah, Kentucky, is the home of the Blunk movement. They are not Hippies, they are not Punks. They are Blunks.
Until now, this movement was either tagged as either Hippies or Punks since it is far easier to use old labels from dead times then it is to define a new style and frame of thought. It is easier to throw old titles around so that the new ideas are already wrote off as dead out of the fear of change and growth toward new horizons. Change and growth are fearsome beasts to tackle.
Defining a movement and philosophy is a task within itself. A movement name must be concise yet memorable without being overshadowed by its predecessors. Alternately it must be descriptive and expressive enough to be an open door, as not to lock out anyone of any style from participation.
The first sign of trouble most likely will be the re-use of the term Punk as a root of etymology for Blunk. Locals and members of this movement, though, will recognize it as a homage to both the Punk influenced and outright Punk bands in the area. Love letters to the genre include The Wish You Weres, The Hi-Fi Ninja, Middle Class Trash, Some Skank, and Parasite Diet.
The root of the use of Bluegrass stems from the location of the movement and the sudden outburst of bands using traditional Bluegrass instruments in a non-Bluegrass setting. Examples of this style are Bawn in the Mash, Gnawin’ On A Hog’s Leg, and Boot Dagger.
To answer the question -
A: Blunk is:
1. A creative movement (all writers, artists, and musical acts) that exhibits the DIY ethic of Punk and are centered in West Kentucky.
2. A style of music using Bluegrass instruments in a non-traditional Bluegrass setting.
3. Bluegrass + Punk = Blunk
---
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Damien Hirst is A Turd.
The Independent: Damien Hirst in Vicious Feud with Teenage Artist Over A Box of Pencils
A Quote (and I howl with laughter!): He then created a "wanted"-style poster that read: "For the safe return of Damien Hirst's pencils I would like my artworks back that DACS and Hirst took off me in November. It's not a large demand... Hirst has until the end of this month to resolve this or on 31 July the pencils will be sharpened. He has been warned."
*snicker* Go team.
A Quote (and I howl with laughter!): He then created a "wanted"-style poster that read: "For the safe return of Damien Hirst's pencils I would like my artworks back that DACS and Hirst took off me in November. It's not a large demand... Hirst has until the end of this month to resolve this or on 31 July the pencils will be sharpened. He has been warned."
*snicker* Go team.
Jessica Frech - live at The Creme (08.28.09)
True to the southern frame of mind, Jessica Frech plays barefoot. An interesting quirk to an interesting show where the southern songbird from Nashville, TN glided into town for Owensboro Indie Connection’s show at The Crème (Owensboro, Ky).
“I used to cry when I was a baby until my parents would sing me to sleep,” she said, introducing her song Lullaby, “so I wrote this song to sing someone to sleep.” Taking cues from Meiko and Regina Spektor, Frech forms her own variety of folk indie rock with a warm southern twist. At seventeen-years-old, she shows promise to grow into a tour-de-force given a few more years behind the ink pen and guitar.
Frech’s new album “Grapefruit” is available now at http://www.myspace.com/jessicafrech.
“I used to cry when I was a baby until my parents would sing me to sleep,” she said, introducing her song Lullaby, “so I wrote this song to sing someone to sleep.” Taking cues from Meiko and Regina Spektor, Frech forms her own variety of folk indie rock with a warm southern twist. At seventeen-years-old, she shows promise to grow into a tour-de-force given a few more years behind the ink pen and guitar.
Frech’s new album “Grapefruit” is available now at http://www.myspace.com/jessicafrech.
A Kink in the Plans/A Kick in the Pants
I've talked shit about Paducah in the past. While the city has its pitfalls and problems, at least the Art (all inclusive) scene is doing something out there in Podunk, whereas Owensboro is fucking dead. There's the bar crowd scene but the music down there smells like cover bands. There's Friday After Five but it smells suspiciously like Downtown After Dinner - country and cover bands with unforgiving unwillingness to try anything new or fresh in the officially recognized cannon of the public.
---
Owensboro is irritating the hell out of me at the moment. Alex & I scouted around O’boro all day Wednesday looking for somewhere to have a live music venue…no after no after fucking no all day long. You'd think it was a no convention at the idea of music.
The only place in town that did live shows was this one pizza joint that went under ‘cause the were hustlers and stopped selling pizza. Their hustle was making bands sell their own tickets to the show; whoever sold the most got to play last, whoever sold the least got to play first. That’s fuckin’ shady, if you ask me.
We checked that building and its price to rent/buy and they’re still trying to hustle at the game. The amount of money they want to buy the building is stupidly high for its location - off of the main drag, the building is run down, it doesn’t even have the kitchen equipment in it anymore - and the rent is worse to the point of not being able to break even without hustling with a shade, too.
After a scout of the internet, a building on Triplet and 7th turned into a possibility - it’s in a shitty part of town, the building looks run down as hell, the windows even have bars on them! Sounded like a perfect idea, right? It’s interior was a peach ugly straight from the 80’s. The archways to the back - which tells me the building was built in the 50’s - well, one was open completely, the other had a swinging bar style door blocking it from the back. The bars on the windows made me laugh at the idea of the bars keeping the music inside, opposed to the bars keeping people from getting in from the outside.
The owner said no ‘cause there was only one toilet (so?) and it wasn’t up to code (ok, yeah)…but he did tell us to go talk to the furniture store a little up the ways (9th and Bolivar). They’d be the people to talk to.
The furniture store owner wasn’t there - but his daughter was. Misty lead us straight to the back where a wrestling ring stood, surrounded by mattresses in shrink wrap and other assorted stock items. Her outlook was totally sunny, thought it was a great idea, and told us to come back the next day and talk to her father. She mentioned that her boyfriend and her father were wrestlers (bf=current; father=retired) and the shows were held there.
Her father looks like what would’ve happened to Hulk Hogan if he weren’t in the WWF and stayed small-time. Long white hair, bald on top, still with the wrestlers showmanship of a bark telling Alex & I “no, no, I can’t, the insurance won’t let me. There’s too much stock around to worry about” and a pear shaped body to match, Um, ok, is there a problem with vandalism/hooliganism in Owensboro? was my thought on the matter after seeing facial expression after facial expression of business/building owners at the idea of an all ages club. Billy the Former Wrestler turned furniture salesman said that we should talk to the owner of the Singer store down the street, he had a club off to the side and rented it out for weddings and receptions.
The Dallas Room loomed quietly. It smelled like the Brown Jewel from the look in the parking lot - most likely it had the Frank Sinatra décor on the inside. (see: Crown Jewel [06.27.09])
The owner of the Singer store also owns this Dallas Room. He said he was a musician, too, with a straight Elvis swagger and the hair to match. His reasoning is that he tried to have shows and rent out the room for them but there were just too many hooligans who would smoke cigarettes in the building and tear up furniture. “I’d rather have the seventy-five and over crowd.” Yeah, the only thing they’re going to break is a hip. wormed its way out of my mouth in a very Daria fashion. The Singer/Dallas Room Owner’s grew wide eyed and laughed honestly at the black humor joke. “Well, I hope not!”
Goddddddddddddddddddddddddd. Why does Owensboro have to be so damn lame about live music?
Persistence is the key, though, and that's the plan of the game.
There's so much work to do and not enough time to do it.
---
Owensboro is irritating the hell out of me at the moment. Alex & I scouted around O’boro all day Wednesday looking for somewhere to have a live music venue…no after no after fucking no all day long. You'd think it was a no convention at the idea of music.
The only place in town that did live shows was this one pizza joint that went under ‘cause the were hustlers and stopped selling pizza. Their hustle was making bands sell their own tickets to the show; whoever sold the most got to play last, whoever sold the least got to play first. That’s fuckin’ shady, if you ask me.
We checked that building and its price to rent/buy and they’re still trying to hustle at the game. The amount of money they want to buy the building is stupidly high for its location - off of the main drag, the building is run down, it doesn’t even have the kitchen equipment in it anymore - and the rent is worse to the point of not being able to break even without hustling with a shade, too.
After a scout of the internet, a building on Triplet and 7th turned into a possibility - it’s in a shitty part of town, the building looks run down as hell, the windows even have bars on them! Sounded like a perfect idea, right? It’s interior was a peach ugly straight from the 80’s. The archways to the back - which tells me the building was built in the 50’s - well, one was open completely, the other had a swinging bar style door blocking it from the back. The bars on the windows made me laugh at the idea of the bars keeping the music inside, opposed to the bars keeping people from getting in from the outside.
The owner said no ‘cause there was only one toilet (so?) and it wasn’t up to code (ok, yeah)…but he did tell us to go talk to the furniture store a little up the ways (9th and Bolivar). They’d be the people to talk to.
The furniture store owner wasn’t there - but his daughter was. Misty lead us straight to the back where a wrestling ring stood, surrounded by mattresses in shrink wrap and other assorted stock items. Her outlook was totally sunny, thought it was a great idea, and told us to come back the next day and talk to her father. She mentioned that her boyfriend and her father were wrestlers (bf=current; father=retired) and the shows were held there.
Her father looks like what would’ve happened to Hulk Hogan if he weren’t in the WWF and stayed small-time. Long white hair, bald on top, still with the wrestlers showmanship of a bark telling Alex & I “no, no, I can’t, the insurance won’t let me. There’s too much stock around to worry about” and a pear shaped body to match, Um, ok, is there a problem with vandalism/hooliganism in Owensboro? was my thought on the matter after seeing facial expression after facial expression of business/building owners at the idea of an all ages club. Billy the Former Wrestler turned furniture salesman said that we should talk to the owner of the Singer store down the street, he had a club off to the side and rented it out for weddings and receptions.
The Dallas Room loomed quietly. It smelled like the Brown Jewel from the look in the parking lot - most likely it had the Frank Sinatra décor on the inside. (see: Crown Jewel [06.27.09])
The owner of the Singer store also owns this Dallas Room. He said he was a musician, too, with a straight Elvis swagger and the hair to match. His reasoning is that he tried to have shows and rent out the room for them but there were just too many hooligans who would smoke cigarettes in the building and tear up furniture. “I’d rather have the seventy-five and over crowd.” Yeah, the only thing they’re going to break is a hip. wormed its way out of my mouth in a very Daria fashion. The Singer/Dallas Room Owner’s grew wide eyed and laughed honestly at the black humor joke. “Well, I hope not!”
Goddddddddddddddddddddddddd. Why does Owensboro have to be so damn lame about live music?
Persistence is the key, though, and that's the plan of the game.
There's so much work to do and not enough time to do it.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
Radioactive City Roller Girls fundraiser @ KC's (08.28.09)
H'ok, so:
Last night's show was fuckin' amazing - I can't write too much more about it quite yet for a variety of reasons - BUT MAN. Gnawin' On A Hog's Leg = A+
Last night's show was fuckin' amazing - I can't write too much more about it quite yet for a variety of reasons - BUT MAN. Gnawin' On A Hog's Leg = A+
Autia @ Bobby Inkslingers (08.22.09)
"This is Fire's goat. He's fucking it but we're just holding the tail," said Treetop of Autia as they filtered in the door to Bobby's off to the side. The venue space and front step were suspiciously empty, a little ghost town of sound for an evening.
Ah, the horrors of a show not to be missed...yet the show was missed by everyone.
---
Fast forward to a few hours later. The parking lot was still dead, the front step a ghost town...modern tumbleweeds in the form of a Wal-Mart bag rolled across the parking lot - but you couldn't tell from the sound coming from inside the building. Windows rattled and concrete walls shook from the force.
Does the music go on, even if no one turns up to listen? Of course it does. Music is like bears pooping in the woods and trees falling with no witness to their sound - it's going to happen even if you aren't there to hear it.
"They're too loud," said Bobby, "we've got people trying to work here." There was a nuclear explosion going off in the front half of the building, true, but the empty house was to blame. Souls absorb music and connection, but on a practical level bodies absorb sound. Without the bodies - goers to the show - the music ricocheted from the walls like a nuclear explosion.
"It's too loud," Bobby repeated, heading into the parlor portion after volume control.
---
In the meanwhile, Mickey the floor mopper was not to be deterred. "I want some pussy!" was his mode of action for the evening, shuffling around the parking lot and talking to any chick in range. He tells me this because I am apparently off-limits - for what reason, I'm not quite sure, but that's cool - and goes into a discussion of his new tattoo.
"Check this shit out!" as he pointed to the Native American symbol that festooned the bulbous portion of his upper left arm. The shading work was magnificent, the lines straight and crisp, of an Indian packing a sword in one hand and a man's head in the other. This piece was the work of Bobby, head tattooist. "See, this was a pendent," he said cheerfully, "that a tribe wore around their necks, except it was sideways," as he lifted his arm to display the image how it was supposed to be seen. "Do you know why it faced sideways on the pendant?" No? "So when a brave was cutting off another's head, they could see the pendent right while they were chopping his head off."
---
The music suddenly stopped. Apparently, all the speakers were set to "1" and the volume was still amazingly deafening - there weren't any bodies to absorb the sound! - and out of disgust Autia had stopped playing.
Could you blame them? It wasn't The Man telling them to turn it down, it was one of their own covered in tattoos!
Ah, the horrors of a show not to be missed...yet the show was missed by everyone.
---
Fast forward to a few hours later. The parking lot was still dead, the front step a ghost town...modern tumbleweeds in the form of a Wal-Mart bag rolled across the parking lot - but you couldn't tell from the sound coming from inside the building. Windows rattled and concrete walls shook from the force.
Does the music go on, even if no one turns up to listen? Of course it does. Music is like bears pooping in the woods and trees falling with no witness to their sound - it's going to happen even if you aren't there to hear it.
"They're too loud," said Bobby, "we've got people trying to work here." There was a nuclear explosion going off in the front half of the building, true, but the empty house was to blame. Souls absorb music and connection, but on a practical level bodies absorb sound. Without the bodies - goers to the show - the music ricocheted from the walls like a nuclear explosion.
"It's too loud," Bobby repeated, heading into the parlor portion after volume control.
---
In the meanwhile, Mickey the floor mopper was not to be deterred. "I want some pussy!" was his mode of action for the evening, shuffling around the parking lot and talking to any chick in range. He tells me this because I am apparently off-limits - for what reason, I'm not quite sure, but that's cool - and goes into a discussion of his new tattoo.
"Check this shit out!" as he pointed to the Native American symbol that festooned the bulbous portion of his upper left arm. The shading work was magnificent, the lines straight and crisp, of an Indian packing a sword in one hand and a man's head in the other. This piece was the work of Bobby, head tattooist. "See, this was a pendent," he said cheerfully, "that a tribe wore around their necks, except it was sideways," as he lifted his arm to display the image how it was supposed to be seen. "Do you know why it faced sideways on the pendant?" No? "So when a brave was cutting off another's head, they could see the pendent right while they were chopping his head off."
---
The music suddenly stopped. Apparently, all the speakers were set to "1" and the volume was still amazingly deafening - there weren't any bodies to absorb the sound! - and out of disgust Autia had stopped playing.
Could you blame them? It wasn't The Man telling them to turn it down, it was one of their own covered in tattoos!
Cycle Knights Review [Mischief, Mayhem, and Bikes] (08.17.09)
August 15th, 2009 - Paducah, Ky:
“Either y’all are gonna fight or shut the fuck up!” hollered one irritated Cycle Knight at Grimes and Derek, bassist and guitarist of the Duck Luckies. Those two had been drinking and yelling and cussing each other since their two song set and the mob of punken drunks were sick of their bullshit, too. Either there was going to be a fight or there was going to be two dudes hollering at each other like they’re married.
It was the end of the evening, the show drawing to a close as Gemini Lounge packed up their gear when the meaty smacks of two musicians finally came to be, an endcap to the endless drama.
---
The trouble with the Duck Luckies is that this is a normal scenario. The first time I observed the band in action was the night Bawn in the Mash played the Irvine Cobb, meaning the show over at Cheers was utterly dead (Brown Chicken Brown Cow/3/8ths/Duck Luckies). Grimes was so wasted that he stopped in the middle of a song, walked over to his pitcher of beer on top of the amp, took a drink from it, then tried to find his way back where he was playing in the song. Derek stopped and asked him “What the fuck are you doing?” where the two proceeded to act like they were going to fight. The crowd was an orderly bar crowd and stepped in to keep the police from getting called. I thought I was watching part of their stage act until they started packing up equipment.
I asked Grimes if he needed a hug. “No, I don’t need no GODDAM hug!” he said, throwing his amp into the back of his car. “The Duck Luckies are OVER!” he repeated over and over again for everyone to hear, everyone knowing damn well they’d kiss and make up by morning.
---
The poor Al Bundys got stuck with the worst slot to play where the sun had yet to dip behind the building, let alone behind the horizon. Their set was reminiscent of Terrapin Hill in the early Saturday evening, blazing sun and murderous humidity plus the hangover of whatever substance you took part in the night before. I’d drank a half pint of Jim Beam out in the County and was still feeling the after effects. The way the Bundys jam session floated across the grass was almost enough to make someone trip without having the drugs to get in the way, even if Tony says he sucked and needs a new asshole. It’s not the best show I’ve seen them play but the humidity was to blame.
Following the Bundys was Donald Phillips, a side project between 3/8ths bassist Doug and Grimes playing guitar. Their set, while intense, was understandably short. They only had four practices before their one and only show together, according to what’s been reported since.
All minor varieties of hell broke loose as the Luckies took the stage. Grimes was already trashed by the time Donald Phillips played their set, wobbling as he laid into bass lines. By the time the Luckies took the stage, he was beyond trashed and firmly headed into the abyss of wasted. When their first song was cut short, the little red flag of trouble reared its head as Derek shot fierce ugly looks at Grimes. Grimes was wobbling around like the world had come unstuck, fucking up bass lines like a professional. Half way through the second song, the music suddenly stopped and the two started to argue oh-so-professionally over their microphones.
Cameron and I were distracted and busy talking bullshit out by the campground when the mayhem started. “God, prove that You exist by making them shut up,” was my offhand comment as we made our way back to the stage.
By the time we’d made it across the field, their drummer was already packing his shit up and putting it away in his car. “Dude, fuck you! Your side project upstaged our set!” was Derek’s issue with Donald Phillips, apparently, and decided that the entire world needed to know what his problem was.
Pause for a moment to consider: If you argue and get into each others faces like you’re going to fight at a bar, you’re going to get broken up because no one wants the law to fuck up their good time. On the other hand, if you’re going to get in each others faces at a biker club, are the bikers going to stop you? Uh, no. Are they going to go call the police? Fuck no - they are the police under these circumstances.
Rather than doing something about their pent up frustration, the remaining Luckies just yelled in each others faces until they realized no one was going to stop them from fighting and proceeded to trash talk each other - but neither of them left - to anyone willing to listen.
About the time that the Luckies were to take the stage, notable socialite Sam Hook rolled up to the show, packing a writerly sized bottle of Jameson, taking shots and chasing with Coke. He tried to offer me some of his scotch but the Jim Beam from the evening before still had me by the gut. “No thanks, man, not unless I want to get into a fight,” was the polite reply, my stomach slowly turning at the thought of more alcohol.
In the meanwhile, 3/8 drive took to the stage and turned out the magical musical crack that they’re consistently known for. Joe the drummer stripped off his shirt ‘cause “Man, my shirt was sticking to my arm pits,” signaling that the humidity was still a rotten asshole hanging around long after dark. Guitarist David and Fret Chatter bassist Chris hollered back and forth at each other while working the sound check, hurrying to play to distract the crowd from the Luckies and their mayhem, still yelling like fools and not exchanging blows. As soon as 3/8ths started their set, a curious sight took place. Every Cycle Knight in the building made their way out of the clubhouse and off to the side to watch them play. Prior to that, the bikers were only interested in the pool table and beer on the inside of the building.
The Cycle Knights were a great bunch, truth be told. They mostly stayed off to themselves in the clubhouse and were marvelously well-behaved. Out of respect, there aren’t any photographs of the inside of the clubhouse but the most charming aspect was the yellow legal pad sign taped to the bathroom door that read “Guys Piss Outside”.
It is fitting that a punk and hard rock show was booked at a biker club. Punks, Hippies, and Bikers all operate on the same philosophy of ‘We don’t give a fuck, leave us alone and let us do our thing’ and it’s perfect to see how music makes for very strange bedfellows.
The Devil and Miss Jones and Gemini Lounge only are lumped together because they always play together - they split Jeremy the drummer - but their sound is pure metal that gets better every time both bands play. My only reasoning for backing away from the stage during Miss Jones set was out of necessity from extended exposure to loud music and not as an insult to the band. From the back of the campground, though, the sound lived up to the band’s pornographic name - dirty, dark, and ready for action.
Gemini Lounge’s two moments of utter awesome was lead singer Brett’s striptease prior to the start of their set - the humidity was still utterly ridiculous, one crowd member urging him to “Take it off!” The other moment of zen was one of the Cycle Knight’s children wanted to stage dive and crowd surf. Despite what the rest of the world wants you to believe, leather and bikes does not make bad parents. Like professional badasses, the crowd assembled at the front of the stage, Jeremy counted off for when the kid needed to jump, and the crowd hoisted this kid far into the air and passed him around like king of the world.
---
Once Gemini Lounge started to pack up their equipment and make for the partying in the campground, the Luckies were at it again. They’d talked shit, started shit with others, kept drinking, and generally were two grumpy bears who would exchange insults and yell, then back away from each other.
The Cycle Knight that brought the issue to a head looked like he’d been around the block a few times. He wore glasses reminiscent of the birth control military issue variety, his long white beard half way down his chest, wearing a well worn and patch adorned vest. The Knights had circled around at the sound of raised voices yet again, growing irritated at the lack of punches being exchanged.
Cameron was camped out in a folding chair and proceeded to holler “Either you’re gonna fight or fuck! Get it over with!” the final time Derek and Grimes started exchanging insults.
“Either y’all are gonna fight or shut the fuck up!” retorted the Cycle Knight.
Somehow the issue turned from bad musicianship to lack of family when push came to shove. Derek finally landed some blows, their meaty smacks ringing out against the building wall, where the fight then became a wrestling match in the dirt and rocks in clear view of the highway. Knights and punks alike circled around, observing the less than spectacular mayhem.
“He hit me!” said Grimes after they’d peeled themselves off of the dirt.
“Well, no shit,” said a show goer in response, “it’s about fucking time someone did.”
“Either y’all are gonna fight or shut the fuck up!” hollered one irritated Cycle Knight at Grimes and Derek, bassist and guitarist of the Duck Luckies. Those two had been drinking and yelling and cussing each other since their two song set and the mob of punken drunks were sick of their bullshit, too. Either there was going to be a fight or there was going to be two dudes hollering at each other like they’re married.
It was the end of the evening, the show drawing to a close as Gemini Lounge packed up their gear when the meaty smacks of two musicians finally came to be, an endcap to the endless drama.
---
The trouble with the Duck Luckies is that this is a normal scenario. The first time I observed the band in action was the night Bawn in the Mash played the Irvine Cobb, meaning the show over at Cheers was utterly dead (Brown Chicken Brown Cow/3/8ths/Duck Luckies). Grimes was so wasted that he stopped in the middle of a song, walked over to his pitcher of beer on top of the amp, took a drink from it, then tried to find his way back where he was playing in the song. Derek stopped and asked him “What the fuck are you doing?” where the two proceeded to act like they were going to fight. The crowd was an orderly bar crowd and stepped in to keep the police from getting called. I thought I was watching part of their stage act until they started packing up equipment.
I asked Grimes if he needed a hug. “No, I don’t need no GODDAM hug!” he said, throwing his amp into the back of his car. “The Duck Luckies are OVER!” he repeated over and over again for everyone to hear, everyone knowing damn well they’d kiss and make up by morning.
---
The poor Al Bundys got stuck with the worst slot to play where the sun had yet to dip behind the building, let alone behind the horizon. Their set was reminiscent of Terrapin Hill in the early Saturday evening, blazing sun and murderous humidity plus the hangover of whatever substance you took part in the night before. I’d drank a half pint of Jim Beam out in the County and was still feeling the after effects. The way the Bundys jam session floated across the grass was almost enough to make someone trip without having the drugs to get in the way, even if Tony says he sucked and needs a new asshole. It’s not the best show I’ve seen them play but the humidity was to blame.
Following the Bundys was Donald Phillips, a side project between 3/8ths bassist Doug and Grimes playing guitar. Their set, while intense, was understandably short. They only had four practices before their one and only show together, according to what’s been reported since.
All minor varieties of hell broke loose as the Luckies took the stage. Grimes was already trashed by the time Donald Phillips played their set, wobbling as he laid into bass lines. By the time the Luckies took the stage, he was beyond trashed and firmly headed into the abyss of wasted. When their first song was cut short, the little red flag of trouble reared its head as Derek shot fierce ugly looks at Grimes. Grimes was wobbling around like the world had come unstuck, fucking up bass lines like a professional. Half way through the second song, the music suddenly stopped and the two started to argue oh-so-professionally over their microphones.
Cameron and I were distracted and busy talking bullshit out by the campground when the mayhem started. “God, prove that You exist by making them shut up,” was my offhand comment as we made our way back to the stage.
By the time we’d made it across the field, their drummer was already packing his shit up and putting it away in his car. “Dude, fuck you! Your side project upstaged our set!” was Derek’s issue with Donald Phillips, apparently, and decided that the entire world needed to know what his problem was.
Pause for a moment to consider: If you argue and get into each others faces like you’re going to fight at a bar, you’re going to get broken up because no one wants the law to fuck up their good time. On the other hand, if you’re going to get in each others faces at a biker club, are the bikers going to stop you? Uh, no. Are they going to go call the police? Fuck no - they are the police under these circumstances.
Rather than doing something about their pent up frustration, the remaining Luckies just yelled in each others faces until they realized no one was going to stop them from fighting and proceeded to trash talk each other - but neither of them left - to anyone willing to listen.
About the time that the Luckies were to take the stage, notable socialite Sam Hook rolled up to the show, packing a writerly sized bottle of Jameson, taking shots and chasing with Coke. He tried to offer me some of his scotch but the Jim Beam from the evening before still had me by the gut. “No thanks, man, not unless I want to get into a fight,” was the polite reply, my stomach slowly turning at the thought of more alcohol.
In the meanwhile, 3/8 drive took to the stage and turned out the magical musical crack that they’re consistently known for. Joe the drummer stripped off his shirt ‘cause “Man, my shirt was sticking to my arm pits,” signaling that the humidity was still a rotten asshole hanging around long after dark. Guitarist David and Fret Chatter bassist Chris hollered back and forth at each other while working the sound check, hurrying to play to distract the crowd from the Luckies and their mayhem, still yelling like fools and not exchanging blows. As soon as 3/8ths started their set, a curious sight took place. Every Cycle Knight in the building made their way out of the clubhouse and off to the side to watch them play. Prior to that, the bikers were only interested in the pool table and beer on the inside of the building.
The Cycle Knights were a great bunch, truth be told. They mostly stayed off to themselves in the clubhouse and were marvelously well-behaved. Out of respect, there aren’t any photographs of the inside of the clubhouse but the most charming aspect was the yellow legal pad sign taped to the bathroom door that read “Guys Piss Outside”.
It is fitting that a punk and hard rock show was booked at a biker club. Punks, Hippies, and Bikers all operate on the same philosophy of ‘We don’t give a fuck, leave us alone and let us do our thing’ and it’s perfect to see how music makes for very strange bedfellows.
The Devil and Miss Jones and Gemini Lounge only are lumped together because they always play together - they split Jeremy the drummer - but their sound is pure metal that gets better every time both bands play. My only reasoning for backing away from the stage during Miss Jones set was out of necessity from extended exposure to loud music and not as an insult to the band. From the back of the campground, though, the sound lived up to the band’s pornographic name - dirty, dark, and ready for action.
Gemini Lounge’s two moments of utter awesome was lead singer Brett’s striptease prior to the start of their set - the humidity was still utterly ridiculous, one crowd member urging him to “Take it off!” The other moment of zen was one of the Cycle Knight’s children wanted to stage dive and crowd surf. Despite what the rest of the world wants you to believe, leather and bikes does not make bad parents. Like professional badasses, the crowd assembled at the front of the stage, Jeremy counted off for when the kid needed to jump, and the crowd hoisted this kid far into the air and passed him around like king of the world.
---
Once Gemini Lounge started to pack up their equipment and make for the partying in the campground, the Luckies were at it again. They’d talked shit, started shit with others, kept drinking, and generally were two grumpy bears who would exchange insults and yell, then back away from each other.
The Cycle Knight that brought the issue to a head looked like he’d been around the block a few times. He wore glasses reminiscent of the birth control military issue variety, his long white beard half way down his chest, wearing a well worn and patch adorned vest. The Knights had circled around at the sound of raised voices yet again, growing irritated at the lack of punches being exchanged.
Cameron was camped out in a folding chair and proceeded to holler “Either you’re gonna fight or fuck! Get it over with!” the final time Derek and Grimes started exchanging insults.
“Either y’all are gonna fight or shut the fuck up!” retorted the Cycle Knight.
Somehow the issue turned from bad musicianship to lack of family when push came to shove. Derek finally landed some blows, their meaty smacks ringing out against the building wall, where the fight then became a wrestling match in the dirt and rocks in clear view of the highway. Knights and punks alike circled around, observing the less than spectacular mayhem.
“He hit me!” said Grimes after they’d peeled themselves off of the dirt.
“Well, no shit,” said a show goer in response, “it’s about fucking time someone did.”
A Magic Weekend [pt 1] (08.17.09)
All was quiet on the home front out in Depoy when a bomb dropped out of nowhere, an ordinary burnt CD already in the CD player over at Quinta’s house on her birthday. Country poured from the speakers out into the blackened night - the subject familiar - and brought me back to the true spirit of ‘being home‘.
Yes, I was drinking Jim Beam and Ski on the back porch of a trailer in the middle of nowhere. You can call me a Redneck and I’ll agree with you; education is the only thing that saved me from being dead or in jail.
What do you do growing up when no one ever says you could be a writer, or a musician, or an artist? You either take the scenic route to realizing what your purpose is or you do drugs and drink - or sometimes both. It’s like that fellow Kevin Suitor on America’s Got Talent - he’s unemployed and has the voice of an angel, complete with original material… I bet you no one ever told him he could be a musician growing up and only went on America’s Got Talent ‘cause a friend or two talked him into it.
This bomb’s name was Brent Embry, a guy who cut an album about making love in the Green River* and smoking homegrown pot. Apparently he lived the life that he sings about - don’t we all? - but the story doesn’t end there. One night while all fucked up, he shot up ammonia and LIVED. He was twenty-three when he did it, too…
The trouble with living is that living doesn’t mean you’re alive anymore. According to the myth - oh, and what a myth! - is he doesn’t remember his kids, his wife, nothing…including that he doesn’t remember how to play a guitar or sing anymore.
This album is like listening to a ghost from the grave, a snapshot of a voice gone quiet.
Anyone who wants a burn of this album just has to ask me. I’m more than willing to pass this around ‘cause it’s so goddam good that everyone should give it a listen, whether or not you dig country music.
What further intensifies the magic is that the house swapped this magic CD for a copy of 3/8ths album with the same excitement and intensity that I felt listening to Brent Embry’s stuff.
Ah, music…
---
* Before you ask “Why should I give a shit about making love in the Green River?”, consider this - the Green goes into the Ohio and the Ohio goes into the Tennessee out in Paducah. That’s why every time I got silly homesick I’d stand in the river and think Ok, I’m not that far from home ‘cause this water has already passed by home and made it here just fine.
Yes, I was drinking Jim Beam and Ski on the back porch of a trailer in the middle of nowhere. You can call me a Redneck and I’ll agree with you; education is the only thing that saved me from being dead or in jail.
What do you do growing up when no one ever says you could be a writer, or a musician, or an artist? You either take the scenic route to realizing what your purpose is or you do drugs and drink - or sometimes both. It’s like that fellow Kevin Suitor on America’s Got Talent - he’s unemployed and has the voice of an angel, complete with original material… I bet you no one ever told him he could be a musician growing up and only went on America’s Got Talent ‘cause a friend or two talked him into it.
This bomb’s name was Brent Embry, a guy who cut an album about making love in the Green River* and smoking homegrown pot. Apparently he lived the life that he sings about - don’t we all? - but the story doesn’t end there. One night while all fucked up, he shot up ammonia and LIVED. He was twenty-three when he did it, too…
The trouble with living is that living doesn’t mean you’re alive anymore. According to the myth - oh, and what a myth! - is he doesn’t remember his kids, his wife, nothing…including that he doesn’t remember how to play a guitar or sing anymore.
This album is like listening to a ghost from the grave, a snapshot of a voice gone quiet.
Anyone who wants a burn of this album just has to ask me. I’m more than willing to pass this around ‘cause it’s so goddam good that everyone should give it a listen, whether or not you dig country music.
What further intensifies the magic is that the house swapped this magic CD for a copy of 3/8ths album with the same excitement and intensity that I felt listening to Brent Embry’s stuff.
Ah, music…
---
* Before you ask “Why should I give a shit about making love in the Green River?”, consider this - the Green goes into the Ohio and the Ohio goes into the Tennessee out in Paducah. That’s why every time I got silly homesick I’d stand in the river and think Ok, I’m not that far from home ‘cause this water has already passed by home and made it here just fine.
Notes From the Road - Browzer/Mike Capone/Etc/Breaking Shadows (08.02.09)
This is a formal yet informal post. It’s a long and laborious road to work away from using “I” in a good, formal piece. I got so used to writing in a first person intimate voice in fiction that the “I” of a character – in this case, myself – comes very naturally when talking about events.
---
The band Tetrarch canceled out 'cause their tires were too bald. How rock and roll is that?
Browzer was an excellent act to catch again and they never fail to make me so goddam happy that the choir of angels sing in my mind to the sound.
Stop blushing, Dave. You guys are awesome.
Wildo (of Fahrenheit 514) said of them “Man, it doesn’t even sound like someone imitating James Hetfield. He sounds like James Hetfield.” Browzer is so damn deceptive that you’d think there was a Metallica CD being played between sets…except then everyone would be out front and not inside. Wildo and I were in a ghost town. I think we went back to talking about Russian after that...
Breaking Shadows is a comedy troupe, even though they call themselves a band. Steve and Luke are the two funniest mofos I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, straight down to the fake snow on Luke’s Dad’s van. ”Did you go to band camp today?” asked Steve to Luke. “Nope, I didn’t,” Luke replied. “Me either.” For shame, for shame.
---
I completely missed Capone’s set (SORRY) ‘cause ship was abandoned to Et Cetera for a momentary lapse of responsibility – even though that club in Bobby Inkslingers had been waiting for twenty minutes on him. There was a limerick to be read and I needed to have one moment of switching teams from observer to participant.
However, there was some pretty groovy art going on on the walls. Someone is apparently into the Hippie Shit of art…and to my delight there was an original poster from a discussion panel involving Hunter. There’s something magic about Steadman’s art that just captures that essence of mayhem with a cause and I never fail to be amazed when catching a random relic from passed ghosts.
Etc Coffeehouse posters - I am also amused at the push pin and staple marks in the corners of the Alice In Blunderland poster. At what point does a poster turn into something worth framing? At what point does a piece of art go from pop culture trash to a piece of art? At what point did it go from getting oogled at while fucked out of your skull on drugs to something to look at while sober, quietly, checking out the lines to see how the printer put the ink on the paper just a little bit off?
The third poster worth taking a picture of didn’t make the cut, sadly. The yellow portion of the picture didn’t show up in the photograph, much to my non-delight.
---
The band Tetrarch canceled out 'cause their tires were too bald. How rock and roll is that?
Browzer was an excellent act to catch again and they never fail to make me so goddam happy that the choir of angels sing in my mind to the sound.
Stop blushing, Dave. You guys are awesome.
Wildo (of Fahrenheit 514) said of them “Man, it doesn’t even sound like someone imitating James Hetfield. He sounds like James Hetfield.” Browzer is so damn deceptive that you’d think there was a Metallica CD being played between sets…except then everyone would be out front and not inside. Wildo and I were in a ghost town. I think we went back to talking about Russian after that...
Breaking Shadows is a comedy troupe, even though they call themselves a band. Steve and Luke are the two funniest mofos I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, straight down to the fake snow on Luke’s Dad’s van. ”Did you go to band camp today?” asked Steve to Luke. “Nope, I didn’t,” Luke replied. “Me either.” For shame, for shame.
---
I completely missed Capone’s set (SORRY) ‘cause ship was abandoned to Et Cetera for a momentary lapse of responsibility – even though that club in Bobby Inkslingers had been waiting for twenty minutes on him. There was a limerick to be read and I needed to have one moment of switching teams from observer to participant.
However, there was some pretty groovy art going on on the walls. Someone is apparently into the Hippie Shit of art…and to my delight there was an original poster from a discussion panel involving Hunter. There’s something magic about Steadman’s art that just captures that essence of mayhem with a cause and I never fail to be amazed when catching a random relic from passed ghosts.
Etc Coffeehouse posters - I am also amused at the push pin and staple marks in the corners of the Alice In Blunderland poster. At what point does a poster turn into something worth framing? At what point does a piece of art go from pop culture trash to a piece of art? At what point did it go from getting oogled at while fucked out of your skull on drugs to something to look at while sober, quietly, checking out the lines to see how the printer put the ink on the paper just a little bit off?
The third poster worth taking a picture of didn’t make the cut, sadly. The yellow portion of the picture didn’t show up in the photograph, much to my non-delight.
Notes From The Road: Wish You Weres, 3/8 drive, Fahrenheit 514 (07.24.09)
F514 are cute in that illegal sort of way. Video of their new song up soon.
3/8 drive sounded weird this evening. The lead singer's voice sounded an octave higher than it should've been - and he can't hit an octave higher, I asked him - meaning that the treble on the board was up too high.
The Wish You Weres are...well, they're The Wish You Weres and they're awesome. Apparently they're the professionals. Mmmm. Good punk music.
---
But the Queen and the Journey and the Michael Jackson? Yeah, I dig all of them, but not at a goddam punk show. Uh, what?
The smiley faces on people's hands, even at the insistence that only thirty-five people came to the show?
The treble turned all the way up?
Oh, the drama.
The Wish You Weres are really nice guys, for the record. They're not the problem.
A more formal article to come soon, but goddam. It's worth mentioning.
...we're not professionals. - Joe, 3/8 drive's drummer.
3/8 drive sounded weird this evening. The lead singer's voice sounded an octave higher than it should've been - and he can't hit an octave higher, I asked him - meaning that the treble on the board was up too high.
The Wish You Weres are...well, they're The Wish You Weres and they're awesome. Apparently they're the professionals. Mmmm. Good punk music.
---
But the Queen and the Journey and the Michael Jackson? Yeah, I dig all of them, but not at a goddam punk show. Uh, what?
The smiley faces on people's hands, even at the insistence that only thirty-five people came to the show?
The treble turned all the way up?
Oh, the drama.
The Wish You Weres are really nice guys, for the record. They're not the problem.
A more formal article to come soon, but goddam. It's worth mentioning.
...we're not professionals. - Joe, 3/8 drive's drummer.
Browzer @ Bobby Ink Slingers (07.17.09)
The warm summer heat radiated from the brick of Bobby Ink Slingers/Sanctuary on Friday night, a testament to the burning July sun long since slipped past the horizon. The fire and heat were inside of Sanctuary after dark nearly burnt the building down on July 17th, though, and a random passerby tried to call the fire department but was waved off. The crowd told him that we didn’t need the water, let the building burn.
There have been good words going around about Browzer, a four member metal band out of Benton and Calvert City, Kentucky. Rumor had it that this band was the absolute shit on both their recordings and their live performances, enough for this writer to go and drive a hundred miles out of their way to see if the hype was true.
A parade of youths packed in equipment and instruments through the front door prior to Browzer‘s set, where skeptics and goers not familiar with the band were left to wonder were they to be part of the doomed mass of head bangers in front of the stage or were they going to take the stage as their own?
Tattoo guns hummed in the background in anticipation, laying down fresh art with steady hands. Metal and ink are perfect bedfellows, creating a balance to the Force like Carbondale in June. Community pops up in the most random places and a good eye and soul are all that is needed to find the way.
The wall of sound that broke loose lied to its witness - the stark contrast of the visual versus the audio of these baby-faced cowboys from hell was pure and utter magic. The maturity of their original work was on par with the Slayer and Children of Bodom shirts they wore while defying all logic - they should not be this good, yet they are. Even their cover of “Domination” by Pantera was so spot on that Dimebag Darrell was seen lurking in a dark corner and laughing at the joyful noise.
Lead singer Dave’s rally cry of “Show me your horns!” was the highlight of the show where the look of joy on each member’s face worth every drop of gas burnt. Head bangers and old farts alike raised their triumphant horns to the sky in unison as Dimebag slipped out the back door, trying not to be noticed. Rarely do you see bands that are totally sober and look like the happiest bunch of hooligans to take music and make it their bitch on stage.
The head bangers soon broke into a mosh pit, their sincerity doubtful, leaving one girl trampled in the course of teenage madness. She looked started and disoriented as her friend pulled her back to her Chuck Taylor'ed feet. The signal was set for the over twenty-one crowd to quietly excuse themselves from bodily injury, left to listen to the magic from outside of the cinder block walls, radiating heat from the inside instead of the sun. Cigarettes were smoked and discussion was made as the fire department rolled into the parking lot, bewildered that the fire was imaginary and it was a false alarm.
Everything that you’ve heard about Browzer isn’t true and you shouldn‘t listen to the hype. This band is better than any review can capture, their sincerity unmatched. The trouble is that the words to describe any of the other bands that played that evening aren’t in the toolkit where I left them - Browzer ran off with the story.
(their next show at The Sanctuary is 31st July, 2009. Either be there or be a bitch.)
There have been good words going around about Browzer, a four member metal band out of Benton and Calvert City, Kentucky. Rumor had it that this band was the absolute shit on both their recordings and their live performances, enough for this writer to go and drive a hundred miles out of their way to see if the hype was true.
A parade of youths packed in equipment and instruments through the front door prior to Browzer‘s set, where skeptics and goers not familiar with the band were left to wonder were they to be part of the doomed mass of head bangers in front of the stage or were they going to take the stage as their own?
Tattoo guns hummed in the background in anticipation, laying down fresh art with steady hands. Metal and ink are perfect bedfellows, creating a balance to the Force like Carbondale in June. Community pops up in the most random places and a good eye and soul are all that is needed to find the way.
The wall of sound that broke loose lied to its witness - the stark contrast of the visual versus the audio of these baby-faced cowboys from hell was pure and utter magic. The maturity of their original work was on par with the Slayer and Children of Bodom shirts they wore while defying all logic - they should not be this good, yet they are. Even their cover of “Domination” by Pantera was so spot on that Dimebag Darrell was seen lurking in a dark corner and laughing at the joyful noise.
Lead singer Dave’s rally cry of “Show me your horns!” was the highlight of the show where the look of joy on each member’s face worth every drop of gas burnt. Head bangers and old farts alike raised their triumphant horns to the sky in unison as Dimebag slipped out the back door, trying not to be noticed. Rarely do you see bands that are totally sober and look like the happiest bunch of hooligans to take music and make it their bitch on stage.
The head bangers soon broke into a mosh pit, their sincerity doubtful, leaving one girl trampled in the course of teenage madness. She looked started and disoriented as her friend pulled her back to her Chuck Taylor'ed feet. The signal was set for the over twenty-one crowd to quietly excuse themselves from bodily injury, left to listen to the magic from outside of the cinder block walls, radiating heat from the inside instead of the sun. Cigarettes were smoked and discussion was made as the fire department rolled into the parking lot, bewildered that the fire was imaginary and it was a false alarm.
Everything that you’ve heard about Browzer isn’t true and you shouldn‘t listen to the hype. This band is better than any review can capture, their sincerity unmatched. The trouble is that the words to describe any of the other bands that played that evening aren’t in the toolkit where I left them - Browzer ran off with the story.
(their next show at The Sanctuary is 31st July, 2009. Either be there or be a bitch.)
While at the grocery... (07.11.09)
So I’m trouncing through the parking lot of Wally World last night in The County when I noticed this shitty van with its doors open, overhead lights on, and people grubbing down on some McD’s…with a drum kit clearly sitting in the back.
I don’t know about you guys, but when I see a kit in the back of a van there’s the instant Spidey Sense tingle that says “oh, cool, someone in there has to be in a band.” I suppose that’s part of life after hanging out with so many musicians over time.
After a few moments of debate on whether or not to ask what their band’s name was, I dropped off the groceries in the car and shuffled back. Apparently they’re called Thought So Murderous, according to the dude with his mouth half full of McD’s trying to tell me their name between bites.
Therefore: Free bump for them. Be friendly ‘cause that’s what MySpace is for outside of drama, right?
I don’t know about you guys, but when I see a kit in the back of a van there’s the instant Spidey Sense tingle that says “oh, cool, someone in there has to be in a band.” I suppose that’s part of life after hanging out with so many musicians over time.
After a few moments of debate on whether or not to ask what their band’s name was, I dropped off the groceries in the car and shuffled back. Apparently they’re called Thought So Murderous, according to the dude with his mouth half full of McD’s trying to tell me their name between bites.
Therefore: Free bump for them. Be friendly ‘cause that’s what MySpace is for outside of drama, right?
The Crown Jewel (06.27.09)
The only thing heavier than the sound coming from the Crown Jewel in Carbondale, Illinois was the humidity. A knife would’ve been better suited to cut through the unending wall of heat through the parking lot. No one came out to feel the humidity, though – metal and a birthday are a far better reason to brave the heat.
The venue itself looked like heavy metal staged a revolt, clubbed Frank Sinatra over the head, and kept him tied up in the back for a night. The walls were a vomit inducing seafoam green, complete with plastic rhinestones dangling from the light fixtures. A bubble machine and lounge act would’ve been better suited for the venue on first glance. Metal music still triumphed with its lone skeleton hung from the lights, gently swaying in the air conditioned breeze. Performers of the evening included headliners Deadwater with guests Of Earth and Stone, 3/8 drive, and 11:34.
The evening started with Of Earth and Stone and their set of headbang inducing scream metal. “We’ve been a band for about two months and this is our second show,” said baby faced front man Dylan…but who could tell? The band is young but show immense amounts of talent and room to grow. “It Lurks Within” was the highlight of their set with the members perpetual motion.
Following OE&S and Leon’s wiener was 3/8 drive. Their music can only be described as putting Tool and good punk in a blender, creating a frothy concoction of weird lyrics and musical complexity that has to be heard to capture the essence of their work. “…he smeared shit all over the walls!” said singer and bassist Doug when introducing “The Greebs”, a twisted song about one military man and his poop.
11:34 started about the time that the alcohol took hold and the bacchanalian atmosphere started setting in. Their Stone Temple Pilot influenced sound made for a rising wave of rock, creeping up slowly and damn near knocking the crowd out at its crest. The names of their songs were just as entertaining as their set: “Dead On A Toilet” and “She’s Too Young” leads the mind to wander if left by itself with a copy of Jason McDonald.
The lights came up and Leon made his way to the front. “Do you know why we’re here tonight? ‘Cause it’s Chilo’s birthday!” he said. The crowd sang where music was a unifier working as a respite from all of the downsides and unpleasantness of life, if it was just as temporary as singing happy birthday drunkenly into the night.
Deadwater’s set was like getting fucked by the speakers and liking it, an orgy to the depths of a southern style hell. The evening started to swim at this point, as the Crown Jewel also offers very reasonable drink prices and this writer fell for the ploy of multiple Jim and Cokes. Deadwater’s stage presence speaks of their experience, a super group of Southern Illinois, and despite their influences their sound is entirely their own. They were damn good at the Cheers show in Paducah, Kentucky and worth a field trip to watch again.
Far too soon the attendees to the show were shuffled out into the parking lot. The humidity was still thick but the excited talk was thicker. There was discussion of upcoming shows, booking gigs and endless shindigs down the line, its participants swaying like tuning forks on pitch for the same cause. Leon had thanked everyone for showing up throughout the course of the evening, commenting on the community being witnessed in action, but the church social atmosphere of a congregation that actually likes each other was the true signal of the magic at work. All those folks going to church in four or five hours later surely couldn’t have felt as good as they did talking shop after dark.
(special thanks to Rotten Robbie booking, The Crown Jewel, Virtual World Promotions, and all of the acts for being absolutely awesome; 3/8 drive's photograph courtesy of Jaime.)
The venue itself looked like heavy metal staged a revolt, clubbed Frank Sinatra over the head, and kept him tied up in the back for a night. The walls were a vomit inducing seafoam green, complete with plastic rhinestones dangling from the light fixtures. A bubble machine and lounge act would’ve been better suited for the venue on first glance. Metal music still triumphed with its lone skeleton hung from the lights, gently swaying in the air conditioned breeze. Performers of the evening included headliners Deadwater with guests Of Earth and Stone, 3/8 drive, and 11:34.
The evening started with Of Earth and Stone and their set of headbang inducing scream metal. “We’ve been a band for about two months and this is our second show,” said baby faced front man Dylan…but who could tell? The band is young but show immense amounts of talent and room to grow. “It Lurks Within” was the highlight of their set with the members perpetual motion.
Following OE&S and Leon’s wiener was 3/8 drive. Their music can only be described as putting Tool and good punk in a blender, creating a frothy concoction of weird lyrics and musical complexity that has to be heard to capture the essence of their work. “…he smeared shit all over the walls!” said singer and bassist Doug when introducing “The Greebs”, a twisted song about one military man and his poop.
11:34 started about the time that the alcohol took hold and the bacchanalian atmosphere started setting in. Their Stone Temple Pilot influenced sound made for a rising wave of rock, creeping up slowly and damn near knocking the crowd out at its crest. The names of their songs were just as entertaining as their set: “Dead On A Toilet” and “She’s Too Young” leads the mind to wander if left by itself with a copy of Jason McDonald.
The lights came up and Leon made his way to the front. “Do you know why we’re here tonight? ‘Cause it’s Chilo’s birthday!” he said. The crowd sang where music was a unifier working as a respite from all of the downsides and unpleasantness of life, if it was just as temporary as singing happy birthday drunkenly into the night.
Deadwater’s set was like getting fucked by the speakers and liking it, an orgy to the depths of a southern style hell. The evening started to swim at this point, as the Crown Jewel also offers very reasonable drink prices and this writer fell for the ploy of multiple Jim and Cokes. Deadwater’s stage presence speaks of their experience, a super group of Southern Illinois, and despite their influences their sound is entirely their own. They were damn good at the Cheers show in Paducah, Kentucky and worth a field trip to watch again.
Far too soon the attendees to the show were shuffled out into the parking lot. The humidity was still thick but the excited talk was thicker. There was discussion of upcoming shows, booking gigs and endless shindigs down the line, its participants swaying like tuning forks on pitch for the same cause. Leon had thanked everyone for showing up throughout the course of the evening, commenting on the community being witnessed in action, but the church social atmosphere of a congregation that actually likes each other was the true signal of the magic at work. All those folks going to church in four or five hours later surely couldn’t have felt as good as they did talking shop after dark.
(special thanks to Rotten Robbie booking, The Crown Jewel, Virtual World Promotions, and all of the acts for being absolutely awesome; 3/8 drive's photograph courtesy of Jaime.)
Man. What the hell am I doing here?
Somewhere in college - what a waste that was - it was ground into my head that blogs were low brow work, much like comic books and science fiction literature. Anyone can publish anything on the internet and it's garbage. said one professor.
...and even though I hated this man (and I still do), I believed him.
Come to find out, I've been getting about 150+ hits a week on the ol' MySpace blog, which means that someone is reading the half-assed work I put up on there. I've only got a little under 400 friends - I don't whore on MySpace - so unless someone is hitting the refresh button, it's semi-serious work.
The goal is this: There's a music scene out here in Podunk, Kentucky. Rolling Stone and high brow fuckers out in big cities will roll their eyes at that idea, but do you know what? IT'S OURS. Even the worst band, the worst artist, and the worst writer are the best because we're doing it ourselves, rather than asking permission from LA or NYC to do what we do.
In a minute I'm going to raid the MySpace and post the articles on music I've put up there for your reading enjoyment...or whatever.
...and even though I hated this man (and I still do), I believed him.
Come to find out, I've been getting about 150+ hits a week on the ol' MySpace blog, which means that someone is reading the half-assed work I put up on there. I've only got a little under 400 friends - I don't whore on MySpace - so unless someone is hitting the refresh button, it's semi-serious work.
The goal is this: There's a music scene out here in Podunk, Kentucky. Rolling Stone and high brow fuckers out in big cities will roll their eyes at that idea, but do you know what? IT'S OURS. Even the worst band, the worst artist, and the worst writer are the best because we're doing it ourselves, rather than asking permission from LA or NYC to do what we do.
In a minute I'm going to raid the MySpace and post the articles on music I've put up there for your reading enjoyment...or whatever.
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