Blog — Page 258 of 279

White Lung

7th St. Entry

Minneapolis, MN

June 11, 2015

Abandoning my beloved NBA Finals, I bounced somewhere during the third quarter and rushed downtown to catch White Lung. Upon landing in Minneapolis tonight the four-piece were at the mid-way point of their current North American tour. The first handful of gigs was alongside the recently reformed Refused, but tonight’s show, like the majority of the tour, they were supported by So-Cal longhair quartet Obliterations.

Obliterations are made up of guys from Black Mountain, Saviours, and Night Horse. They released an album on Southern Lord last year that I never got around to listening to. And unfortunately tonight I arrived at the 7th St. Entry towards that tail end of their set; only catching two and a half songs. I’d say they’re a metal-punk mix of D-beat, Bl’ast, and like, the Germs or Poison Idea. The singer thanked White Lung for taking them out on the road, and then antagonistically threw in, “You guys are really nice. If that’s what you want to be known for…being nice.” Someone in the audience took the bait and yelled out, “Minnesota nice, motherfucker!” Touché.

The Entry is one of the finer venues in this city to see fast and heavy music; it’s dark, intimate, has great sightlines, and is loud as fuck. It was really difficult to gauge the medium age of the crowd. Even though it was 18+ there was a large contingency from the 30s and 40s hip dude crew. As usual the in-between bands set changeover signaled the great stare-at-our-glowing-phones onslaught that is show-going these days. Tallboys of Old Style and Stag beer were on special for $4.00 but coming off a week that has already included Best Coast on Monday, and CJ Ramone and Shonen Knife last night, I steered clear of the bar and kept a level head.

Mish Way and co. took the stage for a brief tune-up—asking the soundman for more reverb in both her mic and the bass monitor— and then blazed into a trio of songs from last year’s Domino release Deep Fantasy: “Sycophant”, “Face Down” and “Drown the Monster.” Even though Deep Fantasy marked the band’s progression into more indie-rock territory, these songs, when played live were done with the ferociousness of their earlier work on Deranged.

White Lung’s hardcore punk meets couture aesthetic is part of the band’s uniqueness and appeal. Way appeared in skin tight leather pants, a designer spiked bracelet, and a slouch neck long-sleeve that hung off her shoulder exposing a tattoo and a black bra strap. Deap Vally’s Lyndsey Troy, who’s filling in on bass for this tour, was also looking exceptionally stylish in her all-over print crew neck sweatshirt and miniskirt.

By the time their second set of tunes came around they were really getting into stride and the audience responded appropriately. The strongest reception of the evening thus far came as a result “Bad Way” and “Bag” which are two tracks from their 2012 album Sorry. The area in front of the stage soon became a reeling dervish of gyrating hips and sweaty foreheads. Way expressed her appreciation. “After driving so long to get here, it’s nice to see you enjoying yourselves rather than standing there with your arms crossed like, ‘I’m too cool for music.’” Then adding, “That’s what they do in Russia.”

Aside from two songs (“Lucky One” and “In Your Home”) they played the entire Deep Fantasy album. The final four songs however, were two standalone singles—“Two of You” and “Blow it South” sandwiched between two from Sorry. Midway through “Thick Lip” Way’s mic cut out. In typical punk rock fashion she powered forward, screaming the lyrics at the top of her lungs as Kenneth William laid his signature squealing guitar licks on thick, and drummer Anne-Marie Vassiliou pounded the skins with thunderous authority.

They ended the set with a vicious version of “Take the Mirror”, said ‘thanks’ and promptly left the stage, never to return. It was an abrupt ending that left the audience bewildered and wanting more. It was funny looking around the room at everybody as it settled in that they weren’t coming back for an encore. But I’m not complaining about a show getting over by 11-ish on a school night.

Setlist:

Sycophant

Face Down

Drown the Monster

Bad Way

Bag

Wrong Star

Snake Jaw

I Believe You

Just For You

Down it Goes

Thick Lip

Two of You

Blow it South

Take the Mirror

Follow Nathan G. O'Brien on Twitter: @OMG_NOB

Boris

Newtown Social Club

Sydney, AUS

May 29, 2015

And then there was Boris.

The Japanese unikum named after a Melvins song.

Cue labels that span the spectrum from “doom metal,” “My Bloody Valentine-style dream pop,” and “experimental” via “psychedelic,” “post-modern,” and “citation-heavy rock.”

Add smoke machines, a gong, custom effects pedals, atmospheric lighting, meticulous attention to detail and accomplished musicianship.

Songs at times so hypnotically and painfully repetitive that is gets borderline annoying, before the trio unleashes a tidal wave of heaviness that changes the dynamics, which make your intestines resonate in unison with the bottom-heavy frequencies emitted from the Orange amplifier stack, the rhythm section majestically hovering above it all.

Heavy.

Melodic.

Dancey.

Ebbing and flowing.

Unpretentious.

A rich tapestry that pays homage to the who-is-who in rock without feeling the slightest need to employ a hint of irony.     

The band itself: restrained, composed and detached, making it all look too easy.

Few bands are able to amalgamate such an array of influences into a coherent whole.

Boris does.

The show was sold out.

The audience left in awe.

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Photo by Gothic Mario

Art is Masturbation.

It’s a sensational, attention-grabbing statement for sure and one that presents an idea that many artists and people who create have probably toyed with at one point or another - is the creative process purely a self-serving, self-satisfying one? Without doubt, creation allows the person doing the creating to express something that might not otherwise have been expressible, and it’s also true that art is most - if not completely - understood only by the person who creates it. Art can hold value to others though and has a remarkable capacity to impact and inspire people long after its creation, yet many artists create despite the lack of any sort of monetary reward being attached to their work. Do these people experience an overwhelming desire to make something, or are they simply addicted to the power trip that creation provides them with?

Calling a collection of poetry Art is Masturbation opens a whole can of philosophical quandaries, leading to a perplexing situation for the reader: is one supposed to accept this as pretentious “fluff” scribbled down by an author whose main goal is to stroke his own ego, or is there some more significant meaning and purpose to the work? In the case of Oregon-based writer Joseph Chiccarelli’s 15-page chapbook (i.e. a small collection of poetry), both questions are relevant to some degree. This is a rather personal work, containing 21 poems that mention specific details of the author’s life and establish him as a bit of a lost soul in a world he feels at least partially detached from. Most of the poems seem to reflect the results of late-night thinking sessions that find the author examining various situations encountered in life and trying to make sense of and come to terms with them. As might be expected then, the work is full of notions of quiet despair, loneliness, and regret, perfectly capturing the ennui and confusion of a post-teenage person.

An insight into the human condition such as the one provided by this book is perhaps the main thing that art proposes to offer the person who observes or experiences it, yet this insight is also potentially the thing that can turn someone off from the creation: an observer simply might not like the message or statement that the creator is trying to get across. That scenario is certainly a possibility with regard to Art is Masturbation, a work that seems all but tailor-made for depressive readers and might not hold much appeal for those with more optimistic sensibilities. Despite – or perhaps because of – the by and large somber quality of the work and presence of so many intimate, personal details, I found myself very much being able to relate to various things Chiccarelli has to say and to the overall tone of the work. Like Chiccarelli, I’ve been stuck in mind-numbing employment, finding solace only during cigarette breaks and after-hours trips to the bar. When the author discusses the strange process of falling asleep sober after too many drunken lapses into unconsciousness during the piece entitled “Welcome to the Woods, I’m a Fucking Freak,” I knew exactly what he was talking about.

Considering the far-reaching (some might say rambling) scope of this work, it might go without say that not every poem here is entirely outstanding. Several passive-aggressive passages alone may make the work alarming for some readers, but a few poems go the opposite route, coming across in much the same manner of a Jack Handey “Deep Thought.” The brief “Love Songs Were Written for Us to Hate Ourselves” and the more lengthy “Untitled 2,” for instance, seem trite and comparatively meager in terms of what they provide for the reader. These generally shallow pieces do have some nice imagery and prove the author can change up his routine but clearly, Chiccarelli’s true talent lies elsewhere. Finally, much as I think the content here is rewarding overall, the author sometimes seems to go overboard in an attempt to “hook” a reader with a frankly outrageous and somewhat deceptive, more or less random title. “I’m Listening to Third Eye Blind and Yelling GO FUCK YOURSELF At Happy Couples” conjures up images for me of a toddler eliciting an irritating shriek as it heaves its own shit against a wall in the midst of a temper tantrum. The level of hostility and aggression in the name has precisely nothing to do with the accompanying poem and seems to be an attempt to snatch a reader’s possibly wavering attention. Honestly, this may not be so bad an idea in an age when many people have absolutely no interest in reading anything that’s not on a computer or phone screen.

I debated for a while whether or not I believe the author was throwing in seemingly-convenient loaded references and situations just to make the whole of Art is Masturbation more dark and brooding, as if he needed to establish some sort of “cred” before he unloaded emotional baggage on the reader. Dying friends in the hospital, suicidal breakdowns, and deteriorating mental health are the building blocks that tales of angsty young people are built on (how many “moody” songs deal with these sorts of topics?), but I didn’t detect an air of fabrication or exaggeration in the way these subjects are handled in this text. Chiccarelli seems simply to be discussing authentic situations that he feels strongly about, and I generally found both his choice of language and the structure of his poems to be appropriate. This collection was very easy to read, having a sense of flow that occasionally added thought-provoking emphasis to specific passages. Though the lengthy final poem “A Fear of the Open Water,” a stream of consciousness reflection on the influence of the author’s stepfather, for me had some similarities to older, more classical sorts of poetry due to its repetition and more concrete structuring, the majority of these pieces had a more modern sensibility to them not entirely disconnected from what one would find in contemporary song lyrics.

At the end of the day, this isn’t a must-read by any stretch and may in fact be a masturbatory exercise for its writer, yet it’s hard for me, as someone who has striven to create art in many forms, to argue against any person having a go at making something that’s meaningful to them, regardless of how other people would view it. Any person has their own life experience which makes any statement they care to make a valid one - even if its not necessarily convenient, agreeable, or politically-correct. The fact that Art is Masturbation was published in the first place is a pretty remarkable achievement for the author, but I appreciated what Joseph Chiccarelli had to say in the work as well. This collection of poems won’t be for everyone and is somewhat rough around the edges, but may just be the unexpected diversion that someone out there has been looking for.

Rating = 7/10

Publisher = GloryKid LTD

Release = April 6, 2015

Length = 15 pages, with illustrations by Andrew Gomez IV

On the Web = http://glorykid.com/shop/GKP001/

Fuckface Unstoppable

Manning Bar

Sydney, AUS

May 7, 2015

Not far from Cambodia’s Tonlé Sap, an enormous river / lake system, whose flow changes direction twice a year, I am heavily affected by Golden Muscle Liquor, which was shared the night before with locals at a Cold Noodle restaurant. A welcome breeze drifts up from the river, barely disturbing the heat that has encased me. The days before were spent glaming it up at Le Royal Phnom Penh and trekking through the serene, lichen-covered temples of Angkor Wat in Siem Reap and the Russian markets.

An emotional detour led me to the Genocide Museum housed in the old S-21 jail in Phnom Penh, where I had to opportunity to have lunch with a survivor (we had chicken amok curry and rice ball dessert), who was presenting his autobiography and witnessed the collective trauma that gripped the country from 1975-79.

What does that all of that have to do with Bam Margera’s incarnation as “Fuckface Unstoppable”? Nada! 

FFU is Bam’s rock’n roll vehicle, comprised of members of Guttermouth, CKY, and Antti Hulkko (aka Andy McCoy), who inspired the start of the Hollywood glam-rock scene with the Fennoscandian Hanoi Rocks. These days Andy’s on-stage demeanor is reminiscent of Germany’s comedian and jazz musician Helge Schneider.

FFU’s show consists mainly of shenanigans and cover versions, ranging from Bloodhound Gang via Turbonegro to Rolling Stones. 

FFU is a party band with no further ambitions and a party was had by the young, sparse audience. Mission achieved.

Mastodon

Big Top Luna Park

Sydney, AUS

March 28, 2015

The red volcanic soil in the surrounding region of the city of Tequila is particularly well suited to the growing of the blue agave – and the juice of the algave was what heralded a balmy Saturday evening. While life is certainly to be taken with a pinch of salt, piece of lime optional, I prefer to sip my tequila.

Kah Reposado set the tone with its seriously chic ceramic skull-shaped “dia de muertos” shaped bottle, which holds a powerful 110-proof mixture that is surprisingly drinkable. Aged for 10 months in French oak barrels, it reveals subtle flavours of vanilla and cinnamon once you get past the heavily obscuring alcohol aroma. A heavy-hitter that lends itself surprisingly well to sipping.

Next up was the ol’ faithful Patron - much lighter, slightly oily and more citrusy with hints of peppery spices and an interesting metallic finish. 

Germany’s market leader in the Tequila sector, Sierra Tequila Reposado, completed the trio: distilled twice in copper pot stills, with its characteristic almost artificially golden colour and the tacky plastic sombrero gracing the bottle top, it’s the least sippable of the trio and the “lick, sip, suck” ritual sandwiching the shot between salt and lemon may be the most appropriate way to enjoy it.

Literally in good spirits, one was ready to face Luna Park’s 9-metre-wide polyurethane smiling face, which is based on Arthur Barton’s 1950 “Old King Cole” version.

Luna Park is situated at the foot of Sydney’s iconic Harbour Bridge. The Big Top, where Mastodon was to hold court, is built on the site of the Ghost Train: a ride that was destroyed in a tragic fire of unknown cause in 1979, which killed six children and one adult. The fire exerted a profound effect on the spiritual outlook on the psychedelic Australian artist Martin Sharp, whose works bear a resemblance with the artworks used for Mastodon’s concept albums.

Mastodon is one of the more democratic bands these days, as all four members are front men in their own right and share vocal duties (including their drummer, which put them in a league with Eagles and Genesis), creating a unique blend and broad stylistic palette of singing / howling styles.

Voices on top a melange of an array of heavy rock genres – from sludge via stoner to progressive rock and everything in between: Mastodon’s timeless riffage radiates a sincere appreciation for all styles of heavy music with a virtuosic, technical prowess: complex breaks, catchy hooks and sudden, effortless prog-rock tempo changes. Mastodon in a live scenario is quintessentially an accomplished heavy rock band.

This was the band’s first headline tour of Down Under, supporting their album Once More Around the Sun, a substantial portion of which was played and the artwork of which adorned a huge psychedelic backdrop as lasers pointed out from above and behind the stage. Martin Sharp would have enjoyed it.

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Photos by T.