The Spin

Punch-drunk punk The weather last week wasn’t exactly perfect for jaunting about town, but fortunately there were a few events that were well worth getting wet and windblown for. Thursday night we braved the conditions on the way to Exit/In, where we arrived in time to catch the last 3/4 of a song by Silver Lion’s 20/20. It’s the newest venture from Immortal Lee County Killers frontman/guitarist Chet “Cheetah” Weise, who served the same purpose in this two-man guitar/drums combo. What we caught was a feedback-infused assault of noisy, primal blues that, on first impression, called to mind a fusion of Sonic Youth and Jon Spencer Blues Explosion. With the room barely a quarter filled, Chris Crofton and his Alcohol Stuntband got off to a dodgy start, joking through a few technical difficulties before their hard rockin’, comedy-driven drunk-punk routine got a proper takeoff. Subject matter in the band’s tunes tends to revolve around various methods of chemical abuse—a topic well served by the band’s reckless and disorderly delivery and Crofton’s hoarse and tuneless voice belting out darkly comedic lyrics that oftentimes seem to have been instantaneously generated onstage. The band occasionally dipped into some somber and morose territory before picking it back up with sloppy, crapulous rock ’n’ roll anthems like “Snakeskin Snake.” The house was still only at a fraction of its capacity when the Black Diamond Heavies stepped up as the main attraction. Equipped with just two men, drums and a pair of keyboards, the Heavies rocked out juke-joint style with a blistering, high-powered stretch of dingy blues rock. Singer “Reverend” John Wesley Myers growled and moaned with a gravelly wail à la Tom Waits while pounding on a dirty, fuzzed-out Rhodes piano. Part time Ghostfinger drummer Van Campbell kept things moving full speed ahead with a relentless and often dazzling backbeat, chiming in on the mic every so often to respond to Myers’ throaty calls. At times Myers seemed to try a little too hard to channel an elderly bluesman on cocaine, and his guttural croaking felt a tad forced most of the time. But given the band’s primitive vim and vigor and the audience’s religious fervor, we feel a smidge nitpicky for pointing it out.

Yes, like medieval sorcery

The trouble with living in Nashville is not so much trying to find a good band to see, but rather, choosing which good band to go see. More often than not, for every great show happening on any given night, there’s an equally appealing event happening at another venue. Saturday night easily could have been one such case had three worthy local headliners not consolidated into one snarling monster of a show. Predictably, we arrived at Mercy Lounge on time only to find our place at the end of a line of people that stretched well into the chilly parking lot outside. We could hear that the Velcro Stars had already started, their retro indie-twee echoing downstairs while we waited anxiously to get in. Once inside, we found the Stars kicking out their punchy three-chord jams, and Keith Pratt’s high-pitched mewl resonating over an already packed-out room. Bodies continued to collect in the space in front of the stage, which had nearly solidified when Louisville sluggers Wax Fang made their presence known. Fang kicked things off with the first track (“Majestic”) from their newest La La Land, the title of which accurately set the tone for all things to come. A thick, lush background of prerecorded tracks made for a seamless and solid platform that elevated the group into an extravagant and quizzical stratosphere where the crash of pummeling drums and booming bass reverberated like thunder, and guitar licks struck like melodic lightning. Singer/guitarist Scott Carney’s brawny voice resounded with a stately and dignified stature, as if he was repeatedly announcing the arrival of royalty. There were moments during the band’s more rocking instrumental interludes where the audience seemed to be losing its collective mind, and the band generated a divine spark that swarmed through the venue like a flood of medieval sorcery. The evening forged on and no one seemed to be going anywhere while The Protomen set up shop. Whereas recent shows only featured a section of their repertoire, the silver-faced men (and women) in black stormed through their original rock opera in its entirety, eschewing the usual un-ironic AOR covers to play their only album from start to finish, adding one new track. The copious load of synthesizers and guitars have at times in the past become overloaded, glutting through the speakers into sonic mush. Fortunately, Mercy’s sound system was more than enough to accommodate, so that each of the Protomen’s 11 members were heard distinctly and pristinely and their arena-ready, synth-rock explosion sounded as large and in charge as it was meant to be heard.

Send your sarcastic “thanks” for shows we didn’t write about to thespin@nashvillescene.com.