Xenu, take the wheel Dammit
Jesus, you have the worst timing. You couldn’t have rolled away your
stone on a weekend without 80 gajillion good shows, could you?
Seriously, you’re supposed to be omnipotent—how ’bout a little
foresight, dude? Even dirt-worshipping heathens like The Spin can’t
avoid the hubbub surrounding your annual Comeback Tour, so we’d
appreciate a little more consideration when you are planning these
things. That being said, nothing short of nailing our limbs to some
two-by-fours would have stopped us from catching the double
Dirtbombs shows
on Eighth Avenue this past Saturday. It walks a fine line between
hyperbole and heresy, but The Spin feels pretty confident declaring
lead singer
Mick Collins our
rock ’n’ roll messiah. With his dark sunglasses and treble-fuzz
swagger, Collins comes across as the Archangel of Cool, bestowing
righteous slabs of sonic salvation on the unwashed masses. Plus they
cover “Fire in the Western World” by the dearly missed Dead Moon—which
is cooler than cool times cool to the power of 10. The D-bombs’
matinee, crammed appropriately into the cramped vinyl section at
Grimey’s, was super-radtastic, with the band playing their latest LP
We Have You Surrounded
from beginning to end, psychedelic noise jam and all. Collins forgot
the words to some of the album’s deep cuts, but only the nerdiest
amongst us noticed (
Dillon Watson from
The Kindergarten Circus, we’re
looking at you), and it added to the relaxed “chillin’ in the practice
space” vibe. The evening show at the Mercy was a whole different story,
with The Dirtbombs resuming their role as the Party Gods From Planet
Rock, cranking out their classic catalog for a raucous crowd alongside
covers by Sparks, ESG and INXS. (More like INX-YES!). Thank God we
didn’t have to go to church the next morning.
Swamp rockAfter
four or five days of continuous live music at SXSW, we weren’t
completely burned out on shows, but came home feeling just a bit more
jaded than before we left. The bar had been raised considerably, our
threshold for mediocrity lowered to rival that of even the most elitist
of music fans. But Mercy Lounge touted a bill Thursday night that
seemed very much up to par with our newly inflated standard of
excellence. We made it out early for once, just in time to see the
lights go out over a curiously decorated stage as we joined a throng
congregating in front, eagerly awaiting the arrival of New Orleans’
one-man rock spectacle
Quintron. We
got about 15 more minutes of blaring Italian hip-hop before Quintron
himself appeared in front of a blinding backlight and a thick curtain
of smoke. He immediately began tinkering with his self-styled junkyard
gadgetry, favoring us with a collage of sonic blips and squiggly synth
sounds before launching into his funky, outlandish variety of dirty
South swamp rock. Backed by pulsating drum loops and joined onstage by
his wife,
Ms. Pussycat, on
backup vocals, Quintron spent most of the show rocking from behind a
dingy-sounding organ adorned with the grill of an automobile and
headlights on the front—it was kinda like an adult version of those
animatronic Chuck E. Cheese shows. Occasionally ’Tron stepped from
behind the organ and into the audience, handing out hugs and high fives
like an evangelical minister spreading the almighty gospel of rock ’n’
roll. After a bluesy rendition of KISS’ “God of Thunder,” the Chuck E.
Cheese vibe intensified exponentially when we were treated to a full-on
multimedia puppet show performed by Quintron, his wife and an
additional unnamed backup singer. By this time, the Mercy had attained
the perfect balance of audience bulk and personal space. The room was
filled almost entirely with die-hard fans of
Black Lips, who’d
soon be pumping fists and singing along with each and every song.
Keeping things short, sweet and heavily reverberated, Black Lips
brought it full-force from the retrotastic school of twangy, shambolic,
psychedelic garage punk. Their guitars may or may not have been out of
tune, and it didn’t really matter. Each of the four members shouted in
haphazard harmony right along with the audience, making each number
sound like an anthem of working-class solidarity. Energy was high, the
sound was loud and clear and we left without having to lower our
expectations in the slightest.
Sunday night bluesMaybe
it was the weather, or maybe it was the fact that it was Easter Sunday,
but the crowd at The 5 Spot was absurdly sparse for
Hands Off Cuba, Peter and the Wolf and
The Country Music. The
show didn’t kick off until 11 p.m., when soundscape artists Hands Off
Cuba took the stage to a virtually empty house. HOC’s resident guitar
virtuoso
William Tyler (Lambchop, Cortney Tidwell) was apparently out sick, but the boys still didn’t miss a beat. Powered by the ferocious beats of
Scott Martin, Hands
Off Cuba produced a brief but beautiful wall of electronic sound. Up
next was touring artist Peter and the Wolf, who sounded something like
a cross between Calvin Johnson and Simon & Garfunkel. With an
ancient Casio keeping the beat,
Red Hunter played a series of dreamy, mellow folk tunes with his heavily duct-taped guitar and hypnotizing baritone vocals. Finally,
Ben Smythe’s
brainchild The Country Music tuned up and played for a crowd of little
over a dozen friendly spectators. Their placid, melodic alt-country was
laid back and entrancing enough to keep us around for most of the set.
Unfortunately, feeling bleary-eyed and ready to call it a night, we had
to step out a bit early knowing that all three acts deserved a better
turnout than they got.
Starting next week, this space will be home to The Shizzle, a nationally syndicated live music column bringing you the hottest jams and the coolest styles from coast to coast. It’s been real, y’all. Spin out.
