The Spin

Double daring
Nashville is not exactly a haven for daring instrumental music, so for fans of the avant-garde, last week was like manna from heaven. Back-to-back Belcourt shows—Medeski Martin and Wood Wednesday, Nels Cline Thursday—provided some of the most mind-bending, prodigious music this town has seen in a while. MMW were midway through the second leg of the three-part "Viva la Evolution" tour, an exercise in kamikaze creativity—they get together for five days before each leg of the tour, write all new music, play only that music for that leg, then go into the studio, record it and start again. Thus all of the music was completely new to even the most loyal fans, though the performance was so stunning that no one was pining for oldies. John Medeski left his trademark Hammond B3 at home for this show, relying heavily on an old-school, heavens-to-murgatroid acoustic grand piano, in addition to his trademark Clavinet, an Arp String Ensemble and a bitchin' Mellotron (think "Strawberry Fields Forever"), along with other assorted toys and an arsenal of amps. But the undisputed highlights were a couple of numbers he played on melodica (one of those keyboards with a hose that you blow into), played through effects pedals and a guitar amp for some otherworldly sounds. Drummer Billy Martin and bassist Chris Wood are the most mesmerizing rhythm section in the solar system, perhaps even galaxy, both exceptions to the accepted wisdom that there's no such good thing as a drum or bass solo. Fans who'd seen the band a dozen or more times concurred that this may have been the quintessential MMW performance, and the theater was packed to the rafters.

The next night, the Nels Cline Singers rolled into town, upping the ante on both the number of effects pedals and the sonic insanity. Cline & Co.—bassist Devin Hoff and drummer Scott Amendola—explored an extraordinarily broad palette, from quiet jazz moments reminiscent of Bill Frisell to dissonant fury reminiscent of, well, nothing we'd ever seen or heard. During some of the more outrageous segments, Cline would strum a few notes, step on a pedal, hit another pedal (for those keeping score at home, an original Electro-Harmonix 16-Second Delay) repeatedly with the palm of his hand, weaving his body around like some Whirling Dervish. Cline's sound is completely unique and uncompromising, and the half-full Belcourt crowd was exceptionally vocal in their approval, no small feat considering that some in the audience were surely there due to Cline's Wilco affiliation—and if Wilco was your touchstone for expectations, Cline blew that stone to smithereens within seconds. Perhaps the biggest revelation of both nights was how friggin' awesome The Belcourt is as a music venue. The acoustics are great (the sound was impeccable both nights), and being able to sit is much appreciated, particularly for the marathon sets these guys put on. As one Scene writer put it, you wouldn't want to go see Girl Talk there, but for a sit-and-listen performance, The Belcourt's the best game in town.

Who the hell goes to see Hootie & the Blowfish in 2008?
Your mom. Your sister. Your aunts. "Administrative assistants." People that use the word "vajayjay" without irony. Those girls in the office that eat pizza and Ho Hos for lunch every day and can't seem to understand how you stay so skinny. People who just couldn't wait for the Elkhart County 4-H Fair to get their Darius Rucker fix. Your stylist. Your stylist's mom. Your stylist's mom's mom. People who bought one album in the mid-'90s and still really like it. People who are keeping the gawd-awful maternity/sack-dress-as-fashion-statement fad alive. Your creepy neighbor with the little dog. The people who are probably regretting putting so many "W" stickers on the back of their Suburban. People who get their news from Us Magazine. People who can't clap on the beat. People who were horrified to discover that the nice gentleman from the Barenaked Ladies is actually a coked-out Canadian whoremonger. The sort of mundane middle Americans you've been avoiding since middle school. People desperate to see a Friends movie hit the silver screen. People with bad dye jobs and eyebrows waxed into oblivion. The local street team for Ugly Betty. People who have seen the Sex and the City movie more than once. People who haven't been drunk on a weeknight since they barfed up that whole bottle of Alizé their junior year of college—and the men who love them. Fat guys with identity issues and fanny packs. And us—'cause we're suckers, and we couldn't pass up seeing the most best-selling, mediocre bar band of all time. Just chalk it up as another in the long line of stupid, stupid things we've done for kicks. We swear it won't happen again.

From Bombs to Stars
Those of us who couldn't rustle up the scratch to make it to Pitchfork still managed to have our thirst for some kitschy indie tunes slaked with a much-anticipated performance from How I Became the Bomb Friday night. When we entered The Basement, we were delighted to see its newest addition—a brand new bar at the front of the venue. While it's cash-only, it still beats the hell out of having to fight your way through the seething masses each time you want a fresh PBR. Well done, Grimey. Well done. Practiced Murfreesboro popsters Velcro Stars may have looked slightly like a shrunken-down Decemberists, but their brainy, upbeat style of indie pop sounded a bit more like Superchunk with occasional Malkmus-like vocal inflection. The Stars' set was endearing, warm and peppered with occasional lively instrumental stretches, though the lyrics were a bit difficult to make out. They closed with an uncharacteristically funky tune that was full of playful falsetto. By the time New York natives The Rosewood Thieves took the stage, the crowd had already begun to fill out. Lead singer Erick Jordan's ultra-wet, out-in-front vocals were offset by a backdrop of ghostly, vaguely psychedelic guitars and badass organs that left us scratching our heads as to just what the Thieves' influences might be (maybe The Band? Dr. Dog?). The nebulous crew of Northern rockers played about a dozen bluesy tunes, the most art-rocky of which could even be OK Computer B-sides...if Thom Yorke were a sassy, soulful youngster from the Big Apple. The Basement was all sticky, jerking bodies as soon as How I Became the Bomb kicked off their set. HIBTB played the usual gems ("Killing Machine," "Secret Identity," etc.) but also included a few brand-new tunes off their forthcoming album that were packed with fat synth parts and smooth, hooky bass—and yes, they were a bit of a step in a mature new direction, though they retained the bright, youthful vigor we've all come to expect from The Bomb. Singer Jon Burr was his usual sharp self, adjusting his rings and trading energy with the crowd, which was made up of a more than a few baby-faced new fans. No matter your opinion of How I Became the Bomb, you can't hate on a band that so adeptly utilizes a vocoder. The boys from the 'Boro showed us once again just how to be bomb.