Americana Music Festival and more
- Hot Wings Peelander-Z
The weight is a gift
After things got rolling late for the Americana Music Festival's official opening night at the Ryman last Wednesday and some guy coaxed us through a brief television applause tutorial, Billy Bob Thornton took the stage to introduce Levon Helm and it stayed star-studded—Americana-style—from there on out. Before the night was over, a bunch of Levon-revering folks who live here-ish (like Buddy Miller, Sam Bush, Sheryl Crow and Alison Krauss) and who don't (like Robert Plant, who's been reborn as a harmony-singing Americana artist; Thornton, who seemed mildly preoccupied; and Steve Earle, who now calls N.Y.C. home) had each sung a song—or at least a chorus—from a Band or Dylan tune, or a roots standard. But what was even more striking than the parade of famous voices was the atmosphere. We can't remember when we've felt more love passing between the stage and the Ryman pews. Even the security guards—on our side, at least—seemed to be in a good mood. And that was probably all because Helm never stopped grinning the whole night. He's a slight, wiry 68, and he can still lay into a drum groove with spirit and control while he sings. Even when he'd frayed his voice down to a raw thread, he never stopped 'til he carried everyone through "The Weight" and an encore performance of "Forever Young." Now that's love.
Scorched earth
Jason Ringenberg and Warner Hodges are a Red Bull-fueled wonder to behold. They were the only two of the four original Scorchers up for thrashing and grinning their way through an hour-and-45-minute set (not including the encore) at the Mercy Lounge a few hours after getting their Americana lifetime achievement award at the Ryman.
We definitely picked up on the fact that they were announced as the Nashville Scorchers, just like back in the day. They were hell-bent on making it worth that 20 or 35 bucks—depending on whether you sprang for the nightly cover or the festival bracelet. And based on age and ability to recollect song lyrics, we'd guess that most people in the packed house—especially the sweaty, jumping throng right up by the stage—weren't exactly Scorchers virgins.
The show was one part Behind the Music and two parts firecracker. (Ringenberg rehashed such highlights as being dissed by Ralph Emory.) The fact that Perry Baggs was contributing harmonies and air drumming and wasn't actually behind the drum kit, and that Jeff Johnson was mostly sitting it out—except for jumping onstage to play acoustic guitar on a song—reminded us what a fragile, fleeting miracle a really damn good band is.
They figured out small details like a setlist, key changes, chords and lyrics on the fly. But that just added to the living-on-the-edge feel of the night. Hell, we don't even know when and if they'll ever do this again.
The band—rounded out by Al Collins on bass, we-didn't-catch-who on drums and a few other guests—blazed through their cowpunk, rockabilly and honky-tonk-ish songs with, it seemed to us, all the energy in the world. The Mercy Lounge stage was barely big enough. Halfway through the first song Hodges was already slinging his guitar around, and Ringenberg was spinning and chicken-strutting. "Absolutely Sweet Marie" sounded even faster than it used to, and Ringenberg forgot part of the lyrics to the bridge. Wearing a fringe shirt, just like in the old days, he proclaimed, "We still rock as hard as ever—it just takes a little longer to recover." We can't vouch for the second part of that statement, but the first part's definitely true.
Japandemonium
We at The Spin like to indulge in theatrical Japanese punk rock as much as the next guy, so the JapaNoodle Fever Tour's stop at the Exit/In certainly seemed like an ideal way to spend our Monday night. It was to be an exciting evening full of unintelligible shouting and complex, fluorescent haircuts, and the cutesy co-ed outfit Bakubeni led off with a semi-enjoyable set of stop-and-go punk tunes. Though we couldn't make out a word, their songs were rife with recognizable pop-punk chord progressions, and they clearly spoke the international language of big finishes and applause-milking.
Up next was the glam punk outfit Quaff—complete with a masked, paper fan-toting hype man and a lead guitarist who sported a blaze orange Loni Anderson-meets-Big Bird coiffure. While their original tunes resembled something of a Japanese Papa Roach, their covers of "Beat It" and "Can't Take My Eyes Off You" were refreshingly familiar and energetically delivered, and we enjoyed ourselves when they coaxed a handful of audience members into timidly echoing a hook that to us sounded like "bleu cheese karma soul."
We honestly didn't expect a lot when the three-piece TsuShiMaMiRe took the stage—they looked a bit like an Asian, all-girl Pink Spiders, and we hadn't exactly heard anything melodically agreeable all evening. We were pleasantly surprised, however, when the trio started in on a sonically provocative and downright bitchin' set that boasted the tightest and most skilled rhythm section all evening. Their songs were at times avant-garde and spacey and occasionally full of plunky, discordant riffs, but most often they were packed with Ramones-esque progressions and bubblegum harmonies that make Tarantino's precious 5.6.7.8s look like complete idiots.
Headliners and internationally renowned madmen Peelander-Z began their set around midnight, and the fourth wall immediately disappeared. They abandoned any semblance of self-preservation as they staged-dived into a less-than-ample crowd, dangled upside down from the Exit/In's balcony, entrusted their instruments to audience members and engaged in a spirited frame of human bowling. As we perused the merch area, which resembled a miniaturized Little Tokyo, we were swept into a conga line-turned-mosh-pit that—though invigorating—proved it was time to call it a night.
Tired of sitting at home Clutch-ing your Sword? The Spin feels your pain. Send a link to your YouTube vlog to thespin@nashvillescene.com.
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