Not fucking around

For the record: On the day they taught "fuckin' around" in school, Justin Kase was cuttin' class. That dude wouldn't know how to fuck around if you asked him. In the course of an evening at 12th & Porter filled with off-the-hook tunes and killer crowd response, Kase was definitely the crowd favorite, with more bodies in the big room and more hands-in-the-air audience freakout moments than any of the other performers. Justin really puts it down for this town, so we shouldn't have been surprised—but we were, and it ruled.

Now that we think about it, Leon from Ultimo, the promoter behind the evening's entertainment, was probably skipping school that day as well. Sure, he brings top-notch talent to a town desperate for quality electronic music, but it's the vibe he cultivates that's really astounding. Sure, the kids have their glow sticks and their funny pants (that's unavoidable), but Ultimo parties are classy enough that lecherous old Spinsters can still get all P.L.U.R. and shit with our vodka-and-cranberries and day jobs.

Hell, we were feeling the peace-love-understanding-respect vibe so hard that we didn't even get mad when a member of the County & Plateau crowd barfed all over our leg. Kneecap to ankle covered in stomach acid and pulled pork, and it didn't faze us—we were in that good of a mood. (A big shout-out goes to the 12th & Porter bar staff, who were super-pro and totally quick while cleaning up Ralphy McFuckshit's mess. Your professionalism in handling that noob and his detritus was greatly appreciated.)

Treasure Fingers was everything we had hoped. The Brooklyn/Atlanta filter house wunderkind played late into the night, which totally satisfied the disco jones that has been buggin' us all winter. By the time the house lights came up, we realized that we hadn't danced so hard for so long in a long time. All in all it was an great night of music and fun—even if we did smell puke fumes all the way home.

Songs about fucking

Traditionally, showing up at The End on a Friday night at 10:15 translates into "just in time," but, unfortunately, on Friday the 13th it meant missing opening band Wes and the Illegals. Looking at the room, we could have sworn no one had even shown up yet. It wasn't until we walked out on the patio that we realized where the bulk of the crowd was hiding—and everyone made their way back inside once The Tits started playing.

It is beyond The Spin's realm of comprehension why The Tits are not regarded as the unholy saviors of Nashville rock 'n' roll—or at least some disturbingly powerful cult leaders of the sort. The band's fast, simple, loud, blistering, sloppy blues-based rock is everything that's absent from most modern music. We're talking vulgar hymns about dope, guns and fucking in the streets; early Guns N' Roses riffs reinterpreted by Black Flag and executed with the rawest of power by the Dead Boys. The highlight of their set was a turbo-charged cover of MC5's "Kick Out the Jams," with none other than The End's hulking, cantankerous sound guru, Brad, screaming backup vocals from behind the mixing board.

Next up came a rare appearance by locals The Fork Hunts. Comprised of five women, each dressed in a completely unrelated absurdist ensemble, the band plays what could be described as "outsider indie rock." The girls belted out short ditties of stuttering, slapdash three-chord punk to the best of their limited ability while many in the audience seemed to wonder whether this band sucked or were simply trying to annoy them. But after the Hunts laid out some undeniably catchy numbers railing against the neighboring city of Antioch and the eye disease conjunctivitis (better known as "pink eye"), it seemed almost everyone finally "got it," and a better time was had by all.

The grand finale was billed as local jangle punk outfit MEEMAW's "last show," or at least last show for a while—the distinction was actually rather unclear. For a last show, there wasn't anything special to note that would indicate it was anything of the sort. The band ripped through a dozen or so mangled but chunky scream-a-long anthems to a crowded room that made no attempts at containing its enthusiasm. In fact, while the band neither did or said anything to suggest this would be a final performance, the audience was certainly soaking it in like there'd be no tomorrow, jumping, moshing, crowd surfing, and generally abusing each other in the name of a good old-fashioned ruckus. Finally, Wes Traylor alleviated any suspicions by sheepishly announcing, "This isn't really our last show."

Shut the fuck up! Like everybody else in this workaday world, The Spin sometimes gets the blues. The only thing for it is to get smacked upside the head with an electrified blues spectacular. So it was that we found ourselves in the pews at The Ryman Thursday, getting the good mojo from blues legends Buddy Guy and B.B. King.

Guy, who recorded his last album Skin Deep in Nashville, started the evening off with ice-pick sharp solos and wit to match. Before Guy could play the album's title track, an audience member shouted a request from the front row.

Guy stopped the band mid-groove and glared at the fan. "Shut the fuck up and let me play what I want to play," he said to a roar of laughter from the audience—though it was clear the bluesman wasn't being funny. "I want to play the title track off my new CD."

He then proceeded to do so, strumming the doleful, soulful tune, a Rhodes piano effect creeping from the electric keyboard. The song speaks to the basic homogeneity of mankind. Its chorus pleads, "Skin deep, underneath we're all the same."

Still, some of the song's poignancy was lost, considering that the man singing it had just told a person who paid 85 bucks to be there to fuck himself. But all was redeemed when Guy reverted to the gunslinging showmanship that's made him famous.

He crept off stage mid-solo and reappeared—still plucking—at the theater entrance. Guy then ran, sang and shredded his way around the theater, pausing at one point, mere feet from the Spin. We locked eyes as he played and for a moment it was just us, him and the Mother Church.

After such a high-velocity display, B.B King was bound to be an emotional octave shift. His tuxedoed band warmed the up the crowd with a couple of plodding, groovy instrumentals that even included a flute solo(!). Then the man himself took the stage and sat down in a folding chair, Lucille was placed tenderly in his lap and the whole audience got their tickets punched for a ride on the blues school express.

King still sounds great. His playing is as crisp, simple and powerful as ever, and he still manages to take the 1-4-5 progression to jaw-dropping new places. His voice is a bear-like roar, the very definition of soul, no matter what he's singing about.

But he leaned on his band a bit too heavily at the Ryman. His horn players (and they were many) each got long solos on every song and even the drummer got a little showcase during the second number. Toward the middle of the set, B.B. spent more time talking than playing, and many in the well-heeled crowd headed for the exits.

When he did play, King demonstrated that he can still take a single note and make it sound like an orchestra. It probably wasn't his finest performance, but when it comes to the blues he's still better than just about anyone else.

Puke washes off. Bad music takes longer. Email something good to thespin@nashvillescene.com.