It ain't my Vault
If the jam-packed parking lot Saturday at the Mercy Lounge was any indication, Third Man's Nobody's Vault but Mine fan appreciation night was off to a rollicking success. Mind you, a wedding reception at Cannery was responsible for all those cars, while the modest crowd upstairs barely rivaled a good night at Mercy's Rock 'n' Roll Trivia.
We showed up in time to catch The Turncoats, who — much to our disappointment — were not a reunited incarnation of the seminal Murfreesboro band featuring members of How I Became the Bomb and Those Darlins. The bashful trio brought with them a psychedelic bluesy meltdown that felt a little more energetic when we weren't looking at the stage. A couple strategically placed kicks, spins, windmills or attitude in general can go a long way.
Maybe we're not as "in the loop" on local band lineup changes as we thought we were, but we couldn't help but notice The Ettes are once again a power trio, performing without the aid of lead guitarist Johnny "Shoulders" Cauffiel. Either way, they're always a fuzzy, bluesy treat and a fitting addition to a night already chock-full of blues, punk and blues-punk combinations.
In a last-minute switcharoo, former Flat Duo Jet Dex Romweber and his sister Sara (together The Dex Romweber Duo) swapped spots with opener Jacuzzi Boys, bringing about their feature-length set a little earlier in the eve. Aside from being credited in the documentary It Might Get Loud for teaching Third Man honcho Jack White how to be "Jack White," Romweber rips a surfy, rootsy rock 'n' roll stomp that's admittedly a bit more raw than we were expecting. Fortunately, The Spin does indeed like it raw, and apparently the biggest crowd of the evening did as well.
Headliners-by-proxy Jacuzzi Boys made good with a round of garage pop for the remaining mob of stragglers. Complete with slapback vocals, tumultuous bass lines and no lack of 'verb and twang, Miami's Jacuzzi Boys do indeed bubble over with a soothing wash of psychedelic crescendos. It inspired more than a few of these surviving fans to cut a rug, and The Spin was kind of glad we stuck out the long and early evening.
Peachy pop for party people
Like most red-blooded Americans, The Spin likes our Memorial Days packed with barbecued animal flesh and plenty of day drinking. So when we entered the sauna-like conditions of local house-show bastion Glenn Danzig's House on Monday night, we were already two sheets to the wind and reeking of freedom — we were just looking for that third sheet.
High-school-age garage-punk duo Fox Fun was already cranking out jams, and those two little dudes have exactly what we look for in a high-school-age garage-punk duo: They were loud and upbeat, and it appears as though they've been studying the prerequisites for forming a rock outfit of such nature. Namely, bluesy punk, classic rock and raw '90s-style indie rock.
And then it was time for the fecal-tinged explosion that is Diarrhea Planet — a six-man-deep, deafening wall of honed punk-pop guitarmonies. Having just completed a two-week tour of "every city in Ohio," the semi-shirtless Planeteers were all too ready to incapacitate the few dozen folks in Danzig's cellar-like premises with a bewildering blast of party-rock shrapnel, once again proving that — though their name may be a joke — they won't be flushed away any time soon.
Peach Kelli Pop is perhaps the most fitting band name we've come across in years. The Canadian coed crew churned out sunny, sweet indie pop that isn't particularly sophisticated and hovered around the same tempo, but it had its twee charms. Their vocal harmonies, however, reminded The Spin of '60s all-girl art-brutists The Shaggs. Take that however you want. That's just what it reminded us of.
The ladies and dude of Heavy Cream — who, young as they may be, are shaping up to be a veteran act in the local punk-rock scene — shut the whole thing down with a sticky, satisfactory, crowd-pleasing set. Our old-fogey side had us concerned for the safety of some moshin' and crowd-surfin' youngsters. But as most of the voices in the room joined together to sing the chorus of HC's "Watusi," and we clutched our special-edition Budweiser can — the kind with the stars-and-stripes printed onto it — we remembered that you're never too old to give a fuck about not giving a fuck.
Can you smell that? That's the smell of Bonnaroo approaching. If you smell it too, email firstname.lastname@example.org.
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