The Spaceship of the Imagination, JEFF (of course), Ghostfinger, Marc Broussard, and more
Dreamz to remember
This past weekend concluded the "Winter of Dreamz" series of shows at the Mercy Lounge, and Nashville Cream was asked to host the festivities on Friday night. As curators, we asked the Cream-approved tandems of JEFF the Brotherhood and Ghostfinger to play on account of their proven consistency and general awesomeness—or, as emcee, comedian and Alcohol Stuntman Chris Crofton explained, because they're overrated.
Crofton opened the night with a stand-up act that felt less like a series of jokes than unscripted rants, and Kings of Leon bore the brunt of it. During the spiel, our cohort overheard a man ask his companion why she didn't seem to be enjoying herself. She said it was because Crofton was talking shit about her two favorite bands.
Welcome to Nashville Cream.
In the time leading up to the show, the third band had been listed only as TBA, leading to a handful of rumors and murmurs that perhaps a big surprise was in store—maybe a Be Your Own Pet reunion. Not sure where that rumor got started, but it turned out we didn't have shit up our sleeves, and the surprise was something called The Spaceship of the Imagination, performing what they called "A Carl Sagan Christmas" and featuring Ghostfinger keyboardist Matt Rowland. Now you know the difference between "TBA" and "special guest"; the former means that something's getting thrown together last-minute.
The turban-attired Spaceship's cheesy, electro-instrumental Christmas jams befuddled and bemused, the set lasting just barely 20 minutes and just long enough for the joke to remain funny. Following another round of insult-slinging courtesy of Crofton, the floor in front of the stage filled with people, and smatterings of denim jackets appeared sporting Rat Patrol patches.
For a band seemingly popular with the crust-punk contingent, JEFF the Brotherhood certainly doesn't sound the part, and they've been straying even further from that sound with each passing show. Their concise, riff-centered post-punk is gradually giving way to open spaces and more overt psych-rock influences. The old songs are extended with whammy pedal freakouts, while the newer stuff is much more melodic. That isn't to say that they don't still riff-out some fist pumps, as evidenced by the audience's fist-pumping during the riffs.
Ghostfinger performed as a duo as well, as they have been while drummer Van Campbell has toured with the Black Diamond Heavies. Frontman Richie Kirkpatrick handled guitar duties, with Rowland on keys, an iPod and everything else. While Campbell's contributions are obviously missed, we appreciated the quirky approach to what's otherwise some fairly straightforward rocker songs—albeit ones with lyrics to the effect of "make your pussy walk 'round the mall." But it's absurdity that makes Ghostfinger work, and anything exaggerating that modus operandi is welcome by us.
We can has a funky?
Maybe it was the whiskey, or maybe we were just overflowing with the holiday spirit because we had adopted a kitten, but the menopausal mom rock of Marc Broussard was kinda cool. "Kinda" being the operative word, but kinda cool nonetheless. Not 9-week-old itty-bitty kitty cool, but certainly a notch above the Johnny Two Shoes and The News You Can Use off-season beachfront bar band vibe that we get from Broussard's albums.
As it turns out, his band is hella tight in that most respectable Louisiana tradition, and it's a shame that Oceanway Studios multi-tracked the funk right out of their latest recording. Broussard and company should really consider making their next album in a storage closet with two microphones and a jury-rigged Dictaphone—and release it exclusively on acetate. Y'know, somethin' for the collectors. We'd buy it. Maybe.
His band also sounded really good in The Cannery Ballroom, dialed-in and very immediate. It was one of the most expertly middle-of-the-road mixes we've heard in a while and it settled in the room nicely, though we couldn't help feeling like we were caught up in the short-end of some Faustian trade-off: It was like we put in a tape of The Meters and somebody had recorded the worst of mid-'80s Aaron Neville over it.
Did we mention that Broussard performed in front of a backdrop with his face on it? Yeah, totally not cool, but totally not as bad as it coulda been. Broussard's shtick is like, oh, listening to The Commodores post-Lionel Richie when all you wanna hear is "Machine Gun." There's something cool in there but you just can't put your finger on it. Unlike, say, a huggable, wuvable ball of orange, tiger-striped fuzzy-wuzzy wittle kitty kat.
That's some serious competition, though.
Poll position
We asked the local rock scene to talk about itself, and let's just say we didn't have to ask twice. In addition to what you see in this week's print edition, we'll have some more responses—including best venue and worst commode—on ye olde Nashville Cream, a.k.a. the music blog everyone reads every day always. Also, keep an eye out for a special all-local free music download, hand-made from fresh, organic zeroes and ones by artisanal digital remix craftsmen, cruelty-free and fairly traded. Especially for you.
Santa Claus didn't go to your show, either. Tell us what he missed at thespin@nashvillescene.com.
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