It’s been four years since
SUPERDRAG played
Nashville and gave up the ghost of rock, and even longer since they
graced the airwaves or occupied a slot on MTV with their druggy, fuzzy
power-pop and mod haircuts. So we expected to see a crowd of somewhat
older fans (and by older, we mean 30-plus) waxing nostalgic about the
days when this Knoxville power-pop quartet’s CDs occupied their car
stereos. Loose-fit jeans were easy enough to spot, but we were
surprised to see younger folks—kids who’d loved the band when they were
13, and latecomers who discovered the band on later records and were
curious to see their original incarnation. Either way, the fans
emerged, and the buzz of excitement was evident as soon as we entered
City Hall Friday night to find a long line snaking around the merch
booth, where singer/guitarist
JOHN DAVIS and his band members were shaking hands and signing autographs for a slew of gushy fans. (He and drummer
DON COFFEY JR. stayed there nearly all the way up to showtime to work the old-school meet-and-greet. Bassist and Nashvillian
TOM PAPPAS
was seen milling around the crowd chatting people up, a reminder that,
for all their brush-with-fame iconic rock cliché, Superdrag is so
anti-rock-star pose.) We spied a few local rock bands, and some were
overheard telling Davis what an influence he’d had on their work. Then
it was time for locals
THE LONELY HEARTS,
who played a tight, swaggery set of twangy rock songs that, every so
often, felt like they could veer off and become Tom Petty. Not just any
old Tom Petty, but specifically “Last Dance With Mary Jane.” It’s weird
when bands sound like songs instead of other bands, but this was kinda
like that. It wasn’t exactly the opener we’d imagined in terms of
compatibility, but then we remembered Davis had temporarily played
drums for the band and was a personal fan of their aesthetic. And about
the venue: City Hall was an odd choice for this show, mainly because we
couldn’t remember ever seeing Superdrag play a bigger venue than the
likes of the much-smaller capacity Exit/In. It makes sense though,
given that Hall owner
RICK WHETSEL
was largely responsible for getting the reunion ball rolling when he
offered the group a gig earlier this year. But it never quite filled to
capacity, hovering around half-full for the duration of the evening,
making the show feel less urgent than it should have, given the
excitement of this reunion. Then mid-liner
STEWART PACK
was up, a more fitting choice on the bill. He’s a fellow Knoxvillian
and power-pop devotee, though we found his particular brand of the
sweet stuff a little more formulaic than we like. Eventually it was
time for the ’Drag, who reminded us what pros they’d always been with a
muscular set of infectious pop, though the show’s distinctive looseness
was proof this band had learned a thing or two about the hard-driving
perils of band life and had decided to kick it fun-times instead.
There’s nothing less pretentious or unassuming than Superdrag, and they
harvest the riffs like rock ’n’ roll farmers, and all with such an
incredibly polite, good vibe. Songs such as “Do the Vampire” (off
Head Trip in Every Key) were exhilarating to hear live again, and “Phaser” (off
Regretfully Yours) had
all the love-obsessed, achy fuzz we’d missed all these years. But it
was a different experience in the warehouse-venue, and staking out
various positions around the venue to see the band was nothing like
being pressed up against the sweaty masses at a smaller club and
feeling the scorching heat this band can put off. It almost had the
effect of watching the band through a plate glass window: pristinely
preserved but obscured by distance.
Dick crunk
You
might not see them passing the offertory plate at your church, but even
the most dedicated rockers tend to observe the Sabbath in their own way
on Sunday—it’s a time to finally empty the ashtrays, gather up the
crushed beer cans on the front porch and pass out on the couch while
watching Robocop 2. So it was not without some hesitation that
we broke with tradition to catch what promised to be the most debauched
and decadent lineup of the weekend at the Mercy Lounge—a show packed
from top to bottom with bands advertising lifestyles of waste and
wantonness. When we arrived, BEARDO was just wrapping up a performance of pudgy, mustachioed, coke-nosed rock ’n’ roll fury. The flamboyant Memphis hip-hop outfit LORD T AND ELOISE
followed.
The inventors and sole purveyors of a subgenre known as
“Aristocrunk,” Lord T and Eloise posture themselves as privileged
members of the WASP leisure class who just might pour champagne down
your evening gown at the country club New Year’s soiree. Their set was
an intoxicating spectacle of fake jewelry, powdered wigs, glittery gold
face paint and, somewhat incongruently, a broomstick pony. This is the
group that the Burger King should book for his bachelor party. After
Lord T bade farewell to their adoring crowd, the stage was dressed with
a section of chain-linked fence, a graffiti-covered bus stop bench and
some beat-up trashcans. You know, so you could feel the realness of the
next two acts’ street-level rhymes. Clothed only in black T-shirts and sunglasses, ANDRE LEGACY and DIRT NASTY
may have been the outfit most comfortable with being a white rap duo
(well, Legacy is half-Russian, half-Armenian, for those keeping score
at home), but they were also the least compelling act of the night with
their increasingly tired dick-touting rhymes. Thank God headliner MICKEY AVALON
emerged quickly and glamorously—we were starting to think ahead to our
Monday morning hangovers. Avalon didn’t have to introduce himself or
offer up a backstory—his heroin-skinny limbs, smeared eyeliner and
deliciously tousled hair all served as indicators of his days selling
sex for dope on the streets of Beverly Hills. His set was electrifying
from start to finish—as skinny Jewish rappers go, he’s happy to play
the winking, virile devil to Matisyahu’s neutered holy man, even
employing a pair of girls in skimpy black outfits to bolster his
pansexual seductions. By the time he re-took the stage with Nasty and
Legacy to perform a song composed entirely of dick boasts, we were glad
we left the Sunday Times on the bed and got out for a while—at least, until the thought of Monday morning rolled around again.
Here’s an idea for a joke band: your face. Send your slammin’ promo pics to
thespin@nashvillescene.com.
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