Hot water music

As the Saturday night shows at 3 Crow Bar tick to an end, there are still quite a few bills to be excited about, and last week’s was no exception. Local boys Hotpipes have been hitting the sweet spot recently—including an excellent set at Next Big Nashville—and we were excited to see what they could do with a rowdy crowd that included the Nashville Roller Girls afterparty—a.k.a., lots of girls in short skirts and fishnets who could kick your ass. Opening up were The Howlies, straight from the ATL. A spry young foursome sporting furry gray caps with ears on ’em (Wolves? Howl? Get it?) in the spirit of the upcoming holiday, the band had everyone in the place bouncing and smiling with their infectious, ragged garage pop. They’re working out an upcoming date at The Basement—you don’t have to tell us twice. By the time Hotpipes took the stage our Yuengling (tastes like home) buzz was gaining traction and we were ready for their rangy, swelling rock. They didn’t disappoint, and as we stood there, tapping our feet only a few short blocks from our warm bed, all we could think was: fuck nem sprinklers.

New York minutes 

As the sullen New York music bidness clones and BMI execs clicked through their Blackberries with their scrupulous glazes at the 27th CMJ Music Marathon in Manhattan last Wednesday, resident Nashvillian Brooke Waggoner took the stage at Arlene’s Grocery and opened up a vein over her Mozart-bred arpeggios. After suffering through the butt-rock atrocity of a band that preceded the indie-pop darling’s set at the BMI-sponsored bash, Waggoner’s hushed vocals and sophisticated instrumentation were quite unexpected. Ears pricked up, fully recovered from the previous tinnitus-inducers. “I didn’t know what to expect with such an early show,” Waggoner told The Spin after her 8:15 p.m. CMJ performance. Certainly no stranger to fickle Manhattanites, having played the Canal Room a mere three weeks prior, Waggoner shrugged off comparisons between New York and her hometown crowd. “I love playing for both New York and Nashville,” Waggoner said. “It’s a critical crowd, but it’s also a very attentive crowd if you can gain their attention,” she added. Meanwhile, world-wearied road dogs The Nobility (ahem, formerly Jetpack U.K.) didn’t have it as easy for their Theory 8 Records showcase at Piano’s last Friday. The neatly coifed audience stared at their sneaks and barely snickered at the band’s onstage banter. Didn’t these hobnobbers realize that these nerd-pop zingers don’t write themselves? The frothy melodies and highbrow lyrics of The Nobility evergreen “Mathematics” were completely lost on these unimaginative sad sacks of humanity. It was almost as if lead vocalist Sean Williams had asked them for their firstborn child. “If I were to judge the show completely by the audible crickets in between songs, I might be discouraged,” Williams told The Spin post-show. “But if I take a minute or two to think about it, we were probably playing to people who had spent all day seeing band after band. What would I do if I were in their shoes? Probably the same thing. We’re a rock band playing songs, not turning water into wine up there.” Theory 8 signees The Carter Administration fared slightly better. The thudding beats and Heartland hooks won the beer nurses over with one boisterous fellow remarking, “Tune up yer guitar. Tune it up and turn it up!” Maybe the New York crowds aren’t an advanced form of musical amoebas after all.

Triple play

A couple of us Spinsters took off on a musical journey Friday night that spanned musical extremes, from incendiary Latin jazz to gutbucket Delta blues to whacked-out avant-garde mayhem. Up first was the Nashville Jazz Orchestra with a slew of special guests, including international percussion stars Richie Flores and Jesus Diaz, Nashville percussionists Glen Caruba and Lalo Davila, vocalist Dalia Garcia and one of the greatest living drummers, Horacio “El Negro” Hernández. Needless to say, the grooves were electrifying. On his conga solos, Flores’ lightning-quick hands were nothing but a blur, letting loose machine-gun barrages of percussive fury. Diaz was solid but less showy, providing a good counterpoint to Flores’ irrepressible energy. The NJO rose to the occasion, contributing some fine ensemble playing, not to mention a slew of fine soloists, too many to mention here. Among the highlights were trumpeter Steve Patrick’s phenomenal take on Arturo Sandoval’s “A Mis Abuelos,” a few Roy Agee trombone excursions and Jeff Coffin’s ferocious tête-à-tête with Hernández. Garcia was mesmerizing, swaying hypnotically as she delivered a few sultry numbers. And despite all the international star power, the biggest revelation may have been Nashvillian Davila, who, besides playing timbales and singing a couple numbers, provided an exceptionally funny and engaging turn as MC. Hats off to director Jim Williamson and the NJO for some inspired programming. (Coming Dec. 1: the NJO with saxophonist David “Fathead” Newman, a longtime band member for both Ray Charles and Herbie Mann who’s also worked with everyone from Stanley Turrentine and Jimmy McGriff to Eric Clapton and the Average White Band.)

The Spin barely made it across the river in time for the Scissormen set at Family Wash. We found transplanted Beantowner Ted Drozdowski running the blues through a sonic meat grinder, locking drummer Jason Frazier into two-man stomp grooves and bashing out “John the Revelator” like hellhounds were on his trail. With ringer (and Scene employee) Jack Silverman on guitar and Shannon Williford on daredevil blues harp, Drozdowski hopped onto the Wash’s narrow bar and started playing slide with anything in reach—beer taps, bottles, even the light fixture dangling from the ceiling—before continuing his wireless ramble out into the parking lot. He reappeared at a window, axe in hand, then strode back in without missing a lick like the badass he is. Here’s one Scissors you’d like to run with.

Speaking of badass, Tom Waits/Elvis Costello guitar monster Marc Ribot was just settling down to business with his avant-noise trio Ceramic Dog by the time we got to The Basement. Ribot, gray-haired but boyish in black leather, hunched over his guitar with his arm cocked back like a fist about to swing: his skronky leads and sinuous rhythm playing snaked all the way from spiky free jazz to skanky mambo. He was almost upstaged, though, by multi-instrumentalist Shahzad Ismaily, who coaxed an ear-splitting spectrum of industrio-electro sounds from his wheezy-looking synthesizer, and by drummer Ches Smith, who kept every number swinging while answering Ribot’s every whim (including a Knitting Factory-friendly encore of The Doors’ “Break on Through”). The crowd, filled with expressions that looked like a fish-market window, was 70 percent musicians—everybody from Buddy Miller, Brad Jones and Paul Burch to Collin Wade Monk, Hags Haggerty, Melissa Mathes and at least one Pisapia bro. Afterward, half the room went to hang with Ribot, while the other half went to genuflect before his Godzilla-sized rack of pedals.

We’re dressing up as sexy Paramore for Halloween. Protest to thespin@nashvillescene.com.