Keggers can't be choosers
Outdoor shows are almost always a great chance to escape the discomforts of a hot, sweaty rock venue—unless of course you were at Local Honey Saturday night, in which case things were still just as dank and humid, but we at least had some breathing room and no omnipresent stench of sweat and B.O.
Most bars don't have a free keg sitting in the corner, either. The evening kicked off to a rollicking start when Kindergarten Circusunleashed the fury on a yard half-full of family and friends. Though barely old enough to drive, these little dudes channel teen awkwardness into a rage of fiery, primal blues riffs that'd be no less impressive played by anyone twice their age. Be it the curse of puberty or the woes of the working class, it all sounds equally agonizing when filtered through singer/guitarist Dillon Watson's throaty howl. Here's to hoping his voice doesn't change anytime soon.
Next up we got our first taste of Spanish Castles—a scrappy punk trio who handed out a short/sweet set of haphazardly handled three-chord pop gems, including a cover of one our favorite little-known Pavement classics, "Box Elder."
We're not sure if it's technically possible for two bands to date each other, but if any pair of caps-lock-friendly local acts have made a love connection this year it's JEFF and MEEMAW. The two have consummated their union with habitual local gigging and conjoined effort Saigon Baby (a.k.a. Wizardz), who took the stage as the third act on the bill. By this time, the yard had amassed a healthy crowd of folks who gathered around the dark stage, lit only by a single lamp light, as Saigon Baby combined the droning muscle-bound riffs of JEFF with the angsty pop sensibilities of its better half to create a spacey fusion of Sabbath, Hawkwind and Redd Kross.
Closing things down were Hans Condor, whose passion for all things '70s laid the groundwork for ripping solos, roaring blues riffs and some funky noodling in between. They mixed up the razor-sharp delivery of early punk, the glittery swagger of glam and the earthy aftertaste of Southern rock. They even touched on a little Zep-style reggae before the night was over. Things cooled down both literally and figuratively after the music stopped, but the majority of folks in attendance stuck around to mingle and finish off that keg.
Rock. Ettes.
Sometimes the first band of the night goes on and everybody acts like the show hasn't really started yet. Not so on Friday night at The Basement. Maybe it's because love was in the air—Grimey and Mindy are engaged!—but people packed it in to catch our new neighbors The Ettes. (Yes, The Spin showed up on time.) Celebrating the release of their new album Look at Life Again Soon, the trio hadn't played a show in a couple months, but it didn't take them long to shake the rust off. They delivered one dirty-sweet garage-pop gem after another, and just when we found ourselves thinking, "Sure, this is great, but we wonder if this band has another gear"—they popped the clutch on a number that blew our eyebrows back. Drummer Poni, who was just dynamite behind the kit all night, put the nitro into The Ettes' funny car, whipping her head around like a dervish and performing the rock 'n' roll equivalent of peeling out on our eardrums. From there on out, The Ettes were really firing on all cylinders and the hoots and hollers from the crowd just got louder after each song. Welcome to Nashville, Ettes.
Brian Ritchey was also celebrating an album release, for If I Were a Painter, and he led his band through a solid set of midtempo rockers that we missed a bunch of—damn if these smokers' porches don't lure us in and keep hold of us. In our shoes, dear reader, would you not have stayed to bum a smoke and hear a funny story about Ben Folds' cat? Seriously. By the time Pale Blue Dot (of whom we think quite fondly) took to the stage, the party out back was in full swing, Grimey was planning his wedding aloud, and the whole thing felt like the perfect end to a gorgeous summer evening.
True colors
Whoa. Friday night's Three 6 Mafia show at the Wildhorse Saloon was an awesomely weird night, even aside from the obvious cognitive dissonance arising from the artist/venue juxtaposition. We left our house on time. Then we found a parking spot the second we got downtown, which is totally fucking abnormal. Then we were waiting in line for two hours surrounded by sorority girls screaming "Don't Stop Believing" at the top of their lungs and taking all sorts of pictures in front of the "No Gang Colors" sign. When we finally got in the door, we were greeted by the near-hallucinatory image of a multi-ethnic lady-swarm line dancing as the DJ played Lil' Wayne's ultra-hit "A Millie." Like watching basic cable in Bizarro World, the sight of cats boot-scootin' to the most adventurous rap hit of the decade was one of those strange culture clashes that warms our hearts and make us want to write sonnets to this city that we love so much. The show itself was fantastic, in the most debauched sense of the word. If you're unfamiliar with the Triple Six M.O., it goes something like this: Bring about 50 girls onstage, play the first verse and the chorus of an undeniably classic song, then say some ka-razy shit and repeat for the remainder of the show. Usually, truncated tunes and a ton of stage banter would earn our ire, but Juicy J and DJ Paul are masters when it comes to making a crowd hype, and their obscene carnival barker shtick had us shaking our head in disbelief all night. Seriously, it's a toss up right now between Three 6 and GWAR for the most awesomely disturbing show of the year. (Advantage: Three 6 Mafia—no dry cleaning bills, natch.) More of that, please.
Is it really time for Next Big Nashville already? Email a link to your personal show-hopping schedule to the cool kids at thespin@nashvillescene.com.
