First Listen: Guns N' Roses, Chinese Democracy

Guns N’ Roses




Chinese Democracy





What the fuck?


Fifteen years of false starts, artistic differences, internal warfare, delayed releases, canceled tour dates, million-dollar payoffs from Geffen, Axl’s dreads, Slash’s Snakepit…it all comes down to this: me buying the first Guns N’ Roses studio album in over a decade at a suburban Best Buy, while the Mom in front of me drops $100 on Wii equipment. Best Buy didn’t even carry DVDs until 1997, let alone VR gaming equipment—that was pure fantasy in 1993, the year GNR released their last studio album, The Spaghetti Incident? In a way, the reappearance of GNR on shelves of music stores feels a complete anachronism. It’s an event at the crossroads of time, like Encino Man being unfrozen; Dinosaurs being recreated in Jurassic Park; King Kong coming back to New York. We’re out-of-our-head excited over this, but everyone is aware it could be a complete disaster.

I should admit outright that I was 12 years old when Spaghetti was released (though Appetite for Destruction was one of the first tapes I owned, in 3rd grade). So even though I understand that Guns n’ Roses exists as some sort of unanimously shared American cultural experience, I have always felt somewhat aloof from it. The music has always been there, and obviously brilliant. But as a child of 90’s, I was behind the curve on Axl & co. For people even one or two years older than me, the rise and fall of the band was something personal that they lived through. Meanwhile I was left scratching my head, trying to connect the dots between the naked woman on the cover of my Appetite tape (a formative experience), the beauty of “November Rain,” and, well, Spaghetti.

In other words, Guns N’ Roses has never made great sense to me.

This is not a bad thing. When I heard several years back that Axl was going to (eventually) release an album under the name "Chinese Democracy," I wondered aloud what every reasonable person should have: “What the fuck?” GNR was never particularly political. So if Axl was turning that corner, he sure picked one hell of a stand to make. If it wasn’t political, well, then Axl was treading in some of the most irreverent (and therefore awesome) territory in recent memory. Either way it’s a win.

Now add to that what we knew about Chinese Democracy [basically, very little]: fifteen years in the making, multiple rumored collaborators (including Sebastian Bach), a constantly changing release date, and production shrouded in utter secrecy, not to mention controversy. Earlier this year, a blogger much more serious than me was arrested—but ultimately avoided jail time—for uploading the album’s tracks. To cap it off, when the album was released this week, it received immediate castigation from the Chinese government.

That’s when it hit me that maybe I’m not so far behind the ball. In all likelihood, no one understands Guns n’ Roses. Not even the Chinese government. It’s time to stop thinking, and buy the album. I’m ready for the event. Bring on King Kong.

The album cover is quaint, black & white, with an old bike with a large basket in the foreground. Behind it, on a wall, is tagged “GUNS N’ ROSES.” This is, no doubt, the mark of the burgeoning Chinese Democratic groundswell. The album starts off equally quaint on the first track, with high pitch squeaks and low grumblings (a Chinese city?) surfacing from the background, simmering and ready to blow. The effect is poignant, and a minute and a half in, we get our eardums scorched by the first of Buckethead’s torrential riffs. Then, making the only appropriate entrance that one can make after a 15-year absence, Axl’s voice slides in like the Death Star laser, and blows our quaint little world to pieces.

There is no time to collect your thoughts. I’m sorry, time? You’ve had 15 years to second guess Axl. So let’s get it straight: this is Mr, Rose’s world we’re living in. He wastes no time destroying any lingering doubt, with his trademark scowling voice over thunderous accompaniment: “It don’t really matter/ Gonna find out for yourself/ No it don’t really matter/ Gonna leave this thing to/ Somebody else.” Nice.

...and then it gets slightly weird. “If they were missionaries/ Real time visionaries/ Sittin’ in a Chinese stew/ to view my disinfatuation.” What? I think this is political (song goes on to mention the Falun Gong), but more certainly, I know it is not a complete thought.

I move along. By the end of song 3, “Better” (a standout track) I am awe-struck by what I’m hearing. The lyrics have subdued themselves to simpler, but still poignant, rendering of Axl’s lingering angst. The music is not only great' it’s fresh and complex. There’s a layering of guitars, beats, and background vocals in this song which makes one think of Korn or Linkin Park. Not to suggest that GNR is stealing from the detestable late 90’s rock scene. More like giving a nod to their wayward disciples, and then sounding the rallying cry to reminds us who rules.

The honeymoon is not constant, of course. Track 4, “Street of Dreams” reaches for GNR ballads of the past, but doesn’t get further than some clichés (“So now I wander through my days/And try to find my ways/To the feelings that I felt.”) and—gulp—a hint of voice modulation. Axl’s voice continues to play tricks on the mind for several songs, and the album briefly loses its way in this early middle portion.

This type of meandering is especially unfamiliar to us because albums of this length are so uncommon these days. Only 2 of the 14 tracks are shorter than 4 minutes, and there are no intentional throwaways. I can’t figure out just yet if this is a concept album, but it’s no surprise that after 15 years, every song has been produced in grandiose fashion, with a deliberate attention to detail. It can be exhausting, but this is where Chinese Democracy (the album) lives and dies. Even though Axl is just a voice to the listener, it’s clear that this album represents his powerful vision. The songs are intricately arranged and extremely polished. When they hit the mark, Axl appears a towering figure returning to claim his rightful throne. When songs falter in the slightest way, they appear overproduced and mechanical. Songs on the first half of the album war inconclusively for the listener's sympathy.

The album finds its way again on several understated and well-written songs, including the thoughtful “Catcher in the Rye,” the guitar-blazed “Scraped,” and the chaotic/operatic “Riad N’ the Bedouins” (“Riad N’ the Bedouins/ had a plan and thought they’d win/ But I don’t give a fuck ‘bout them/ Cause I am crazy”).

The album then surges into an improbable climax on the tracks “Sorry” and “I.R.S.” The former, a simple and effective ballad, typifies Axl’s generic emotion on Chinese Democracy: powerful but impersonal. We don’t know who exactly has wronged him, but we’re not inclined to ask. If we heard it alone, this song would be a castoff. Instead, it crystallizes the tone that runs through the rest of the album—an uneasy sadness, an anger, a desire for revenge. Hanging on the final note of "Sorry," we plunge into “I.R.S.” all-in-all the best song on the album. It rides on the shoulders of the best of Guns n’ Roses’ catalog, loud and soft, ear-splitting power chords, crushing rhythm, and Axl sounding 100% vintage for the first time. The lyrics (like most on the album) are unintelligible, but it’s the feeling that speaks most coherently. The solos are even Slash-worthy (gasp). If 15 years was all leading up to this, it seems worth it.

The rest is just dénouement. 71 minutes later, I’m tired, exhausted, beat up, beat down. I didn’t just listen to an album…I feel like I survived something.

And what, exactly? I have no clue. I do know this: the album is absolutely tremendous. It matches its hype and anticipation in both scale and force. I also know this: the album is over-produced, overambitious, and conceptually absurd. But it is unmistakably the work of a genius.

The Spinto Band

I’ve finally figured it out! The Spinto Band is the modern incarnation of the Sugarplastic.

This has been bugging me since I saw them live at Black Cat two weeks ago. Unfortunately, since no one knows the Sugarplastic, I concede an alternative, more accessible comparison:

Devo + Apples in Stereo w/ a spicing of R.E.M.


They are a band worth checking out. Pop-geeks from Delaware, and very talented musicians. My personal fave, “Oh Mandy” is from their first album, Nice and Nicely Done; “Summer Grof” is the single from their new record, Moonwink.

Alive and Kicking (and Screaming) Part 2: AC/DC at Madison Square Garden 11/12

Note: Part 2 of the greatest musical event of my life. See below for part 1, on the Pumpkins. It seems that a ton of footage from the AC/DC show has made its way onto youtube. I've linked to it here where possible, but note that's not my footage, so I'm not responsible for the atrocious audio in some of the clips. I'll be updating this post with some pictures from the show before the end of the weekend.

It’s 10:45 P.M. in Madison Square Garden. The lights are dimmed, but below me I can make out a rolling, pitching sea of human bodies. They jump up and down. They punch their fists toward the ceiling. They whistle. They scream. They chant: “AN-GUS!! AN-GUS!!" They want blood.

And they get it.

The blazing stage lights fire up, and AC/DC hits the first few notes of their final song. It’s the jilting masterpiece “For Those About to Rock.” The crowd (myself included) knew this was coming, and yet it still takes us to a nirvanic state of pandemonium. I can’t hear my own thoughts. I have no thoughts. I have no voice. My ears are already blown out, and I’m seeing in stereo. At this point, I notice that behind the band, a row of six cannons has materialized, pointing directly at the crowd.

And this is when it hits me that I’m about to get my face blown off.

But my story begins a few hours earlier. More accurately, it begins in the year 2000. At the time, AC/DC had just finished the Stiff Upper Lip tour and I had, well, missed the tour. But I wasn’t alone. During a late night bar conversation sometime thereafter, some friends of mine and I made a pact: we would pay any cost (actually I said up to $500) to see AC/DC on their next tour. At this age—and with that lifestyle—you never know when AC/DC’s going to play their last note, we reasoned [we were categorically wrong on this note, more on that later].

So, naturally, when the Black Ice tour was announced, we freaked out. Not like we hadn’t been talking about this for the past eight years, but all of a sudden it was finally possible. With only one slight hitch: the only show we could all attend was in New York City, on a Wednesday night. However, this is hardly the thing that stands in the way of pacts. One half day at work and $20 bus ride later, there we stood on 8th avenue, outside the hulking Madison Square Garden, about to rock.

After killing some time at Tir Na Nog (props to the establishment for playing some AC/DC tunes before the show), we headed into MSG and to our seats. My friends and I have a phrase for the feeling you get when you walk out of a stadium/arena gate and finally have full view of the field/court/concert/whatever: the walk of life. In this case, the walk of life was unbelievable—the dark mass of humanity swelling from wall to wall and floor to ceiling in that place was just awesome. We arrived just as the opening band, The Answer, was wrapping up. No slight intended here, but thanks, now get off the damn stage.

My sense of time may have been warped (thanks again, Tir Na Nog), but after only about 10 minutes of silence, the squeaks and groans of guitars being picked up and strapped on emerged from the din. The fuse was lit. The crowd roared, and without skipping a beat, Angus, Brian and Malcolm appeared—except, not in real life. Instead, they appeared in animated form, in a tremendous opening cartoon for “Rock n’ Roll Train” which hit all the points of devilish, sexual innuendo necessary to set the stage for an AC/DC show. The cartoon cimaxed in a catastrophic train wreck which broke through the screen (as a real train!) amid major pyrotechnics. Then, you guessed it: AC/DC appeared. (Tremendous video of the opening here, but with bad sound quality)

There was no tension to be broken by that point. The crowd was raucous before the show, and the band’s appearance simply took them to another level. I cannot stress enough the power and energy in the building during this show, from beginning to end. From the first chords of RnR Train to the final cannon blasts of the encore, I have never taken part in anything comparable to this sustained outpouring of energy on that level for that amount of time. I think I pumped my fist 643,000 times, I still don’t have my voice back, and I’m sore in inexplicable places.

The setlist was—no shame in saying it—predictable. AC/DC live is a known quantity at this point. Half of the show consists of consensus classics that everyone agrees on, like “Back in Black,” “Thunderstruck,” and “You Shook Me All Night Long.” One quarter is saved for the new stuff, like "Black Ice" and "Big Jack." The final quarter is reserved for choice classics, i.e. songs that everyone loves, but that are not necessarily givens. Think “Shoot to Thrill,” “Let There be Rock,” etc. On an AC/DC tour, it's this final small portion of the setlist where you’re going to find your surprises, if there are any. That’s not a bad thing by any means, but one certainly knows what they’re getting at this point with AC/DC.

With that in mind, the most striking aspect of this show was how good the band was. Why does that seem strange to say? Was anyone questioning AC/DC’s ability? No, but then again, when you’re lead singer is 61 years old and your guitarist bears a striking resemblance to Gollum from Lord of the Rings, one has natural concerns about how things are going to hold up. Well, as I mentioned before, these concerns turned out to be completely unfounded. It’s as if the band has hit some new sort of sexagenarian stride. Brian Johnson’s voice sounded gritty and full, and held up for the full two hours. Angus continued to be a freak of nature, absolutely shredding his Gibson, torching the fretboard while running around the stage like a demonic ADHD schoolboy. They even kept in the classic bit where Angus strips down to his AC/DC boxers for “the Jack” and—yeah, I’ll say it—the man doesn’t look too shabby.

Did I expect AC/DC to bring down the house? Yes. Did I expect that, during the encore when the balding Angus was shirtless and running in circles on the floor, I would consider that I wanted to be him? No. And yet, I did.

Highlights of the show? I don’t know what to tell you. The whole show was one furious, indistinguishable highlight. "Shoot to Thrill" was a personal favorite, as was "Hell’s Bells." During "Let There Be Rock" Angus emerged from under the stage on a rising pedestal with his hands in classic devil-horn position above his head. Nice touch. "Whole Lotta Rosie" bears mentioning, not just because the song was great, but because it featured a 40-foot high inflatable version of a voluptuous woman as a backdrop, which I’m hoping to see above an AC/DC float at the Macy’s Day parade.

They have that, right? They should. Seriously, after this concert, I’m convinced that’s the type of stature AC/DC deserves. This band has put on a clinic for other rock bands on how to age gracefully. Don’t evolve, just improve. Give the people what they want, and they’ll indulge your musical ambitions. Who else could pull off Black Ice? While I consider them two very, very different bands, I will say it was poignant to see this concert 24 hours after seeing the Smashing Pumpkins anniversary show. Contrasting with Billy Corgan’s bizarre exchange with the audience, Brian Johnson was more understated with his address of the crowd:

“Yeah New York, you’re making us proud to be here.”

That about says it.

We! Salute! You!
[cannon fire]

Alive and Kicking (and Screaming) Part 1: Smashing Pumpkins at DAR Constitution Hall, 11/11

Note: These are exciting times at Silver Soundz, as I have just completed a musical feat that will likely remain in the pantheon for some time: on back-to-back nights, I attended a Smashing Pumpkins concert in DC, and AC/DC live at the Madison Square Garden in NYC. In the same way that the past 2 days have bled together (with very little sleep) the two shows were essentially one event. Accordingly, I will be posting the reviews for each, back to back as two parts. Part one follows:

It’s 10:45pm in DAR Constitution Hall. The lights are on, signaling that the night is winding to a close on the first of back-to-back Smashing Pumpkins 20th anniversary shows in D.C. Billy Corgan, gangly as ever, is wearing a dress that looks like it’s made out of toilet paper, high-top Nikes, and his trademark silver pleather “ZERO” shirt. He meanders across the stage with a microphone in hand, leading the crowd in a happy sing-a-long: “everyone is beautiful…in their own way.” As the band members chime in with kazoos, Billy reminds the crowd that “God loves each and every one of you.”

It is at this point that Billy catches an auspicious audience member giving him two very emphatic middle fingers. The music comes to a screeching halt, and DAR Constitution Hall goes awkwardly silent.

- “I’m sorry, sir, what are you so angry about?” Thousands of eyes turn to the heretic. “Everything is so beautiful.”
- “You used to rock!”

And this is when its strikes me that things have gotten, well, weird.

But my story actually begins a few hours before this. More accurately, it starts 15 years before this, on the day that I first heard Siamese Dream blasting through the door of sister’s room. Consider this my full disclosure: since that musical epiphany, I have been an unrelenting diehard Pumpkins fan. I consider S.P. to be the greatest rock band of my time, and Billy to be the best (and arguably only) rock star of the modern era. Their musical judgment is immune to question, and their supremacy inarguable. Yes, I recognize that these opinions put me in a small and ever-shrinking minority, but that is a burden we Pumpkins fans shoulder with pride. We’ve always taken pleasure in being weird.

So when the Pumpkins announced plans for a 20th anniversary tour, it seemed too good to be true. The band—freshly liberated from its record label—announced they were rehearsing upwards of 40 songs for the tour. No two shows would be the same. There were hints about “special musical guests.” Billy’s statements suggested a full survey of the Pumpkins’ catalog. It was a diehard’s dream.

And yet, something didn’t sit quite right. A Rolling Stone piece published on the eve of the tour was filled with passive aggressiveness that belied the retrospective tone that Billy was trying to convey. Now it was clear that James and D’arcy were not coming back—it would be the same band that had toured for 2007’s Zeitgeist, an album that still sits uncomfortably with even the most loyal fans. Billy’s frustration with crowd reception on that tour had shone brightly in the Rolling Stone piece: "We found that America had turned every older band into the 'reunion band.' It was 'I just want to hear those eight songs and drink my beer.' You think, 'I'm 41 years old, and I've earned some level of trust.' And you find out you're just like everybody else. You're no better than Bon Jovi."

Well, I had seen one of those shows, and it was pretty awesome. So, if the current tour was a conscious reaction to that, then one could only hope for Billy to take it out in the best way possible: to deliver for those he believed are the true fans. But even that prospect seemed strange and laden with baggage. I didn’t even buy my ticket until the week of the show.

Which brings me back to Tuesday night.

The palpable anticipation before the show (at least my own; I was in my seat a half hour early) is finally broken as Jimmy takes the stage and roars through an unbelievable drum solo. There is no opening band. The show gets underway when Billy emerges on stage, dressed as some sort of majestic harlequin in a dress and crown. I’ve seen him wear stranger things, or at least I tell myself that. The band then jives through a bossa nova number that I can’t recognize. Something about rock n’ roll, but I can’t hear what Billy is saying over the trumpets and trombones, or his backup vocalists. The whole thing has a circus atmosphere. At the end of the song, two men wearing white masks come on stage to remove Billy’s elaborate regalia. Frankly, I have become concerned.

Thankfully, underneath Billy’s blouse we glimpse the trademark ZERO shirt. His masked assistants place a black guitar over Billy’s head, and within seconds, he’s trashing through the intro to 2007’s single “Tarantula.” Things have suddenly taken a turn for the better: the band is playing tight, Billy’s voice is as good as ever, and they are poised to rock Constitution Hall. The next several songs I’ve never heard, which strikes me as strange, but I figure they may be new and, after all, they rock pretty hard. My sense of encouragement reaches a peak as Billy leads the band through a trifecta of somewhat obscure classics: Siva, Eye, and Mayonnaise.

During this three song stretch, everything that’s good and holy about the Pumpkins becomes obvious. Billy can still shred and sing and—most importantly—scream. He floats around the stage like some sort of religious figure, the bald head bobbing and darting back and forth as he bestows his music. Jimmy Chamberlin is a master on drums. Even with two of the original members missing, S.P. is still S.P.; oscillating from loud to soft and back to loud again with tangible, real emotion. It’s impossible not to be moved by this, and when they’re in their element live, this emotional interplay between band and crowd is what defines the Smashing Pumpkins. Unfortunately Billy has never seemed completely comfortable with that raw power, and tonight it disappears as quickly as it is summoned.

Most notably bizarre is the setlist. Diehards like me are not disappointed by the appearance of some random rarities and b-sides (“Speed Kills”, “The End is the Beginning is the End”), but these are offset by a number of new and unfamiliar songs. Hardly what I expected from an anniversary show. There is also a noticeable lack of flow in the setlist. One ten minute song with a lengthy guitar solo gives way to another ten minute song with a lengthy guitar solo. Hits like “Today” and “Tonight, Tonight” get the crowd moving, but they are overshadowed by amorphous musical interludes featuring adapted lyrics and odd sounds. My worst fears—that the Smashing Pumpkins are becoming a Prog Rock band before my eyes—seem inevitable when Billy ends the second set with a 20-minute (seriously) cacophonic guitar feedback solo that has people clenching their teeth. I am having flashbacks to a bad Cirque du Soleil experience.

As a fan, this is hard to watch. At least there’s always the encore, right?

Not tonight. The encore features another unexpected rarity: “We Only Come Out at Night” from Mellon Collie, only guess what? The band plays the second half of the song on kazoos! Of course they do! Then, as we wait for the punchline—surely there’s a payoff here—the lights come on, and Billy begins telling all of the beautiful people that God loves them. Thousands of fans search frantically for a hint of irony.

There is none. This is the end of the show. There’s a detectable sense of confusion in the building. Some are angry, which leads to Billy’s exchange with the disgruntled audience member. Things get more awkward when the fan yells “Where’s James Iha?!” Unable to let it go, Billy calls up a different audience member to stand in for James, taking the opportunity to make a few more passive-aggressive comments about the former guitarist. This makes it harder to stomach when Billy reverts back to the chorus… “everyone is beautiful…” Jimmy offers some closing remarks: “what other band would rehearse for four weeks straight, 48 songs, to play 24 different songs over two nights?!” We get it, though having it rubbed in our faces kind of takes away from the effect.

Outside of the show, the bizarre atmosphere was just as pervasive. Normally fans are buzzing with reaction. In this case, people were quiet, seemingly trying to process what they just witnessed. I know I was. I know I still am.

In a very basic way, the show was unsatisfying. Serious fans (like me) grant great bands (like the Smashing Pumpkins) artistic license, with some confidence that it will be used productively. We want musicians to be creative; to not only play their hits; we want them to evolve and to stick around. But we also want them to age gracefully, and to not totally abandon the core “things” that made us fans in the first place. Normally, this is Smashing Pumpkins’ strong suit. The fan base may not have grown substantially after the initial breakup, but the fans are fiercely loyal. They’ve gone along with new album distribution schemes, the no-record label experiment, and they continue to support a band that is literally half of what it used to be. So when a 20th Anniversary show ends up being an experimental, unfamiliar affair, it’s no wonder that the response is lukewarm. Part of me suspects that the band convened this tour just to prove to the world how free they are to do what they please, and that is hardly a positive thought.

Meanwhile, my reflex to defend the band does not take long to kick in. In 1993, Billy Corgan was a cutting-edge guitar player and an egomaniacal jackass. He took pleasure in pissing people off, and we loved him for it. The band played music that no one else played, and we ate it up. Billy had issues, but they made the music real. That’s what the Pumpkins were. After 8 years of shifting identities for the band (and that whole Zwan thing), there’s something reassuring about the sight of Billy Corgan on stage, inviting the wrath of thousands as he sings them a little ditty about being beautiful.

Seems fitting for the greatest rock star of our time, right?

Friday Video Jamz

Note: With these posts, I will honor the enduring importance of the music video medium (this deserves its own post, later) with 5 videos for you to dig. Typically, they'll follow some theme. Due to this weeks' musical antics, today's are a quick batch of Smashing Pumpkins and AC/DC vids.

Smashing Pumpkins- Today


Smashing Pumpkins- Tonight, Tonight


Smashing Pumpkins- The Everlasting Gaze


AC/DC- Shoot to Thrill (Live)


AC/DC- Whole Lotta Rosie

First Listen: Kiss Me Deadlys, Misty medley

There is a coffee shop in New Haven called Koffee Too, aka K2. There is an employee there with long, nappy hair and stringy facial scruff. This barista, whose name I do not know, transcends the townie/employee archetype. He is a tier-1 New Haven all star. Everyone knows who he is, even though they don’t think about it. You see him at shows, out on the street, on his bike. You just know him. In reality, you don’t.

During the two years I spent at Yale, I went to K2 fairly often. I would estimate that 90% of the times that this guy served me, he was wearing the same worn-out, ratty t-shirt. It was purplish-blue, with small white stars printed on it to give the effect of the night sky. Above the drawing of an astronaut was printed: KISS ME DEADLYS.

The shirt first caught my attention because it’s an obtuse reference to an amazing Generation X (Billy Idol’s old band) song called “Kiss Me Deadly” (video here) [others might argue it’s a reference to a 1955 movie of the same title, but I admit ignorance]. Aside from that I had no idea what the shirt was for. I suspected it might be a band, but never bothered to ask. I must have seen it 100 times during those two years. The image was burned into my brain for random subconscious recall at a later date. That happened a week ago. A year after leaving New Haven, I finally decided to look into the mysterious “Kiss Me Deadlys.”

Turns out, as I suspected, that it is a band, though not a very well known one. A Google search (with quotations) brings up some myspace profiles and an ad for thong underwear. Amazon is more helpful. Within minutes not only have I located what appears to be the Kiss Me Deadlys only release, Misty Medley, but I’ve found a used copy for $.99. Sold, for the cost of shipping & handling.

It arrived today. First of all, the packaging is really nice: a folding soft-case with--surprise--an astronaut floating through space looking pensively at the sky on the cover. The band members appear in similar pencil-drawn spacesuits on the inside cover, looking slightly emo. This concerns me since the album came out in 2005 and I may have just unwittingly given my first contribution to the emo movement that peaked around that time. The enemy.

Also notable, song titles max out at 2 words. Your starting lineup includes "Dance 4", Dance 2" "Pop" "Let's" and "Groove."

I realize that as far as first listens go, this one is really out there. But as I tune in, I’m immediately digging the band’s sound, which features driving rhythm, delayed reverbed guitars to match, and a breathy female voice tempting me with things I can’t understand. "Dance 2," the first track, ends as these whispers morph into screams. I’m along for the ride. Track 2 starts with some murmuring beats, another scream, and now we’re rolling: “We’ve got to think it over/ you said that the last time/ you said that the time before.” Brevity; I approve.

I soon realize that the space motif that pervades the album (and the barista’s ratty t-shirt) is appropriate, if not deliberate. Between the vacuumish vocal effects, the mechanical pumping of the rhythm and twinkling guitars, this album feels a soundtrack for romance on space station Mir—only with more screaming.

Male vocals make an appearance on a few tracks. Definitely weaker than the female, but the versatility is welcome.

By track seven, I am impressed. It’s nothing entirely original. There’s a detectable dose of Modest Mouse and Yeah Yeah Yeahs in here. But Kiss Me Deadlys is tight, and the vocal styling is unique. On first listen, there seems to be a concept or purpose driving the music, and that feeling maintains coherence through most of the album. The production is also quite good, it bears noting.

"Groove" is a notable high-point on the album, with the female and male vocalists trading the refrain “It doesn’t matter if you’re not alone” over a sparse but well-constructed instrumental backdrop that slows and speeds up intermittently. Enter strings for about 20 seconds before the end of the album—nice touch.

Final Say: Good album, and I feel a bit of obscurist pride for having tracked this one down. I mean, any time you buy an album solely on the basis of a ratty shirt—well, you’ve got to be pleased with yourself. "Man, I really dig the Kiss Me Deadlys...oh, I'm sorry, you haven't heard of them?" I have half a mind to stop in K2 next time I’m in New Haven to thank the man responsible for my good fortune. I guarantee you he's wearing the shirt.

Alas, questions lead to more questions in this twisted musical universe: Where are they from? Is Misty Medley their only album? Are they still around? The mystery continues.

Show Review: Built to Spill at the 9:30 Club, 9/23/08

NOTE: This review was written on 9/24, when I was first toying with the idea of creating a blog. I've resurrected it here for your pleasure.

I’m lying in bed at 2 in the morning, kept awake by that feeling of vertigo you get from live music, collected like puddles on your dented eardrums. I have just come back from seeing Built to Spill play 1997’s Perfect from Now On in its entirety at the 9:30 Club. Void of rest, I am turning over an incomplete analogy in my mind: "Built to Spill is the [insert great rock band] of my time."

It’s a fair question, at least for a sleepless night. BtS has put out six full length albums, at least three of which are alternative classics. They have a tremendous stage presence and a polished sound which transcends the “indie” identity of their contemporaries. The live show is spontaneous yet consistently engaging. The band has gotten tighter with age and, let’s face it, Doug Martsch has some good fucking chops.

Tonight, playing to a 9:30 Club that was packed but definitely not predisposed, they took unquestioned command for their hour-and-a-half set. My fourth time seeing BtS and that’s what gets me every time: quality. That’s a boring way to put it, especially when Doug is one of the more emotionally insightful songwriters around, but seriously, these guys just know what they’re doing, and the listeners know.

So, back to my equation. Built to Spill=[BAND X] of my time. Maybe its ridiculous, but I’m inclined to think big. On one hand, they’ve outshined most of the 90’s scene and continue to prove themselves live, so I’ve got no problem comparing them with the big names. On the other hand, they’ve left no mark on other artists—not their fault, but I can knock out the Beatles, Stones, and Zeppelin. How about the Who? Too much energy. Maybe BtS is a post-punk Who; that’s a possibility. Neil Young? That’s a comparison that gets made because of Martsch’s voice, but the drenching guitars aren’t that far off either. BTS is spacier, with more jamming. Pink Floyd? There’s a piece of it, but it's less conceptual. Southern Rock, i.e. Skynrd? Hard to see that—more down to earth northwest angsty, and for BtS, the album always takes precedence over the jam, if that makes sense.

While I’m considering it, a few notes on the show:

• The 9:30 Club, while pricey, does a great job with ambiance for a show like this. The lighting and sound are superb, both thanks to the lofty ceiling, which gives shows an outdoors-at-night feel. For this set it felt particularly right.

• One bad thing about being the premiere DC rock venue: 9:30 club seems to attract a lot of “accidental” audience members who look confused about why they are there, and often trying hard to make up for it by drinking and trying too hard. They were out in force tonight.

• Caught the end of the opener-opener, the Drones, who sounded very good through the 2½ songs I heard.

• The Meat Puppets were the main opener. This comes from someone who admits to not fully grasping their importance: this was bad.

• The bassist of the Meat Puppets looks like Willem Defoe in a wig.

• Doug Martsch and other BtS members sat on the VIP balcony and watched both opening bands play. I have seen Martsch in the crowd at other shows, watching his openers. Always thought that was a cool thing to do, and says a lot about his dedication to music, especially after years of touring and hundreds of opening bands.

• As advertised, setlist included all of Perfect from Now On (I love this idea, by the way), plus a 2-song encore: “Going Against Your Mind” and “Virginia, Reel Around the Fountain.” After the first two songs, we got our only memorable crowd interaction of the night from Martsch: “That’s the end of side one. I think. Does anyone have the record? Is it the end of side one? I listened to the record once; the first pressing.”

• Standouts (for me) included “Randy Described Eternity,” “I Would Hurt a Fly” and “Velvet Waltz,” also “Going…” from the encore, which I hadn’t heard live but really dug.

• One knock on the setlist: this show broke my streak of BtS concerts where they have closed with a classic rock cover. I have seen them play Freebird (2000), Cortes the Killer (2003) and While my Guitar gently Weeps (2005). Have to admit, I was a little disappointed when they closed without a cover.

Final thought: This was not the best BtS show I’ve ever been to, but the album-setlist format was a great idea with even better timing. By honest standards, BtS’s last two albums were sub-par. A coda to the emotionally articulate and moving Perfect gives one the strange feeling of reminiscing for a time that you don’t even realize you miss, and a renewed sense of gratefulness for the band capable of capturing/creating it. It was a welcome reminder.

Meanwhile, back in bed: I briefly settle on the verdict that BtS is a Pacific Northwest version of the Allman Brothers, meets Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. Before I can acknowledge that this suggestion is delusional in multiple regards, I’ve slipped into a pleasant half-consciousness, repeating tonight’s endless refrain:

I’m gonna be perfect from now on
I’m gonna be perfect…starting now.

T-Pain: Believable?

I had written off T-Pain as one of the primary perps in the tragic coup d’etat of hip-hop in our time, but I am reconsidering. Yes, the latest single, “I Can’t Believe It” features some funny-in-a-sad-way lyrics, [“I can put you in a mansion/ somewhere in Wisconsin”] But listen closely, and you’ll hear him drop this bomb of sincerity: “like I said, there ain’t nothing to the Pain/ we can change the last name if you want to.”

Offering to forsake his tough-guy persona to win over a fragile young maiden? That kind of vulnerability is scarce in hip-hop these days.

Despite the interest she’s showing on the dance floor (“she’s all on me”), T-Pain insists on leaving the club with her—not for illicit purposes, like you might have assumed, but because “I really think you need some ventilation.” That’s chivalry. The whole point of the song is to celebrate T-Pain overcoming the odds and getting the girl. The good guy wins, and he can’t believe it. Given what most rappers claim in the average song these days, neither can I.

I’m actually not being totally facetious. Obscured as it may be by Li’l Wayne’s verse (the voice modulation makes me feel dirty, can we ban this?) and some standard references to spending cash, this song has charm. A 2008 radio gem

Top 10 Shows, Part 1

I recently knocked out a perennial to-do list item by committing to paper every concert I have ever attended. It wasn’t easy [why is 2002 so hard to remember?], but definitely a rewarding exercise. Any excuse to mentally revisit Cambridge’s Central Square more than three times in one sitting is a good one. It also gave me a reason to dig through my shoebox collection of old shit, where I found tickets from a surprising number of shows, including Reel Big Fish live at Axis in Boston, 2000. Purchased through a Strawberries Ticketmaster outlet. 4realz.

But I wasn’t blowing off the dust for nothing. As is my way, I immediately set about rearranging the list according to rank. This is where things get interesting. So many variables go into any one concert experience. What album was the band touring for? Were they “on” that night? How was the crowd? Who were you there with? This chaos is what makes live music so great. Two people with the same music tastes could go to the same five shows and come out with a completely different impression about what they saw and heard.

So, that’s what this is all about: me. Egan Caufield’s distorted prismatic musical perception. There’s no second guessing this list because it’s openly subjective. This is what rocked me. Dig?

A couple quick guidelines and caveats: First, each concert includes the main act and the opener(s)—except for festivals, which counted as single event on my overall list but are now separated by performances for purposes of the the top 10. Second, I’ve put dates where I can humanly remember; others are estimated. Finally, I admit to leaving out two Rosenschontz concerts that I went to when I was 6, only because—based on the vague memories I have now—I think If I could revisit them now they would be so mind-blowingly bizarre/awesome that it wouldn’t be fair to the other bands on this list.

Part one, reverse order, #10-6. Dig:

#10 James Mercer (of the Shins) w/ Sam Beam (of Iron & Wine) at T.T. the Bears Cambridge, MA January 2003

In February 2003, Iron & Wine’s Creek Drank the Cradle had just been released, and had not yet garnered widespread attention. Sub Pop had paired Sam and James for a U.S. tour which brought them through Boston. My first concert on U.S. soil after a semester abroad, I was able to rope one friend into to coming along with no expectations. Standing in the third row of a tightly-packed but friendly winter crowd, we were treated to some incredible music that night. Sam Beam brought his sister on stage to sing a few characteristically sweet songs, and Sam Mercer was more endearing solo than with the Shins. I was mesmerized for the entirety of the two sets. Also, the kickoff to my final months in Boston—this unexpectedly superb show can’t escape the top 10.

#9 Eels Live with Strings at the 9:30 Club Washington DC, Spring 2005

I don’t consider myself a diehard Eels fan, but I dig their music and think E is one of the more under-the-radar musical auteurs of our time. So when a friend of mine who is a diehard invited me to see them in during the Summer of 2005, I decided to go for it. He warned me beforehand that the band tends to change their entire stage act every tour. For this tour, in support of the double-CD Blinking Lights and Other Revelations, the band consisted of E on piano, a standup bassist, a drummer playing on empty suitcases, and an actual string quartet. This could have gone awry, but instead I was blown away by a quality show. They played upwards of 25 songs, including a few rare covers. Even my diehard friend was shocked by some of the playlist selections. That’s usually a good sign [A creepy, violin version of “Novocaine for the Soul” segues into “Girl from the North Country”?! Unreal]. E held court with the crowd in a professorial manner, and brought the band back out for four—four!—encores. I was really impressed with the thought and that had one into what the concert would be, and it showed.

# 8 Ugly Cassanova w/ Iron & Wine at the Black Cat Washington, DC, June 28, 2003

After becoming a Modest Mouse fan in 2000, it would be another five years before I saw them live—by that time a shell of their former selves. But I was fortunate to experience the short-lived side project Ugly Casanova, which Isaac Brock pulled off under the tightening noose of Epic Records. The project included members of Red Red Meat and the Fruit Bats among others, and had the feeling of one epic, misguided campfire session deep in the Redwood forest. The type of one-off that I know I’ll spend hours explaining to my children how good it is, to no avail.

The release of Sharpen your Teeth coincided with my first Summer in Washington DC, and became something of a soundtrack for the humid, pastoral city. The August tour date coincided with a friends’ visit, and while she was a willing accomplice, her sister was less so. After a late dinner we arrived at the show and missed the opening band--something I never like to do. It was only later that I realized the opening band was Iron & Wine, meaning I would have seen them a full five months before Sam Beam hit it big, which I would be bragging about to you right now in a parallel universe. To say nothing of missing what in retrospect is an unbelievable twin bill for the Black Cat. But anyways…

When we arrived, Isaac Brock and Co. were in rare form. Brock appeared to be drunk, and not amused by the technical difficulties the band was having with sound check. Some faulty connection which no one could seem to find was releasing an awful hiss. After 40 minutes of delay the band hadn’t started playing. The crowd was growing restless and, sensing this, Brock was becoming eagerly belligerent. In a morbid way, after all the stories of Modest Mouse’s twisted past, this was precisely what I was hoping for as my first Isaac Brock experience. While he was trading slurred curses with the front rows, each of the band members tuned their instruments with short, loud bursts of sound. The effect created a jolting cacophony [the hiss never got fixed], unsettling and awkward. Then, slowly, behind Brock’s drunken raving, the instrumental bursts started to harmonize. It picked up rhythm, gradually, and then out of nowhere it started to take a shape…a song. Brock said his last words, shut up, and then joined in the melee, slamming the metal strings of his guitar, and belting out the first lines of Pacifico (“they said they’d give me everything/ now here’s the part that makes me laugh/ they didn’t give me anything and then they took half of that/ sharpen your teeth, or lay flat!”). The awkwardness was shattered, and the room was theirs. The intro had taken about five minutes to materialize, and I had never seen it coming. Not that Isaac wasn’t sincerely drunk or belligerent, but I’ve never seen the mood in a room so masterfully manipulated. By the end of the song, every band member and most of the crowd was shouting the refrain at the top of their lungs (“sharpen your teeth, or lay flat!!!”). Absolutely incredible beginning to a show.

The rest of the show was just as good, which is why it lands in the top 10. In an age when so many bands eschew spontaneity for fan expectation and the comfort of a rehearsed setlist/act, my appreciation for Ugly Casanova grows with time. Ironically, one band very guilty of this is Modest Mouse. I’ve seen them twice, and no show on any scale comes close to the intimate evening I shared with Ugly Casanova at Black Cat.

Unfortunately, the memory is forever tinged by one small catch: against my better judgment, I allowed myself to be convinced to leave before the encore. The following day I read in the paper that Ugly Casanova covered “Styrofoam Boots on Ice, It’s Alright”—an incredible but somewhat obscure Modest Mouse song. The lesson? Don’t break your own rules.

Dig!

#7 Built to Spill at the Showbox Seattle, WA June 1, 2003

I warned you context was everything. I’ve seen Built to Spill three times, and even though I believe that they will one day be remembered as one of the best live bands of our time (and as one of the few bands who seemed to really care about their live show), I always come away from their shows thinking: “solid.” They go a long way to reaffirming my faith in music in general, but on any all-time list, they’re likely to anchor the upper-middle portion. This show cracks the top ten for a specific set of reasons.

It was the Summer of 2003, and my friends and I had set out from Florida for a cross country road trip—literally. By May 31, we had made it to Eugene, Oregon. Knowing we’d be in Seattle the next night, we looked through city listings to see what was going on. Sure enough, our one night in the rainy city coincided with the opener of three night stand by Built to Spill at the Showbox. We rolled into town blasting Hole and Nirvana, ready to singlehandedly blow life back into the grunge movement. We arrived at our hostel with just enough time to change, take in a bit of the city, and then make our way to the Showbox.

Something about being out on Seattle’s streets that night—transient tourists in the great wellspring of so much music that I grew up listening to—it really felt special. Inside the Showbox, the walls were covered with posters from previous shows which only added to my awe-masquerading-as-nostalgia. Built to Spill was characteristically great. Doug Martsch walked on stage with a backpack, set it down, and then never looked back, riffing through a 90 minute no-nonsense set of BtS classics and covers. For the record, the crowd was lousy. One drunk imbecile threw ice from his mixed drink at Doug until another fan shoved him. But it didn’t really matter. That night wasn’t just about the show itself—it was about where we were and what we had done to get there. It was even about the fact that we’d leave the next morning. All that mattered is that we were there. Where it all happened, and—for those 10 minutes when Doug Martsch tore the place down with Cortez the Killer as an encore— where it was still happening. It was about freedom, Summer 2003.

#6 Destroyer at the Avalon Manhattan, NY March 28, 2005

I’ve now seen the enigmatic Daniel Bejar/Destroyer four times, and once with the New Pornographers. One of my top-three bands/songwriters of the past five years, every show teeters on the edge of glory, but there always seems to be a hangup. Most recently he visited my home turf at the Black Cat in support of Trouble In Dreams, too intimate a setting for what turned out to be an out-and-out rock show (i.e., notably bad acoustics). In 2005 I saw him play in Manhattan in support of nothing in particular, where he played a wet-dream setlist, except he did it with a stand-in backup band who did the songs little justice. Perhaps the ideal setting was back in 2004, when Destroyer had first made themselves known to me, and I saw them at Iota, a nondescript bar in Northern Virginia. He was probably selling out larger venues in New York, and meanwhile I was one of about 20 souls who came out to see him that night. [He even used the bathroom right before me!] Unfortunately for me, the Your Blues tour called for a lot of cacophony and squelching, and I left disappointed.

‘twas not the case in Spring of 2006, when I made the trip from New Haven to Manhattan for Destroyer’s stand at the Avalon, a church converted into a concert hall. I say “stand” with some irony because they were in fact opening for Magnolia Electric, Co., but you wouldn’t have known it. There was an undeniable ambience that night. Bejar, reunited with Destroyer’s original/primary lineup, had just released the opus Destroyer’s Rubies. As the band campaigned through a well-balanced set of old and new, the room buzzed—people danced, people swayed, people called out, seething energy. Chalk it up to the ghosts of the church, but I vividly remember thinking to myself that for one of the few times in my young musical life, I was witnessing something. Destroyer, the opening band, played for an hour and fifteen minutes and was summoned back for a three-song encore. Before Magnolia Electric Co. even had a chance, I had melted out onto 7th avenue to enjoy the New York night.

Stay tuned for part 2...