I Can’t Stand Up for Falling Down

Elvis Costello: encouraging white people to dance since 1980.

Week of 1/25/09

HORSE FEATHERS. Cascades: She let the sand run through her hand as though she might own Time.

THE OKMONIKS. It’s Not You: Maybe this isn’t what I imagined it to be, but we can synthesize it anew made with particles from the old.

DAVE SMALLEN. America: We’ve been anywhere and everywhere. Do we still have time to go?

THE AIMLESS NEVER MISS. Signal: Sarah says stay. Stop. The weather turned. Stop. Travel when it clears. Stop.

OH CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN. Beneath the Sea: When things have sifted, shaken out, we’ll walk a little farther and find a way to be.

Deep Thoughts

To initiate this newly reconstituted site, I do present our philosophical context:

Music is a barometer of the present. The present is an epoch we should know. Knowledge is the burden of the receptive. Reception is what the exchange of music relies on. Reliance is based on retention. We mainly retain the postscript to every philosophical entry. We have entered an era that scoffs at its thinkers. Thought is our only reprieve from the perpetual prison of the aged. Music lives in perpetuity, weighted with democratizing impulses. And in pulsation we find freedoms, both physical and metaphysical. Meta is the sum of our minds. Music is the voice of that sum.

We Learned Some French, Brightened Our Blues, and Capped It Off with a Howl

And what a phantasmagorically musical weekend it was. Which is to say, I saw and heard the makings of more music over the past three days than I had in the past three months. Well, not really…but…close.

One standout was The French Cassettes, who played Anu on Thursday night with Endroit, Wonderland PD and Throwknives.

This band offers you a genuinely new sound: authentic garage rock that incorporates a trombone and saxophone, and imploring vocals that will make you an addict. Located in one of the city’s seedier parts of town, the venue  wasn’t ideal for showcasing music since there was a support beam located smack-dab in them middle of the”stage.” And by “stage” I mean an area near the bathrooms at the back of the bar which Anu’s own website calls a dance floor. Apparently live music is a relatively new concept there. One perk to this, however, is that the bands seemed to treat the show as more of a jam-session and less as a performance, which, ironically, tends to draw out better performances and most certainly did on this occasion. Instead of facing the crowd, the French Cassettes faced one another much like San Francisco bands notoriously did in the 1960’s before psych-rock and The Haight became viable commodities. Could this be the beginning of yet another retro trend? Maybe coinciding with the resurrection of Seymour Locks’s light shows? Let’s hope so. I highly recommend seeing this innovative band live, especially since they’ll give you an EP for free if you inquire about their music. A+.

Friday night was spent at Brainwash Cafe with newcomers Bright Blues, in conjunction with Hello Evening, and  Sioux City Kid and the Revolutionary Ramblers.

If Conor Oberst wore gold jewelry and was happier, he’d play garage rock like these kids. But he doesn’t (that I’m aware of) and isn’t, so it’s a damn good thing San Francisco’s thriving music scene birthed this indie quartet. Defined by solid musicianship, this band offers shamelessly hummable tunes that are equally impressive whether played in their sweetly acoustic or bombastically electric formats. Andrew Skewes-Cox’s off-kilter animations are mesmerizing, and any man who willingly draws his own blood (literally) with a broken slide for the good of the show certainly has my respect. Jared  Cohen has a performative softness that balances Andrew well, and his introspective lyrics bring the audience in without seeming contrived. Anchoring the band is Erik Roget on a vintage 1960’s drum kit, and its ripe percussion in his quietly able hands rounds out the Bright Blues sound while William Skewes-Cox (yes, Andrew’s younger brother) keeps it rolling forward with a solid, uncomplicated bass line and an impenetrable poker face.  This was their third live show and things are really starting to come together for them; I suggest you attend a show and maybe buy them a beer before radio picks them up and they’re untouchable.

Saturday I had the pleasure of seeing Wolf Larsen play Blue Six with Moller and South China.

Although I’d seen Wolf play a few times previous to this performance, Blue Six really allowed her to shine. The venue, located in the Mission on 24th and Treat, feels like the living room of those impossibly cool married-couple friends everyone seems to have: vintage, type-written pages hung from the ceiling, every piece of the place made of original wood, a stack of records and a weathered upright grand piano lining adjacent walls. It felt and smelled of home. The acoustics were perfect and for the first time, that I’ve witnessed, she had an audience that was dead-silent respectful so you could ACTUALLY hear every chord and breath. Wolf manages to give folk music, on often effete genre, soul. Dominated by a steady temperance and defined by intelligent lyrics, her music is commanding yet peaceful, wistfully serious and genuinely emotive; authenticity is unfolding sonorously before you. Plus, she has an epic cover of Billie Jean that has to be seen to be believed. And as a local artist, you have ample opportunities to experience her first hand.

You Can Either Shoot Up or Read Walt Whitman, Maybe Listen to The Animals

When adversity strikes, we turn to a higher power; it’s human to do as such. For many that means a reliance on their god or gods, but where do you turn when religion isn’t your cup of tea? Drugs, sex, alcohol, or work? Maybe an In ‘n’ Out cheeseburger followed by a carton of  ice cream topped with an entire plate of double fudge brownies? You know…hypothetically speaking, of course.

The problem with all of these, however, is the issue of displacement and disassociation. When trauma hits us with the weight of a tsunami, it’s OUR bodies, OUR minds, and OUR hearts which are wounded. And seeing as the blow came from an outside source, why would we want to look outward for a remedy? The way I see it, we can either curl into the fetal position and hope our favored deity rights the grievous wrong that’s been leveraged against us, or we can darn ourselves anew from the shreds that remain because nothing is more infuriating to the evils at hand than a success story. And no one will knit us whole but ourselves.

Personally, the Bible shows me nothing but fables and I’m not familiar enough with any other religious texts to proffer an opinion either way. Drugs are reserved as a celebratory phenomenon. The bottom of an empty bottle serves as an impotent and temporary ether. Sex brings more complications than clarity. Work, well…exhaustion helps but doesn’t last.

In place of all the aforementioned usual suspects, I find reading Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself helps me find the strength to love whatever I have left of myself. Sounds cheesey, but you’ll get what I’m talking about after you read these passages.

Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be

          ceremonious?

Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hari,

          counsel’d with doctors and calculated close,

I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

In all people I see myself, none more and not one a

          barley-corn less,

And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.

I know I am solid and sound,

To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,

All are written to me, and I must get what the writing

          means.

I already know what you’re thinking: what’s the difference between being inspired by secular poetry and seeking salvation through theology? My preferred coping mechanism reminds me that no one is more important than myself in terms of searching for fulfillment and prosperity (prosperity as a larger concept, beyond material prospects or conquests); I work hardest to appease my Self, and not an imagined god I know only through scriptures and chastisement. It also reminds me that my world is concomitantly written for and by me, all I have to do to experience it fully is pick up my pen and don my bifocals. 

But, then again, this is just how I operate, how I manage to pull myself out of this sick sad place of degenerative greed and mindless progression. To each his own. But I’ll tell you one thing: once you go Whitman you never go back…

Local Garage Bands Tear it Up in the City by the Bay, TONIGHT!

Friday, June 26th: Magic Bullets, Shannon and the Clams, and Bridez at Bottom of the Hill

Show is a mere $10 and all ages are welcome. Doors open at 8:30 pm, but the music shall begin around 10:00 pm. Magic Bullets represents the best of the re-imagined 1980s musical lingo that’s been so popular over the last five years, and since the 90s Grunge scene ended actually. Speaking of the 90s, Bridez has a definitively Courtney Love ambience that cannot be denied; man I miss Hole. And give your specially attuned attention to Shannon and the Clams if and when they play Trouble Maker, which is a magically delicious garage girl romp.  See you at the show, kiddies…

What Murder By Death does to a Woman’s Mind while On the Road

Whenever I’m on the road, something happens to my mind: it wanders with my wheels. On this occasion, nothing cohesive was transfered to paper but a collection of spasmodic sentences were recorded. This is the partial transcript of a life in motion when Murder by Death’s song Three Men Hanging is put on repeat. For six hours.

A liberal consumer of language, she was a thief among phrases.

Callous but tender, she was occasionally graceful; generally she was not.

Acutely thoughtful if not absent minded, she was perpetually aware.

               A mindful tutor to imagined pupils.

Always thinking, never thought of.

Near-sighted, far-sighted, all-sighted: she experienced problems with seeing.

For she was a junkyard mutt guarding scavenged treasures too outdated to matter.

              Meaningless matter given weight.

And perpetually in a haze of confession.

As she fought the pull to his saintless stables

              And his sinnerman shoes.

Never Cash Johnny Out

Johnny Cash has been a hip topic ever since the man in black found his face in the big screen features thanks to an impeccable performance by that little live-wire, Joaquin Phoenix. And because of that movie we’re probably all familiar with his songs Walk the Line, Ring of Fire, and my own personal favorite Rusty Cage. Addiction, depression, and a whole host of personal demons spawned brilliantly sincere pieces of musical Americana, even if some of his biographical facts were stretched during the making of his mystique. He was tireless and prolific during his heyday, and we most certainly have his wife, June Carter, to thank for the longevity of his creative process. In light of that, what I find most compelling is what he did musically after June left him for those big rock candy mountains in the sky.  In the final album released during his lifetime, American IV: The Man Comes Around, you mostly find covers with appearances by notables such as Fiona Apple, Nick Cave, and Don Henley assisting the legendary musical giant. And did I mention it was produced by the accomplished Rick Rubin? Johnny and his talented cast of contributors took music that was already adored, stripped it down to its bare bones, and gave it a sentimentality rarely seen in pop music with any authenticity behind it. Granted, Reznor’s original version of Hurt has soul to spare, but the fragility in Cash’s version is what reinvents the song and makes it more real: reality that can only be conjured by a widower approaching his deathbed, reality that has no home in the hearts of youth no matter the amount of emotional trauma those young years have endured. Gut wrenching blues drip out of every pore in this man’s body and drip all over everything: covering the instruments and their manipulators. 

For instance, The Man in Black’s Personal Jesus with acoustic guitar riffs provided by The Red Hot Chili Peppers‘ John Frusciante:

Versus Depeche Mode’s original:

Or how about his version of Hurt 

Versus Trent Reznor’s NIN original:

But why covers? That question has stuck in my mind ever since I bought the album when I was a senior in high school. Why not pen odes to your beloved wife’s departure? My guess is that he just couldn’t produce the words to make it right, but knew them when they crossed his path. And maybe, just maybe, he learned a few more things about himself at the end of his life (without the steady, reassuring hand of his wife by his side) by taking the creative output of others and making it his own; not a bad way to leave this life behind, when you think about it. Regardless, it was a hell of a high note on which to end a stellar career.

Go buy this album immediately if you haven’t already done so, and break your own rusty cage.

Juanita and the Rabbit’s Bad-Assness, Plus Roger Rocha and the Goldenhearts’ Living Spirit

I never thought I’d be sitting in a pleasantly grimy bar/music venue, sipping on a non-alcoholic beverage (since I was working a gig) and hear this shouted above the fray: “Has anyone seen the binkey?! We can’t find the binkey!” The “binkey” in reference is, of course, a child’s pacifier (for the child-illiterate). But, as usual, I’ve gotten ahead of myself again; maybe I should take it from the top.

Juanita and the Rabbit isn’t your typical post-punk garage band. The entirety of the band is comprised of Elizabeth and Brett Cline, who play the drums and six-string bass, respectively. And let me remind you: this legally wedded duo kicks way more ass than any of your married friends. Lo-fi to the core, Elizabeth ain’t no wilting daisy behind the kit (a la Meg White), but a full fledged force with which to be reckoned—particularly when she takes the lead during a Motorhead cover (Orgasmatron) and an impromptu cover of Bill Withers’ Ain’t No Sunshine; she truly makes womanhood proud: feminine without being delicate, and as integral to the music as Keith Moon was to The Who instead of an obligatory relegation to the sidelines as a passive necessity (again, a la Meg White).  Brett deftly holds your attention on stage with his acerbic wit and nimble fingers, and proved himself particularly adept during my favorite song of the evening, Kick You Out of My Head. Perhaps what makes this band worth following is their ability to take the music seriously, but not themselves. After all, one of their songs is called We Live in a Mutha F’n Van and discusses…you guessed it…living in a van, without a plan, not working for the Man; Chris Farley would be appalled. And they poke fun at the ridiculousness of scenes and their associated acolytes in the song So Hip with the following lyrics: “So hip I think I’ll be sick, and it sure doesn’t help that you smell like shit. So sick you think that you’re hip…” etcetera, etcetera. Long story short: kick ass band, great music, good people. I HIGHLY recommend you see a show or at the very least purchase their new album, which will be hitting the nation’s airwaves in June.

If you don’t believe the veracity of this recommendation, let me tell you the distractions I had to endure to fully pay attention to this wonderful band. I’m guessing the average age of the crowd was somewhere in their late thirties, and they formed a reunion of sorts as they were all friends, or friends of friends, of the bands accrued during a stay in Santa Barbara, I was told by Brett. This is why there was a woman swaying back-and-forth to the music with a beer in her hand and a newborn, wearing aviation-strength head gear to protect its forming ear canals, strapped to the front of her. And there wasn’t just one: she had two…twins. Not the obvious concert image you’d associate with a punk concert, and also the reason I was illuminating the floor with my cell phone looking for a pacifier. This precious moment—baby’s first concert—was juxtaposed with the couple seated directly to my right who were sucking face so violently they frequently sloshed the chardonnay belonging to the woman sitting across from them straight out of her glass. They were WAY too old for that kind of behavior and I was WAY too grossed out. But, in spite of these non sequiturs, Juanita’s badassness shone through and segued into another great band.

 

1957-D, No. 1

 

 

Roger Rocha and the Goldenhearts know how to set the mood. Before they took the stage, autumnal fake flowers were strewn about and Roger Rocha himself played a lacquered white guitar with a butterfly clipped to the peghead that could not be ignored. Roger Rocha is best known as the guitarist for the 1990s heavy-hitter 4 Non Blondes and his flair for ambience may be attributed to good genetics; Rocha is the grandson of one of the pioneer Color Field painters in the Abstract Expressionism movement, Clyfford Still. When describing his artwork, Still details the fusing together of color, texture, images, and shapes into a living spirit, and that’s precisely what The Goldenhearts accomplishes: Rocha’s beautifully pitched yet demurely irregular vocals and impeccable guitar skills fuse with Ari Gorman’s driving bass, Chad Tasky’s delicately bitchin’ percussion, and last but certainly not least Emily Palen’s commanding violin to create music that is a complete entity in and of itself—all you need is here, all you’ll ever want is just waiting for you to find it. One part fifties retro, one part nineties ju-ju and a heaping dose of harmonizing rock ‘n roll, this is how pop music should be played—pop music that expects more from itself and raises the bar. Their set was amazing, and Emily positively blew my mind (plus, I’m pretty sure my two male companions at the show want to marry her) with her unparalleled talents. If their song Kiss Me Darling doesn’t find it’s way onto your top-rated iTunes…well…let’s just say I’ll be surprised and disappointed in you!

At the end of it all, this was one of the best shows I’ve seen in a very long time and reminded me why live music in an intimate venue is something everyone should experience. Which is another way of saying thanking to Juanita and the Rabbit and Roger Rocha and the Goldenhearts for reaffirming that I’m the luckiest bastard in the world to do what I do. So just kiss me darling, stars are falling…

Barrett Johnson Steps into the Ring at The Utah

I knew it was going to be a good night when I found a seat at The Hotel Utah and directly across from me was an older gentleman with ash-white hair to his shoulders covered by a knitted cap, reading a well-worn book through thick-rimmed, black spectacles and drinking a solitary beer—his only companion a tenderly loved guitar; truly a beach-bohemian intellectual. I would come to learn his name is Steve and he’s a friend of Kelley Stoltz (but that’s neither here nor there at this time). Ah, another day another night of blessed indie music at The Hotel Utah in sensory San Francisco. 

To start us off, here’s a video of Barrett Johnson singing 4a.m. Blues (note the mustachioed gentleman as the camera swings around: that’s Billy Kernkamp).

Barrett Johnson looks like an Irish boxer from the 1920s, but sings about matters of the heart with his eyes closed; quite an alluring and unexpected contradiction. Although his music is a tad sedate when piped into your earphones, it takes on an entirely new dimension when performed in front of you (quite literally in your lap at The Utah): his voice is heavy with his lyrics but not weighed down by them and the overall effect of his music is somewhat akin to waves lapping at a shore, curling in on themselves and masking their power with a soothing sense of peace. Playing songs from his album In Case I Went Missing (which sports some esoterically serene artwork)—including my favorite, It’s Not Your Fault—his set was short and his demure stage presence belied the fact that he was obviously in command of every aspect of his music, despite the perpetual exchange of accompanying musicians onstage. Perhaps it was my mind blown rotten with music research, but Johnson kicked off a night in which I was incessantly reminded of a Kris Kristofferson lyric from the song The Last Thing to Go:

                        Love is the last thing to go

                        Love is the reason

                        We happened at all

                        And it paid for

                        All the damage we done

                        And it bought us

                        The freedom to fall into grace

                        On our way to our place in the sun.

Because the love just kept on coming. The entire night felt like an intimate gathering of friends instead of the grouping of paying customers. I’ve attended shows where the musicians were friendly with each other, but on this night the entire hotel was ripe with the spirit of brotherly love. From the friendly black Labrador who accompanied his owner at the bar, to the mixed bag of talented musicians with whom Barrett Johnson and Billy Kernkamp jovially socialized before their sets. As Billy Kernkamp, a fellow Orange Countian on tour with Johnson, said “Barrett is the Matt [Damon] to my Ben Affleck;” yes, it’s an odd expression of hetero man-love but an expression of it nonetheless. He also complimented the San Francisco audience on its general attactiveness which, apparently, helps to ease the sufferings of the road. Why thank you, Billy. In return, may I add that Kerkamp gently man-handled his guitar with verve and grace looking debonair in a cognac cardigan, dark denim, and bitchin’ boots. And despite being a tall and imposing gentleman, this is a man who can hit his high notes (much to my delighted surpirse). This man is pure Americana: looks and sound. Get yourselves a slice of sweet home-cooked apple pie by viewing his MYSPACE.

As for the third act of the night, I feel like Quentin Tarrantino could make a film based entirely around the mystique generated bySonny and the Sunsets; it may be called Beatnik Reveries. And just as I thought this (and made a note in my writerly, pocket-sized notebook) he read a poem titled Whatever Happened to Him, He was a Bright Kid. He’s a melodic storyteller, giving a voice to the normally shunned down-and-outs, and his soft grey cowboy hat, sweetly weathered face, faded denim, and red plaid flannel coat with his collar starched up to keep out the cold paint a mythic figure on the stage. In fact, Kelley Stoltz considers Sonny to be one of the most talented songwriters in San Francisco which means you should take a gander at his down-home tunes on his MYSPACE.

Kelley Stoltz was spotted all night wandering in and out of The Utah, studying a clipboard of lyrics or sheet music (I was never nosy enough to get a clear view) and occasionally jumping onto the stage to test out the ivories; he moved with a casual precision that speaks to a comfort with his craft and chosen profession.  When he finally took the stage, he gave his audience some old favorites (such as Memory Collector), some new favorites (such as Morning Sun) in addition to new material from an album anticipated to drop sometime in February. Perhaps what makes him most enjoyable to watch is the feeling that you’re involved in a private session: like witnessing a musical chemist at work in his study. Another incendiary Stoltz performance, even if it wasn’t Carnegie Hall.