Death Lives, er, Live!

This just in from Drag City Records: Detroit proto-punkers Death have announced three Midwest reunion shows in September. They are:

Friday, September 25 at Magic Stick in Detroit
Saturday, September 26 at the Empty Bottle in Chicago (I'm thinking about booking a plane ticket right now)
Sunday, September, 27 at the Beachland Ballroom in Cleveland

This is, of course, incredible news. But it does lead one to wonder whether their Vermont fans will get a taste of the original thing at some point too, since they, you know, live here and stuff. Maybe we should start a petition?

Like, in Rolling Stone?

Until about two years ago, 7D ran a weekly music section feature called "Pop Ten," which listed the top-selling albums from local record stores around the state. For a variety of reasons — the decline of the indie record shop, the challenge of culling the charts in a timely fashion each week, the desire to use the space for features people might actually read when not on the can, etc. — one of my first acts as Music Editor was to nix the piece. The downside? Not knowing how the latest Skynyrd reissue was charting in Barre from week to week. The upside? More live reviews, interviews and general flexibility within the music section at large. I think it was a fair trade-off.

Anyway, what wasn't good enough for Seven Days apparently is good enough for Rolling Stone magazine. Go figure. And if you picked up the latest issue featuring the Jonas Brothers on the cover . . . um, you've got serious problems, man. However, you also may have noticed a few familiar faces gracing the back page.

In addition to Billboard and college airplay charts, RS highlights a different indie shop in each issue under the title of "Local Favorites." And this time around they chose our very own Pure Pop Records! Sweet. Here is PPR's chart for the week ending June 16, 2009 (look closely):

1. Mos Def — The Ecstatic
2. Grizzly Bear — Veckatimest
3. Dirty Projectors — Bitte Orca
4. Dave Matthews Band — Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King
5. Lowell Thompson and Crown Pilot — Lowell Thompson and Crown Pilot
6. Booker T. — Potato Hole
7. Coalesce — Ox
8. J Dilla — Jay Stay Paid
9. Ben Harper and Relentless7 — White Lies for Dark Times
10. Iron and Wine — Around the Well

That's right. Lowell Thompson and Crown Pilot picked one hell of a week to chart at Pure Pop, scoring some serendipitous love from the national paper (magazine) of music record for their latest self-titled disc — to be reviewed in next week's issue by the illustrious Casey Rae-Hunter, BTW.

Not only that, but they even nabbed a snappy blurb and accompanying pic (left). Here's what RS has to say about our local twangy troubadour (see if you can spot the typo!):

"The Burlington, Vermont, singer rounds up two home-state heros — Phish's Page McConnell and blues rocker Grace Potter — to help out on his latest CD of Gram Parsons-inspired alt-country."

Awesome.

Now, a couple of things jump out at me here. First, it's a bummer Lowell's latest was bested by Dave Matthews Band under a national spotlight — really, Burlington? Second, the first time in years that a VT band not named Grace or Phish gets a pic in RS and it's the "band against a brick wall" deal? *Slaps forehead*

Needling aside, this is pretty freakin' cool, for both Lowell and Pure Pop. And also for 7D's Steve Hadeka (second from left), who looks positively fetching framed by brick, doesn't he?

Seriously though, congrats all around!

You Can't Put Your Arms Around A Memory

Let's give a big round of applause to the New York Dolls. They really know how to put on a show. Instead of just sitting around, thinking about the good old days and waiting for the Social Security checks to start trickling in, they're tearing it up on the road and having a great time doing it. Exhibit A: Higher Ground Wednesday night. (Note:The bit about the checks only applies to original members David Johansen and Sylvain Sylvain, since Social Security will be long gone before the other three guys are old enough to get it.) Decades after those almost-famous good old days, the Dolls celebrate their legacy without wallowing in it. The reunion is over, these guys are WORKING.

They played a healthy dose of songs from the brand-new Cause I Sez So. The album itself is merely OK — I blame Todd Rungren's muddy production. But the bluesy vibe of those songs translates well to the stage. Numbers like "Nobody Got No Bizness," "Ridiculous" and the title track sounded great, much better than the recorded versions. And they played stuff from all the other phases of their career (except the 32 years between the second and third records).  Two from Too Much Too Soon; three off the third album, whose title is so long I don't feel like typing it out. And of course they played a bunch of songs off their greatest work: the 1973 self-titled debut. Also produced by Todd Rungren. Go figure.

But it was not just the music that made this show so much fun. New York Dolls are (still) entertainers.   Sylvain is more than a guitarist, he's a second frontman. He was constantly egging on the band and connecting with the audience, talking to fans in the front and holding his guitar out over the stage to let people strum it. He also had a nice little moment where he sang a Johnny Thunders song. And Johansen sang his ass off, blew a mean harp and strutted his stuff all over the place.

It was obvious that they were glad to be there and having a blast — the band had a little game going where they would throw guitar picks at the cymbal they thought the drummer would end the song on. Johansen had a pocket full of picks for this express purpose. And they rocked their hardest even for a small crowd. New York Dolls' enthusiasm was contagious, leaving everyone smiling ear to ear, clapping, stomping and singing along.

Delights in Dixie

This just in from our wanderin' Americana darlings The Dixie Red Delights, who are currently on a quickie East Coast Tour: the band's drunkest fan.

Now this chick is pretty tanked. But methinks someone could easily top that when the band plays their homecoming gig at Charlie O's — a.k.a. the world's greatest bar — this weekend.

Dem's Da Breaks

It should have been great.

Following what was otherwise a rather pedestrian day at the plate (2-5, 2 singles, a groundout, a popup and reaching base on an error), I laced a searing line drive into the gap in left-center. Rounding first, I saw that ball had scooted past the roving outfielder — we play with four, as opposed to the traditional three — and was making its way to the fence. Giddyup.

In beer league softball, my game is predicated on speed. I have what they call "warning track power." Or, just enough "pop" to be dangerous — if only to myself — if I get designs on Ruthian glory. In six seasons, I've never actually put one out. Instead, I shoot for the gaps and run like hell. It's usually an effective strategy.

Deciding to challenge the centerfielder's arm, I grazed second and dug in for third. Wind at my back, I neared the base and lept into a textbook feet-first slide, hoping to duck the tag. Though I couldn't see it, I could sense the the third baseman readying himself to receive the throw — like the pressure dropping before a thunderstorm, you can always feel when a play will be close.

Just then, my right cleat, instead of slicing through what passes for infield dirt in our league, caught and held true to the earth. Sadly, my foot forgot to relay the message to rest of my body. 

Momentum carried my leg forward, juxtaposing my foot and ankle at unnatural angles. There was a sickening, audible "snap," as I landed in heap on top of the bag. The third base coach, doubling as an umpire, spread his arms wide: the universal signal for "safe." Clutching my lower leg, I unleashed an epic string of profanities that would make George Carlin blush (R.I.P., you brilliant man).

It wasn't the pain, so much. OK, it was. But more than that, what was truly terrifying was the sound. There are few noises more genuinely frightening — especially for a pseudo-athlete — than the pop of a joint. In particular, those emanating from the Rube Goldberg machine that is the human ankle. Thankfully, as I would find out following a six-hour ordeal at the Fanny Allen walk-in clinic, said sound did not signal a fracture.

Rather, I have "the dreaded high-ankle sprain," so designated — at least in fantasy football geek circles — for its notoriously slow recovery time and the fact that it's incredibly easy to reinjure, even after you think it's healed. As I type this, I am laying on my couch, right leg elevated and sporting a nifty — and uncomfortably hot — air cast. It's a pose I'll need to get used to.

The reason I'm telling you all of this — aside from the fact that I am physically unable to do anything beyond typing at the moment — is that I had plans to swing by Gezellig Theater tonight to catch the Radiator benny. It features a Boston-based band called Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow, whom Radio Bean's Lee Anderson made a point of calling me to rave about a couple of weeks back — which he never does.

Also on the bill are local singerin'-songwriterin' ingenue Maryse Smith and my current favorite local act — whom I have yet to catch live and, sadly, will miss yet again — Paul & the Mystery of Gravity.

So, denizens of Solid State, I call on you to do me a, well, solid. Go support our local community radio station. And also, report back and let me know how it was, as it appears I will be vicariously living through you for the next few weeks. Show starts at 8:30 and costs a meager five bucks. And as always, if you don't know where Gezellig is, ask a hipster.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go back to moping over the cosmic injustice of being made an invalid on the exact day summer finally decided to show up.

 

Triumph @ Bonnaroo

For yet another year, I couldn't go to Bonnaroo. Fortunately, Conan O'Brien sent everyone's favorite cigar-chomping canine, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, to Tennessee to report on the festivities. I wonder if I can get him to come with me to Phish at SPAC in August . . .

Phun with PETA

I can't make this stuff up.

In a letter dated June 19, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) has asked that local jam icons Phish temporarily change their names to — are you ready? — Sea Kittens, for this weekend's shows in Wisconsin.

Really.

The request comes as part of the organization's ongoing "Sea Kittens" campaign, which attempts to cutesypomorphize our fine finned friends in an effort to curb fishing — of both the commercial and recreational kind, apparently. The thinking being that nobody this side of Chuck Manson could possibly eat something adorable — though one assumes PETA has never had the "Bambi & Thumper" plate at the Road Kill Cafe. Mmmm . . . Disneylicious. Ahem.

Put another way, here's the logic:
Q: Would you eat a yellowfin tuna?
A: Sure!
Q: OK. But would you eat a yellowfin kitten?
A: Um . . . does it taste like a yellowfin tuna?

In a quote accompanying the press release announcing the letter to the Phab Phour, PETA's Ashley Byrne makes her case:

"If Phish became Sea Kittens and the band's legions of fans started calling fish 'sea kittens,' fewer of these gentle animals would be violently killed for food, painfully hooked for 'sport,' or cruelly confined to aquariums."

Maaaaybe. But have you ever been to a Phish show, Ashley? (My suggestion: try to convert them before the nitrous breaks out. Just sayin'.)

For the moment stepping away from the prickly debate over whether or not eating animals is ethical — I get hungry just reading "Animal Farm" — PETA's proposition does raise another, perhaps funnier, question:

If Phish does change their name to reflect (arguably) politically-correct gustatory convictions, could it set a precedent for other like-minded zoologically themed bands to do the same?

After much spirited discussion around the 7D office, the general conclusion is this: Good God, we hope so.

Some possibilities (feel free to add your own below):

The Beatles: The Love Bugs
Grizzly Bear: The Care Bears
Band of Horses: My Little Ponies
Howlin' Wolf: Yippin' Puppy
Dr. Dog: Doogie Howser
Andrew Bird: Tweety Bird
The Cat Empire: The Kingdom of Land Fishies
Def Leppard: Hearing Impaired Leppard
John Cougar Mellencamp: John Kitten Mellencamp
Gorillaz: The Monkees
Le Tigre: French Kittens
Modest Mouse: Actually, that's already pretty good.
Danger Mouse: Ditto.
Snoop Dogg: Snoopy
Cat Stevens: Kitten Islam

And of course,
The Animals: The Living Beings That Feel Pain, Communicate, Show Affection and Have Every Right to Exist So Don't Eat Me, You Douchebags

Love, Literally

It's official. I'm in love with "Literal Videos."

It started with Bryan Dondero's post last week, which featured a literal video version of Billy Idol's "White Wedding." That prompted me to check out a few more. And then a few more. And a few more. The tipping point came yesterday, when 7D staff writer Ken Picard sent around this literal version of Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart," which I somehow missed previously and is, without the question, my favorite of the bunch. Enjoy.

Hazardous Rodents Stick It To The Man And Billy Idol . . . Literally

This just in via the New York Times, Danger Mouse has released a brand new album, "Dark Night of the Soul," with absolutely no music on it. Suck that Thom Yorke! This Yankee just topped your coolness by taking the free music to a whole new level . . . like . . . um . . . cuz he, like, already knew that, like, people weren't gonna buy the music if it wasn't free so, like, why even put the music on it . . . man?!

So despite the nonexistent music, you can buy the limited edition brand new album (blank cd) for only $50! Oh, they'll throw in some David Lynch photos for free, so you'll have some really cool pics to look at as you don't listen to it.

Orrrrrrr, you can listen to it for free on NPR. (?!?!!!)  Don't ask me, I don't know.

In other news, this literal Billy Idol video is hilarious. Well, at least I think it's hilarious. Hey, it's free, shut up!

Catch Of The Day

Perception is a funny thing. You can have a preconceived expectation of something, and most of the time that is exactly what your brain will show you. But if you stop and look closely, sometimes you'll be surprised at what is actually there.

So what the hell does this have to do with Solid State, you ask?

Tuesday night at Higher Ground, The Meat Puppets' Curt Kirkwood was wearing a shirt that said "Gone Fishing." Seemed a little cheesy for an indie rock legend. But I figured he probably bought it in some truck stop gift shop because he's been touring the country in a minivan for the last twenty-seven years, and he doesn't have a lot of money so let's just give the guy a friggin' break about the shirt because, after all, he's a dynamo guitarist and performer . . . ahem. Moving on . . .

An hour into the set, a friend pointed out to me that the shirt actually said something quite different. So I took a closer look and had to laugh, because it definitely didn't say what I thought it said (see photo).

Musically, The Meat Puppets are all over the map. When they come to town you're never quite sure what state they'll be in. For example, their last appearance at HG was a reunion-fueled romp through their back-catalog. This show, however, began with a bunch of cow-punkish songs from the just-released Sewn Together, which features punchy, syncopated bass lines and double-time drum beats topped with chicken-pickin' guitar runs. Sounds good, right?

Then they took a sharp left into different musical territory. The songs started featuring super extended, effects-heavy guitar solos. Old favorites like "Up On The Sun," "Plateau" and "Lake of Fire" felt a bit meandering after eight minutes of echo-drenched, Strat pyrotechnics. And I mean that in the best possible way. It's almost like they saw Dark Star Orchestra's soundcheck (they were playing next door in the Ballroom) and got inspired to go all Jerry on us. I think The Meat Puppets actually out-jammed the DSO. Dude. A couple of hippies even wandered into the room at one point and started doing the noodle.

Like Kirkwood's shirt, openers Retribution Gospel Choir were not what they seemed at first glance. If they had a more definitive name I would have showed up earlier. I was expecting some kind of mellow choral arrangements or whatever, but instead got . . . ten-minute psychedelic guitar freakouts.

And I mean that in the best possible way.