Showtalkers: Douchebaggery Captured for Eternity

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this blog before, but I'm rather enamored with I Am Fuel, You Are Friends, run by Denver resident Heather Browne. In addition to having pretty similar tastes, we also share a borderline unhealthy affinity for the late, great Jeff Buckley.

Unbeknownst to me — or maybe I just forgot — November 17 was Jeff's birthday. So in honor of what would have been his 43rd, Browne posted a bootleg of an acoustic performance Buckley gave in Berkeley's Sproul Plaza in 1995. And it is, predictably, really good. Except for one minor detail: the fucking showtalkers gabbing through the first 4 minutes of the recording.

Now, I received a number of emails following last week's column rant about showtalkers at a recent Blind Pilot show, many of which suggested I give up my crusade to curb the obnoxious phenomenon. Not because they disagree, mind you. Rather that it is simply a losing cause. And frankly, those folks are probably right. But will I stop? Not a chance. And this is why.

Listen to the show and a take a moment to think about the long-term implications. Here we have two dudes, probably good people, just having a friendly conversation while checking out a show. Seems fairly innocent, right? How could they possibly have known they would single-handedly ruin the beginning of an exceedingly rare live acoustic recording of one of the most tragically iconic singers of the last 25 years? (And yes, we could debate Buckley's place in the pantheon of dead rock stars. But that's a discussion for another time. For the sake of argument, just agree with me for now, OK?)

This recording was made in May of 1995, one year after Grace was released and two years prior to Buckley's death. In other words, he was still a relative unknown at this point in his career, or at least far from the legend he has become posthumously. So as far as these guys knew, they were just catching a good show by a talented up-and-coming songwriter on a lovely day in San Francisco. Kind of like how two weekends ago at the Showcase Lounge, about 150 of us were just catching a good show by a talented up-and-coming band.

See where I'm going with this?

The point is that you never know. Will Blind Pilot ascend to mythical rock and roll status? Honestly, I doubt it. But hey, it's possible (ish). What's even more possible is that someday 15 years from now, someone for whom the band profoundly resonated — as Jeff Buckley does for me — might stumble across a bottlegged recording of that show, or one just like it, and have the first three songs ruined by some asshole in a Phillies hat.

So listen to the first four minutes of that Jeff Buckley recording. Annoying as all hell isn't it? Think about that the next time you're out at show and about to engage in a conversation that absolutely, positively just can't wait, and ask yourself if you really want to be that guy. The guy who ruined a great show for all eternity. 

 

Mimicking Videos

Tomrrow's paper features an almost unhealthy amount of love for Friday's Blind Pilot show at the HG Showcase Lounge. What can I say? I'm excited. In addition to running an interview with BP co-founder/drummer Ryan Dobrowski, I decided to lead my column with a bit about one of the opening acts, Laura Viers and the Hall of Flames. You may remember them as the band who opened for — and by more than a few accounts, upstaged — The Decemberists at the Flynn in September.

Anyway, in my excitement about those two groups, I fear I may have overlooked the other supporting act, Portland, Oregon's Mimicking Birds. That, it appears, was a mistake.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find any live footage high quality enough to be worth your time, so the attached vid is one of those weird "unofficial" music videos making the rounds on YouTube — presumably made by folks with iMovie and way too much time on their hands. But the song is great. And if you're feeling spacey and/or really high, the "visuals" are actually kind of cool. Enjoy.

Bird Droppings

I was kinda laid up this weekend, fighting off the dying remains of a head and chest cold that sidelined me earlier in the week. Whilst spending Saturday night on the couch in my pajamas, hot toddy and dog by my side, I happened to catch some of Andrew Bird performing on PBS' Austin City Limits. In a word, whoa.

Now, I don't know that I really buy into "the healing power of song" or other similarly new age-y remedies. Give me a bottle of NyQuil any day. That said, Bird's TV performance got me really excited for his show at Higher Ground tonight — and in particular for opening act St. Vincent, who also appeared on the broadcast — and may just have served as the lift I needed to put that bit of nastiness behind me. I awoke Sunday feeling better than I had in days. Of course, that also may have had something to do with aforementioned hot toddies and NyQuil. Whatever.

Anyway, here's a recent clip of Bird performing with St. Vincent. Hope it whets your, um, whistle.

Portugal. The Show.

So, I had hoped to unleash the second installment of my still as yet unnamed podcast series today, this time featuring Vermont native Sarah Cronin from Drug Rug. The idea was to do a quick Q&A about the band and then spin a couple of tunes from their excellent new album, Paint the Fence Invisible. Sounds pretty sweet, right? Right.

However, Drug Rug are increasingly becoming kind of a big deal. As such, our schedules never quite lined up. We had to reschedule several times, the last time around because the band was slated — are you ready? — to tape a Daytrotter session when we were supposed to talk. If my humble little podcast had to be bumped, at least it was bumped in style. C'est la vie.

Anyway, tonight Drug Rug is playing Higher Ground with Portugal. The Man and Hockey, who are both pretty rad. Here's a vid from a recent DR show in Cleveland. No, not as cool as podcast. But cool nonetheless.

And here's a new-ish vid from the aforementioned radness that is Portugal. The Man. Enjoy!

Eu Amo MoMo

Without question, compiling club listings every week is the worst part of my job. It is also arguably the most important. Though unendingly — and at times unbearably — tedious to cull, club listings provide the foundation for the entire music section. And by poring over them each week, I get a comprehensive overview of the upcoming week's feel, which helps in deciding how the rest of the section should play out.

Over time, you start to see fairly predictable patterns. Club listings are kind of like fractals in that way. Spend enough time with them and anomalies within the pattern will jump out at you. For example, every couple of months you'll see a band play what I like to call the "Bee's Knees Triangle." This is a touring route most often used by savvy out-of-town bands that typically consists of the Bee's Knees in Morrisville (duh), Montpelier's Langdon Street Café, and either Radio Bean or the Monkey House — and sometimes both.

When I see a band is entering the BK Triangle, I almost always make a note to check them out. One, the booking folks at each of the aforementioned venues are exceptionally good at what they do. So if they've all agreed that a group is good enough to book, that says a lot. And two, any band that has figured out how to make a trip to Northern VT worth their time by hitting up each of those venues usually has their act together. That doesn't always equate to good music. But more often than not, it does.

Such is the case with Rio de Janeiro-based psych-folk/Tropicália outfit MoMo, who are playing at LSC (Friday) the Bean (Saturday) and, to complete the trifecta, the Bee's Knees (Sunday). I'm actually spotlighting the band in this week's paper, and I mention them in SoundBites as well. The double coverage thing (triple if you count this post) is something I generally shy away from unless I'm really, really excited about a band. Guess what? I'm really, really excited about this band.

Here's a video from a recent live performance. The song is called "Preciso Ser Pedra" — rough translation "I Need To Be Stoned" — and is the opening track from their mindblowing new album Buscador — which, for a limited time, you can download for free on their website. Enjoy!

Turning Japanese

So, Yo La Tengo played last night at Higher Ground. And by the look of it, most of you were there. This of course spares me from having to chew you out for bitching about the perceived dearth of indie music at the area's marquee juke joint and then not showing up when they deliver the goods. So, um … gold star for you!

For those who didn't go, Yo la Tengo were … well, they were Yo La Fucking Tengo. How do you think they were? There is a reason those guys (and gal) are legends. They rocked. Hard.

But for me — and several bewildered folks I spoke with during and after the show — the night belonged to Yura Yura Teikoku, a Tokyo-based psych-rock trio that opened the show. Sweet holy hell. They might be my new favorite band. I even bought a CD at the show, which I rarely do — mostly because I typically already have CDs sent to me from bands playing shows at HG. And also 'cuz I'm cheap.

This is a terrible — and borderline offensive — description of their sound, but the thought that ran through my mind during their set was, "if the Vacant Lots and the Fatal Flaws had an androgynous Japanese baby, he would probably start a band like YYT." Like I said, terrible description. But yesterday was a crazy long and exhausting day and that's what I got. Deal.

Anyway, as my girlfriend put it, "This might be the most interesting band I've ever seen." I'm not so sure I can disagree with Plus One's admittedly hyperbolic assessment. They had me from moshi moshi, delivering a blistering set of sweetly cacophonous psych and filthy ass garage rock. Plus, I couldn't understand a damn thing they were singing about, since no one in the band speaks more than three words of English. But the language barrier somehow made the experience even better. YYT truly speaks the "international language." Rock.

Here's a vid from a show last year at the Music Hall of Williamsburg. It doesn't quite capture the thrill of seeing them live. But it's a decent appetizer — click on the link to their MySpace page above to get a cleaner sampling of their tunes.

If you have the chance, I'm officially requiring you see Yura Yura Teikoku in person. You won't regret it. (NYC readers: they're playing this Friday at MH of W.)

Press Clip of the Day! Or, Just Shoot Me

Once again, this is my life. From Higher Ground's website, regarding the Metro Station show on August 8:

METRO STATION
http://www.metrostationmusic.com
Metro Station is an American pop band, formed in 2006 in Los Angeles, California. In late 2006, the band signed a recording contract with Columbia/Red Ink. They are best known for their Top 10 Billboard hit single "Shake It" from their self-titled debut album. Popularized mainly by their co-frontman Trace Cyrus, older brother of Hannah Montana star Miley Cyrus, and Mason Musso, older brother of Mitchel Musso from Hannah Montana, the band has experienced a recent boom in their record sales.

Now I ask you, Solid State, what's worse? Using your own sexuality to move records — re: the ongoing Grace Potter thread. Or, using your little sister's? Stay classy, Hollywood!

Fair Weather Friends

It's still only July and I've already made my annual trip to the Champlain Valley Expo. Except this time I traded in the cotton candy and pig races for a night of American rock legends. We're talking bona fide legends here, not has-beens or might-bes like Foreigner or Kid Rock.

I am of course referring to last Friday's "Bob Dylan Show" with John Mellencamp and Willie Nelson. The fairground is a great place to see a big show like this. The open air gives you volume AND clarity. I love that Dylan is playing minor league ballparks and fairgrounds, rather than hockey arenas or stadiums. Or civic auditoriums. Luckily, the weather cooperated. And by that I mean at least the wind wasn't blowing while it rained. It didn't matter much anyway, because all the mojo working on stage distracted me from the sporadic downpours. I would say Mellencamp impressed me the most, but all three guys put on a good show.

Willie started things off with a rousing set of blues and gospel standards, as well as his own best-known songs. "On The Road Again" and "Always On My Mind" sounded fine alongside "Hey, Good Lookin'," "May The Circle Remain Unbroken" and "Moonlight In Vermont" — the last of which he proclaimed to be his favorite song of all time.

Mellencamp came out blazing with "Pink Houses" and played a generous mix of old stuff and new. His band was impressive; they followed his every move as he prowled around the stage like a … oh, forget it. Both the fiddle and accordion players added some nice color to their sound, especially during folky acoustic songs like "Small Town." They kicked out the jams on the last two numbers — "Crumblin' Down" and "Authority Song" — like The Stones circa '72. It was easily the loudest and hardest rocking part of the night.

Dylan's set was mostly newer songs with some old favorites at the beginning and the end. It was cool to hear a minor gem like "Leopard-Skin Pill Box Hat," which he opened with. Another song I was psyched to hear was the slide guitar classic "Rollin' And Tumblin'." Just like his last time here, Dylan started out on guitar, playing lead for the first two songs before switching to the organ for the remainder of the show. He also threw in some tasteful harmonica licks here and there.

His voice has clearly suffered a bit over the years, and is now kind of a phlegmy groan. It might have sounded better if it were buried in the mix a little, since I couldn't understand what he was saying anyway. I didn't even recognize "Highway 61 Revisited" until the chorus. But part of that is because he never plays the songs like they sound on the records, even changing the melodies. There has been a lot of talk about this: some folks like it, some don't. I think he's had more success at reinterpreting his own material than other artists, like Lou Reed to name one.

A Dylan song is fluid, morphing through the years and tours — just like all the old folk and blues songs that he grew up on. Don't get me wrong, I do love to rock out and sing along to all the old hits. But that's why God gave us classic rock radio.

In Memorium

When you were a kid, did your parents ever force you to go to bed in the summer before it was actually dark out? Though I'm sure it must have happened more frequently, I have one such memory that has always stood out clearly. My family was living in Machiasport, Maine, and my brother and I were sent to bed while the sun still shone upon the southernmost end of the Bay of Fundy. As we lay fuming in our bunk beds, we could hear the sounds of children playing outside below our second story window. In our side yard. To an eight year old, that's nothing short of cruel and unusual punishment — I have no idea if we were actually being punished. And if we were, I have no doubt we deserved it.

Anyway, looking back at last night's Steve Earle and Aimee Mann concert at Memorial Auditorium, that's the closest I can come to describing the frustration of being confined to the cockles of Memorial Auditorium, while outside, the Queen City basked in some long overdue late day sun.

It's hard to cast blame in any particular direction — other than maybe God, or Tom Messner (anyone ever see those two in the same place at the same time? Think about it.). Quad organizers, trigger fingers perhaps itchy after the Dan Zanes debacle — that show was initially rained out and then rescheduled for 3 p.m. the following day at MA … sorry, kiddies. — made the decision early to move the party indoors, alerting the press around 9 a.m. yesterday. But given the recent, seemingly unending string of inclement weather and the fact that even a threat of thunderstorms requires them to seek shelter, you can't really fault them. It was the right call, even if it ultimately wasn't. Perhaps if Memorial Auditorium weren't so consumately inadequate as a concert venue, the blow would have been less crippling. (Note to Bob Kiss: doesn't such a highly regarded "arts town" deserve better? Let's implode that fucker.) 

As for the show itself, it was great. I arrived roughly midway through Aimee Mann's set and found myself surprisingly engrossed. I'll admit I've never been a huge fan. But I do appreciate great song craft, and she is an elite talent. There is something innately soothing about her easy presence and casual demeanor that was throroughly captivating. I tend cringe when music crit-types invoke the word "honest" to describe a songwriter. But if I were ever to employ the term, it would be for Aimee Mann. And I think I might have fallen in love during her encore performance of "Red Vine." Simply stunning.

Steve Earle was fascinating, playing a smart mix of originals and tunes from his latest album, "Townes," his heart-felt and tender tribute to his late idol and friend, Townes Van Zandt. He is equally commanding a presence on stage as Mann, though in vastly different way. Earle possesses a sort of scattered, frenetic intensity, both on stage and, as I found out last week, in conversation. He bends the listener to his will. Or sometimes, brutishly clobbers them. One of my favorite moments in a week rapidly filling with them: Earle instructing a loud-mouth near front who insisted on calling out requests during one of the singer's many storytelling interludes to "shut the fuck up." Took the words right out of my mouth.

Earle is master storyteller. Despite preturbed pleas from the gentleman behind me to "shut up and sing," I found the songwriter's tales between tunes singularly entertaining. I even found myself getting a little riled up when he sermonized about his lefter-than-thou politics. Take it to the streets, man.

After close to three hours of standing on a concrete floor, gimpy ankle howling, I left just before the show ended. Though I did feel a little guilty for ducking out early, I left thoroughly (OK, mostly … stupid Memorial Auditorium) satisfied. And not to jinx anything, but the forecast is looking good through next week. Maybe I'll finally have a chance to check out that waterfront tent.   

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?

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.

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 . . .

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.

B to the E . . .

Man, oh man. I always forget just how much I enjoy Jazz Fest. To be perfectly blunt, it's really easy in this job to get bogged down by the nuts and bolts of trying to cover it — extra listings, researching spotlights, jazz hand exercises, etc. By the time the fest actually comes along, there is a part of me that just wants to run screaming into the woods and listen to death metal at unspeakable volumes in my underwear while drinking PBR tallboys. And I don't even really like death metal.

The reality, of course, is that I couldn't do that, even if I really wanted to. And as much as I may dream about it in my weaker moments, when it comes time to get down to business, it never fails to surprise me how much fun the Jazz Fest really is. Maybe that shouldn't be so surprising, given that my "business" primarily involves wandering around town and listening to music. But still, it is. And when it isn't, it will probably be time to hang 'em up, as they say. But the thing that sticks with me isn't so much any one individual performance. Rather, I'm always taken by the atmosphere around the city. And Friday night was a great example.

The entire downtown district — can we really call it a "district?" — was simply electric. Throngs upon throngs of revelers milled about the Marketplace, almost as if they were just, um, discovering it for the first time — maybe surprise isn't so unique to me, after all. Without cheating and looking it up, I couldn't even tell you who I saw that night. And really, it doesn't matter. Opening night is almost as much about the experience as it is the artists themselves. (OK, I sort of take that back. I completely fell in love with a ska/rocksteady band from Upstate NY called The Big Takeover. But of course, I'm a sucker for ska.)

Saturday night, however, was all about one band, and one band only: Belizbeha. And sweet holy hell, they rocked. I'll admit that they weren't my favorite as a young buck coming up in the 1990s Burlington rock scene. Back then, my tastes leaned more towards The Pants, The Fags and Envy. But I certainly caught them live on more than a few occasions — most memorably an outdoor show at UVM, circa 1997. Were they as tight as they were in their heyday? Probably not. After ten years, who would be? But they had the Flynn bumping like I hadn't seen at least since a Cubanismo show when I was in high school — and maybe not even then.

A few things struck me about the evening that will like standout in my mind regardless of how the rest of the festival goes. In no particular order:

1. Fattie B is a dynamo. We dont get to see him as a front man very often anymore. I wish we did. Maybe if (when) he hangs up his headphones at Retronome?
2. It's too bad DJ A-Dog doesn't have more opportunities to showcase his chops behind the turntables. Dude was nasty. I doubt anyone who saw him cut with Belizbeha that night would be so quick to call him DJ A-Pod.
3. The 1990s were more fun than you probably remember.
4. I could totally have been imagining this, but I'm pretty sure I got my first ever Flynn stage shout-out during "Catch the Flow."
5. I still have a huge crush on Kadiatou Sibi.
6. Why doesn't Craig Mitchell sing more often?
7. I grossly underestimated how much fun this reunion stuff is. Someone needs to throw a huge 1990s Burlington rock scene reunion and invite every band from the era to play — since half of them had interchangeable members anyway, it couldn't possibly be too hard, right?

Screaming For Vengeance

So, you know that feeling you get, when your best friends from high school — who formed a band and are still playing together, and who you haven't seen in a couple years — show up in Vermont in a rented car to play a gig in Winooski at the tail end of a micro-tour of Canada? Yeah, well that's exactly how I felt Sunday night when I saw The Figgs at The Monkey House. They rocked so fucking hard that I felt the earth shake under my feet. Or was that my heart pounding with excitement? Either way, it was a night to remember.

These guys know how to work a room, even when technical difficulties threaten to shut the whole thing down. The show was industrial-strength from the get-go, starting with a trio of songs from their most recent record Follow Jean Through The Sea ("Breaking Through These Gates," "Let Me Hold You" and "Hobble Skirt In Erie"). The band was super tight, and within seconds all eyes were glued to the stage. There was no set-list that I could see; guitarist Mike Gent would just shoot a knowing glance at his band-mates and then launch into the next song. The crowd was bopping along to the music and everybody was having a good time. And that's when things started to go south.

Namely, a stage monitor that was squealing feedback like a pig being brought to slaughter. Until this point the monitor had been emitting little yelps of distress whenever Gent got close to his mike. He kept trying to get the sound guy's attention and pointing to the speaker, but the hubbub continued. Finally the offending black wedge erupted in a fury of noise that put a hurt on everyone's ears, and the band came to a stop mid-song (the song was "Waiting For The Sun To Rise", and I was bummed they didn't get to finish it). Gent was visibly upset, and bass player Pete Donnelly diplomatically suggested turning all the monitors down. The sound dude came out and futzed with the controls a little and then went back to his perch. The band tore into a spontaneous version of their song "Somethings Wrong," and Gent had a little fun with the chorus ("somethings wrong...with my monitor"). Everything seemed back to normal and the band was really starting to cook again when the feedback suddenly came back with a vengeance, screaming like Rob Halford with his balls in a vice. At that point, Gent lost it and in a moment of passion he kicked the speaker off its dinky little milk crate, sending it spinning into the crowd. He turned his back to the audience and then finished the song singing into Donnelly's mike. It was the most rock and roll moment I have witnessed in a very long time, maybe ever.

But they didn't let it ruin the show. They brushed it off and made the most of the situation, like the professionals that they are. Gent strapped on his acoustic and decided to bring it down a few notches while the sound guy hopefully worked out the kinks. They played a bunch of quieter songs and eventually worked back up to full-on electric, climaxing with the Chuck Berry-on-steroids vibe of "Dance Lesson." The feedback never returned and they played late into the evening, blasting out two encores for the hardcore few who stayed 'til the end, including a solo a cappella song by drummer Pete "Casino" Hayes and a Sabbathesque version of Neil Young's "The Loner."

Smittens Play On Bartop!

Confirmation on this came in a little late to mention in today's column, but The Smittens, fresh from shows on the Left Coast, are at The Monkey House tonight with local rockers Torpedo Rodeo and Brooklyn's Lady Bright (seen rockin' here in this kinda lo-fi vid). Giddyup.

Another Day in My Kingdom

So, did you happen to catch Bonnie "Prince" Billy (a.k.a. Will Oldham) at the Ballroom last night? Chances are you didn't, since the room was only about 1/3 full. And that's too bad, 'cuz you missed a good one.

Typically, this would be the part of the blog post where I chastise the hipster elite for bitching about the dearth of indie music at Higher Ground and then not showing up when Crothers and Co. deliver the goods. But I'm not gonna do that. Actually, the relatively sparse crowd — we probably could have fit almost as comfortably in the Showcase Lounge — was sorta nice. Plenty of room to stretch out and enjoy a pint or three without being jostled. And the folks who were there were there to listen. Well, mostly. I would be remiss if I didn't mention the three buttoned-down dudes standing in front of me, rocking out with some seriously sick air drumming. But even they seemed to be intently listening, albeit in their own amusingly awkward way. And why not? Mr. Will Oldham puts on one hell of a show.

I've been a fan of Oldham and his various character turns (Palace, Palace Bros., etc.) for a while now. But until last night I had yet to catch him live. As such, I never fully realized that to truly appreciate the man and his music, you need to experience him in person. As wonderful as his voluminous canon is, his many splendored idiosyncrasies simply don't resonate as powerfully on record as they do when he's standing in front of you.

Oldham is one sly, often subversive motherfucker — as evidenced by the giddy goofiness of his Buffett-ized version of "Just to See My Holly Home." And while you can get a sense of his subtle quirkiness simply by paying attention to his sneaky turns of phrase, catching the crooked raise of an eyebrow on "I Am Goodbye," or the faint hint of a smirk on "A King at Night" adds an element of intrigue to his music you might miss otherwise. Or, as my seemingly tickled girlfriend (a.k.a. "Plus One") remarked following the latter tune, "Bonnie Prince Billy is kinda dirty!" That he is. But he approaches the rather, um, sticky matters of sex and sexuality with a sort of naif-ish whimsy that feels anything but. For example, his gender-bending duet with fiddler Cheyenne Mize (of Louisville freakgrass outfit Arnett Hollow) on "The Girl in Me." As you can see in the video below, the song is provocative, funny and oddly sweet. Kind of a microcosm of the whole show, really.

  

Whoa.

And I thought the Ween rumors for the Quad celebration were pretty cool: http://highergroundmusic.com/calendar/show/3247/

Bawitahuh?

This just in from the Dept. of Homeland Absurdity: Kid Rock is coming to the Champlain Valley Fair. And I thought Toby Keith was rad last year!

Actually, dude's pretty funny:

This is shaping up to the strangest summer of music in Vermont, maybe ever. I, for one, can't wait.

Jazzercise!

Just got back from the annual Burlington Discover Jazz Festival Press Conference. And as was mentioned roughly 72 times throughout the hour-long affair — with thanks to our presenting sponsors! And our co-sponsors! And our sponsor-sponsoring sponsors! Have a cookie! — there can be no surer sign of spring than . . . well, you know. All that jazz. After 26 years, couldn't we come up with another, perhaps non-weather related way of getting psyched about Jazz Fest? But I digress.

While this year's lineup doesn't quite boast the same jaw-dropping marquee pedigree of last year's 25th anniversary hootenanny, from top to bottom it is a pretty solid list of performers. You already know the headliners: Diana Krall, Branford Marsalis, Pink Martini. But for my money the real strength of this year's fest are the artists on the undercard — Belizbeha, Esperanza Spaulding, Yusef Lateef, to name a few.

Starting next week, we'll be digging in to many of these artists in greater detail in the paper. So for now, I'll just pass along the link to the full schedule. And before I forget, tix are on sale . . . right . . . now.