Bloody Knives at The Pedicab

There aren’t many options for listening to good music in San Antonio, so when I found out Bloody Knives were playing at a local jip joint in Southtown, I was “’bout it”.  Slammed some rum and coke, took a bit more for the road, then made myself as comfortable as possible in one of the smallest back seats in which my long legs have ever been crammed.

Newly outfitted with synth/samples guru Jim Moon, Bloody Knives’ co-founders Jake McCown and Preston Maddox shattered eardrums with their unapologetic rock that feels as much “shoegaze” as it does thrash.  Preston, the band’s towering frontman, whose innumerable curls whipped around his head as he unleashed a dizzying battery of notes per measure, punished his bass instrument throughout the set’s duration, trying desperately to rip it from its strap, slamming its strings against the black pickups.  The urgent way his fingers walked up and down the fretboard produced hectic melodies akin to the final frenzied seconds of any given level on NES’ Super Mario Bros.

Then there was Shoeless Jake McCown who tried to bust his drum heads and crack his cymbals during every song.  His driving tempo was so energetic that even the hodgepodge of b-boys in the back had to stop and listen.  In its entirety, Bloody’s set flowed smoothly with webs of atmospheric noise unifying each song, filling what are usually awkward silences for bands, or inappropriate opportunities to introduce each band member and the instrument that member plays.  Whether it was courtesy of groaning feedback from Preston’s bass, or diving knob turns from Jim’s table of gadgetry, the songs maintained a soaring, psychedelic-tinged theme that grabbed up the audience in a tight grip and only let go when Jake put his shoes back on.

Blonde Redhead – La Zona Rosa

© copyright Andrew Youssef 2010

White glossy mask.  Conceptual horse’s skull, perhaps…  It shone white and glossy, glossy white as wet, white paint, with horsetail whiskers trailing, tumbling down below the long, sad hollows of empty eye sockets – tearless, terrorless, eternally forlorn. 

© copyright Andrew Youssef 2010

Standing in a field of electric marigolds, ineluctably bathed in brilliant blue, fuchsia, yellow, green, and white that tangled inevitably in cobwebs of smoke.  Kazu’s voice a colored smoke cloud.  Amedeo’s voice timid and touching the colored cones that hung guilty upon the smoke.

And if it all sounds and feels like art… it is.

“ I like playing museums,” drummer Simone Pace once commented in an interview with SFburning.  Last night at La Zona Rosa in Austin, TX, Blonde Redhead had the benefit of being an installation.  Visually and aurally, they stunned a large crowd that gathered in a spacious venue tucked away at the end of 4th Street.  Roving spotlights reached out across the stage and audience, alternating colors, collecting heavily in the clean canvas of the band members’ white garb.  Their light, ethereal set, largely composed of Penny Sparkle‘s haunting soundscape, could have drifted away like the colored fog that enshrouded the stage, but the trio nailed down their work with rocking jaunts to the past, revisiting most recent albums Melody of Certain Damaged Lemons, Misery is a Butterfly, and 23.

At times singing from behind an eery mask, Makino touted one of Blonde’s greater appeals: her beautifully shrill, wafer-thin voice, which only elevated in charm during their new material.  Made for the electro-influenced minimalist direction of Penny Sparkle, her voice laid lightly atop the music, too light for the smoke, even, and rained down her trademark cascade of provocative lyrics.

© copyright Andrew Youssef 2010

If Penny deviated too drastically from previous albums for most of their fans, it wasn’t evident at last night’s show.  The crowd stood enthralled as Blonde impressed with a perfect balance of past and present, electronic and organic, soft and loud, fast and slow.  Makino and guitarist Amadeo Pace switched from guitar, bass, keyboard, and samples frequently throughout the set as they navigated songs such as “Not Getting There”, ”In Particular”, “My Plants are Dead”, “Spring and by Summer Fall”, and “23″.  Even drummer Simone alternated between real drum heads and synth pads to achieve overall band harmony during their relentlessly engaging electrorganic set.

And only when the stage returned to complete darkness for the last time did anyone disappear outside on the cool winter air like embers.

Disclaimer: The images in the post are from Blonde Redhead’s November performances at The Music Box and The Glass House in California, which Andrew Youssef captured.  Attire and stage design were the same for the La Zona Rosa show.

Film School Take On The Parish

My experiences with Film School’s live performances haven’t always been positively memorable.  There was the first year I “saw” them at SXSW in 2003, which was more of an hour-long drive for buttons, an EP, and friendly chit-chat with Jason Ruck and Ben Montesano as the band loaded up their gear after I watched only the last few minutes of their set through a window.  The second time I saw them, which was in support of Hideout at Emo’s in 2007, was marred by too many rum and Cokes, and embarrassing drunken conversation with the band in which I may have admitted a crush on Lorelei Plotczyk.  I was hoping this time would be different.  After last night’s show at The Parish, one of Austin’s better venues, I was almost convinced that it was different, but something bugged me all the same.    

photo credit: Phillip Sada

Despite Fission‘s heavily synth-infused sound, the band pulled it off organically live.  Ruck calmly managed keyboard responsibilities with one hand and laptop adjustments with the other as his bandmates moved energetically to the sounds of their new material.  Each member, decorated in a conceptual display of colored lights representing Fission‘s album art,  leaned into the music and filled the rich folds of The Parish’s acoustics with the complete warmth and depth of the new album.    

After the set’s opener “Still Might” (one of the album’s more even-tempered songs) drifted to an end, it was clear that Film School wanted to establish Fission‘s angsty pop feel as they burned through songs like “Heart Full of Pentagons“, “When I’m Yours”, and “Distant Life.” Unfortunately, and due to no discredit of theirs, the crowd seemed unresponsive to their new shift.  Were these people at the same show as I? Were they hearing the same songs?    

While Film School’s new album is a bright beacon distinguishing itself from their earlier work, it’s nothing to thumb your nose at, and marks a mature progression toward their evolution as a group.  I mean, how long do you really want to hear your favorite bands play the same old shit?  Though the crowd seemed most energetic when shouting “play old school Film School”, the new school Film School raged on.  Plotzcyk showcased her prominent vocal presence on the new material, bouncing lyrics off of Bertens’ with a voice full of breath and sunlight.  Their lyrical interplay resulted in an endearing charm that was exciting to watch as they, full of smiles, engaged in musical conversation with one another.  And when Bertens strummed the intro to “Sunny Day“, it was only his shimmering guitar that could match the quivering beauty of her voice.    

photo credit: Phillip Sada

On they played, tearing through the new album’s majority, stopping only to question the audience’s liveliness and to blame a few small hiccups on “too many Lone Stars”.  At last (at least as far as some audience members were concerned), they endulged in a little “old school Film School.”  I expect a band to play their new stuff when touring in support of a new album, but I must admit a certain penchant for hearing some of the old songs that forged their career.  Let’s just say I was not at all disappointed when they unveiled “Compare”, easily my favorite track on Hideout.  They further appeased the indignant crowd by playing “Two Kinds” and “Lectric” (which was shouted out as a request several times by a drunken reveler whose favorite past time, aside from bothering Bertens pre-performance, was bumping into everyone within a 10-foot radius).    

When they ended with “Meet Around 10″, I was fearful the band’s disillusionment with the crowd would result in the lack of an encore, but they responded rather quickly, going “against the English” by performing not one, but two additional songs (the last of which was “Breet” from their 2006 self-titled LP).    

photo credit: Phillip Sada

Personally, I could’ve done without the lackluster crowd, but Film School is never disappointing as a live act.  They’re one of those bands for whose concerts you can pay the nominal ticket fee and confidently expect a tight performance.  Last night’s show was an absolute manifestation of the swells and lulls for which fans have adored Film School albums, and despite Fission‘s different sound, its content is the glorious sum of their foundational elements: layered guitar tonality; heavy bass riffs; tight drumming; and atmospheric keys/samples; plus, the addition of a rhythmic dance frenzy that will at least have your shoulders shaking if not your hips swaying.

Richard Butler Touched My Hand

Richard Butler - Psychedelic Furs

 

It’s crazy imagining that,  after all these years, the impact of Psychedelic Furs’ frontman Richard Butler reaching out to you from the stage and shaking your hand mid-song would still be electrical. 

That is, unless you’ve seen the Furs perform live on their 2010 tour. 

Last night’s performance at the White Rabbit in San Antonio was nothing less than electrical.  The Brothers Butler – with help from Mars Williams, Paul Garisto, Rich Good, and Amanda Kramer – filled the stuffy hardcore venue with energy that seemed to stem directly from the Furs’ 1981 American debut; and the relevance and potency of their music after close to 30 years was palpable.  Every head in the crowd bobbed, every body in the room swayed, and not a moment of it was lost on the variously aged audience that stood enthralled before the stage; for well over an hour, teens, 20-somethings, 30-somethings, and beyond wouldn’t give up an inch of floor. 

Rich Good and Richard Butler

 

Unlike openers, She Wants Revenge, the Furs didn’t stack their setlist with the most popular, accessible songs toward the end.  In fact, they ripped right into the audience with one of their most identifiable tracks, “Love My Way,” followed it up shortly therafter with “Ghost in You,” and never looked back.  All smiles and laughter, Richard Butler danced and weaved about the stage during every song, pleasing the audience with his signature ‘elbow-leaning-on-the-mic-stand’ and ‘prayer-hands-above-the-mic’  moves.  He even spun around during “Heaven”… f— yeah!  If his charisma and energy grew throughout the set, it was hardly noticeable, as he hit the ground running with high-intensity, effortless dancing and nonstop crowd engagement. 

Mars Williams

 

But saying that Richard Butler’s presence was the only memorable part of the experience would be a tragic error.  Mars Williams wailed his saxaphone to life on songs like “Heartbeat” and “Sister Europe,” often leaning into the crowd in an amazing spectacle of strained neck veins and flash-fingered fury.  Tim Butler, cool behind dark sunglasses, galloped across the stage and interplayed with Rich Good, who was tearing up the strings of a smooth white-on-white Fender Jaguar.  Meanwhile, Garisto adroitly laid the thumping framework of each song as angelic Amanda Kramer (Information Society), stood smiling behind two massive synthesizers. 

 A band as successful as the Psychedelic Furs can’t very well stack a setlist when their entire discography is loaded with cult hits and chart-ranked songs; the whole set was stacked.  They showcased a range of styles from the rough-edged “President Gas” to the melancholic “She Is Mine” and finally arriving at the infectious “Pretty in Pink.”  And when they, at last, thanked the crowd (for the umpteenth time and after returning for an encore), the White Rabbit was that much more empty for them having left the room. 

Look out, Austin… here come the Psychedelic Furs.

The Life and Times of the Life and Times

We got to the Mohawk in Austin, TX early Thursday evening – May 27th – excited to see K.C.’s The Life and Times, and maybe even a little excited to see This Will Destroy You. These two bands paired up for a 10-day tour of the Midwest & Southern U.S. and for some reason, This Will Destroy You was headlining all the Texas dates. A band called Low Line Caller got the ball rolling that evening. They belted out a bunch of tunes in the vein of Spoon/The National/The Walkmen, etc. Not bad stuff, although nothing spectacular.

Shortly after, the Life and Times set up on stage and blasted into familiar tunes from their most recent effort, Tragic Boogie. They also threw in a few new songs to spice things up. It was great to hear them play the title track from Tragic Boogie and end their set with “The Politics of Driving.” All of us in the crowd who were familiar with the group expressed our enjoyment. The only let down for me – other than the fact that the Life and Times was not headlining the show – was not getting to hear them play “The Sound of the Ground.” Other than that it was a fantastic performance.

“Old Souls“

I was curious to watch This Will Destroy You despite the fact that I’ve seen them many times in the past (they were a local band before they found fame outside of the San Antonio scene). They started their set with a quiet guitar part which slowly grew into a messy array of swirling, delayed guitars and ear shattering bass riffs. I did manage to pick out a few familiar tunes in that ball of noise. “There are some remedies worse than the disease” took me back to the early performances I’d witnessed of this band, though Chris King’s lap steel guitar was oddly absent from the end part. I don’t know if the crowd was just friends of the band or if everyone was stoned, but the whole place had this house party ambiance. After about an hour of blowing out ear drums and looking like they were generally unenthused about being there, TWDY ended their set the way it began: swirling, delayed guitars slowly fading away even as their drummer began removing his kit from the stage. Their performance lacked the intensity of their past shows and live shows of similar bands in the post rock genre.   All I saw that evening appeared to be a road-worn band just going through the motions.

My bro conversed with the guys from the Life and Times before we split. I sat back and took in the scene of This Will Destroy You’s merch guy using his iPad as a credit card machine (in case anybody came to an indie rock show expecting to pay for merch with a credit card). If I had felt I hadn’t gotten my money’s worth before, witnessing this made me feel differently; now I’ve seen it all. It was certainly an unforgettable show.

- Van Damn

Machine and Dead of Night Light Up The Pedicab

In case you missed it, the most exciting thing in Southtown – and possibly most of San Antonio – last night was Dead of Night and Machine performing at The Pedicab.

Though temporarily hindered by electrical problems during their first song, Dead of Night screeched onward with a wailing, guitar-driven sound reminiscent of post-punk skate video soundtracks.  Dueling guitars, delicately distorted and revved-up to a car crash frenzy, provided nice atmosphere for Danny Holloway’s confident vocals.  Showcasing some of their musical influence, Dead of Night unveiled a song apiece by Joy Division and Nirvana.

Austin’s electro-duo, Machine, drenched The Pedicab in enough warbles, deep bass, and blips to suggest that the multi-colored liquid display projected behind them was a reality.  High-pitched, clear synth tones fell adequately like crystal orbs of rain into the rich pool of electronic modulation that undulated beneath the captivated youth on the dance floor.  Masterminds Jonathan and Chase bobbed adroitly back and forth between keyboards, turntables, gadgets, doodads, whatzits, and general hodgepodgery during their creation of what can only be described as mind-altering dance psychedelia.  And that’s a good thing.

Dead of Night and Machine will share a stage again July 3rd at Thirsty Camel with The Vanity Press.

Catch Machine at their free Pedicab weeklies:
June 8 w/ The Headshrinkers
June 15 w/ TBA
June 22 w/ TBA

A Washed Out Beach House in Austin

Laying on the floor, watching television.  Nearby, my cell phone rings as it, too, rests on the brown carpet.

“Hello?”

“You sure you don’t want to ride up to Austin with me?”

“I dunno.  What if I don’t get in?  I’m not getting dropped off anywhere this time…”

“Well, I’m just asking.  It’s not too late to change your mind.  I haven’t passed your street yet.  We can probably get you a ticket at the door.”

“Well…”

“Come on.”

“Ok.  But I’m bringing my rum, and I plan on going into a rage in the car this time.”

This is how my evening started, Thursday, April 22, hours before Washed Out and Beach House were due to appear onstage at Emo’s in Austin.  My last trip to a sold-out show in Austin with promises of me getting in at the door ended in a Friday night spent playing Rock Band with a friend who lived near South Congress, and while there was nothing wrong with that at the time, it wasn’t how I anticipated spending my Thursday night this go-round. 

So with a satchel consisting primarily of an oversized rum bottle and a leather journal, an empty cup, and a can of soda, I got into the passenger seat of a green Volvo and headed toward the long corridor of IH 35.  I filled half the cup with rum, and all of the car with the scent of it, before mixing in soda and settling in for an hour-long drive that would undoubtedly result in me making an ass of myself.

I fully anticipated walking the streets of Austin, ticketless, carrying a satchel of rum, and mixing with the youth who flow up and down 6th like driftwood.  I had pretty much resolved to accept this as my fate, but it was still more exotic and romantic than sitting on the carpet of a guest room and singing into a microphone that was duct taped to a speaker stand while I strummed a plastic guitar.

We parked off Red River (I refuse to pay for parking anywhere downtown) and devised a plan.  I expended the last of the soda and topped it off with rum before depositing the rum bottle (quite dramatically) into the trunk; I was feeling warm. 

“I appreciate you coming all the way up here with me.  I’ll sell my ticket and we’ll just hang out downtown.”

“No!  You came up here to see them.  We’ll find a ticket.  If not, I’ll be fine.  Maybe I’ll get lost in the streets and become a bum.  I’ll lead this independent life of adventure and longing, drifting from town to town in search of something always just out of reach…”

I can be so dramatic at times. 

We walked toward 6th, me spouting other such similar nonsense (see above) as we did so.  My tongue was loose and my cheeks were warm, and the cool evening did little to soothe them. 

“I smell Bacardi O on you…”

“No you don’t.  We just passed an orange grove.  I’m sure of it.”

There’s a line outside of Emo’s.  I’m not getting a ticket.  She offers to sell hers again, but I wave it off as nonsense and we listen to the ridiculous scalpers shout out equally ridiculous prices.  I’m not getting a ticket.  Someone calls out my name (well, a name I’ve been known to go by) and I turn to see my friend and his charming girlfriend.  They both have tickets.  I have none.  I approach a scalper whose holding a pair, but he’ll only sell the two.  He’s very gruff and makes no eye contact.  There’s still 45 minutes before the show starts; I decide to let time soften him up a bit.

And it does.  A newly-reduced price and a single ticket find me inside Emo’s with enough time to evacuate some Bacardi O and warm up to a tall Lone Star before the solitary member of Washed Out unveils tremendously inviting dance grooves to the hypnotized listeners.  I’m surprised, amazed, and impressed by his energy as he bobs up and down behind his keyboard, singing obscurely into a microphone that sends his voice out to us drenched in waves of electronica.  Three songs into what started off as a fairly mellow set, and the rhythm suddenly becomes contagious.  Even my stiff body finds some pliancy as I sway uncontrollably to the sound.

When Washed Out’s set is over, no one moves.  No one’s giving up their ground for Beach House.  This is my first attendance of their live performance, and if the fact that it was sold out wasn’t indicative enough of what to expect, the fact that no audience member was giving up an inch of where they stood for Beach House’s set was just as respectable. 

Clever name.  Their music lulled and foamed; was dramatic like me; was dramatic like the sea.  Daniel appeared nonchalant as he pounded his drum kit with mallets, all the while Alex’s guitar twanged cleanly throughout each song: melodic, constant, unwavering.  Victoria’s unique voice soared over our heads, and when she wasn’t singing, her long, wild curls flailed about her crown as she thrust her head this way and that.  I was glad I hadn’t chosen a life of vagrancy.  I could’ve run outside to kiss the scalper.  Washed Out was a great preamble to the liquid melodicism of Beach House, and no duct tape, no plastic guitar, no town-to-town drifting could’ve swayed my decision if I’d had the choice. 

We arrived back at the car, me promising to sing the whole way home, but my head was swimming in a tropical blend of mandarin and Beach House. 

The tide of sleep came in and pulled me out to sea.

Burial at Sea: Strangers Kill with “Ocean”

Listening to A Place to Bury Strangers live is less of an aural experience and more of an existential one.  This I already knew, but was reminded when I set foot in The Parish on April 8 in Austin.

The experience began in darkness with the theme from Twin Peaks playing tranquilly above what was soon to become a room filled with mayhem:  the calm before the storm.  The beauty of APTBS is their ability to do this, to create a swelling tension before the fury and beauty of their music is unleashed on the listener in layers of distortion that might drift away into the atmosphere if not weighted down by a heavy rhythm section.

Figures moving in the dark onstage.  Oliver.  JSpace.  Dion. 

Having fallen in love with APTBS during Jono’s bass reign, I was apprehensive about Dion’s ability.  Would he try to add his own flair?  Would he remain true to the original bass lines and save his creativity for new material?  As the band erupted into “Keep Slipping Away,” my affirmations of Dion’s integrity were evident in uncontrollable head nods kept in time to the rhythm section. 

The room was alive.  The room was an undulating sea of bobbing heads and raised hands.  The room was studded with brilliant camera flashes mimicking onstage strobes.  I momentarily watched the performance through someone’s digital camera screen raised before me and felt a concussive dizziness at the strange out-of-body experience:  Oliver wrangling his heavily modified Jaguar; Dion’s wide-legged stance, hunkered over his bass; JSpace battering weary skins.  All the while, a cocoon of sound enveloped me as I witnessed the affair through an artificial lens.  I could’ve vomitted pure elation and choked on the ecstasy of it.

When “Deadbeat” played, I roamed the venue frantically.  I had to get a drink.  I had to watch and hear from every inch of The Parish.  I had to escape the destruction of sound that I knew was imminent.  The frenetic energy of the song was too much for me live:  aggressive and unrelenting with Oliver’s vocals nestled insouciantly amidst the havoc.

What… what the fuck?

More camera flashes, more undulating sea.  More apprehensive me.

I never wear ear plugs.  How could I?  How could I deny the struggle of the outer ear frantically funneling psychedelia to the drum?  There was too much sound for the drum to absorb, anyway, I’m convinced, and most of it probably escaped into the smoke that drifted toward the ceiling and swished there lazily like a cat’s tail.  Besides, everyone in the audience that night shared the same pain.  We heard as much as we could hear in every passing second and let the rest depart on invisible waves of no-tone, and those wearing plugs missed the subtleties of each boutique pedal and the entire sonic spectrum APTBS laid out before us.

Oh, it’s “Ego Death.”  The pulsing kick drum echoed in my chest and gave the effect of a heart murmur.  Throughout the song, the Jaguar ascended into wild crescendo that ended in fuzz, that ended finally in a unified climax of noise before Dion kicked off “I Lived My Life to Stand in the Shadow of Your Heart.”  “Now they’ve done it!” I thought.  “Now they’ve painted themselves into a corner!”  The coup de grace on “Exploding Head” - the perfect end to a perfect album – has to be the final song of their set.  How can they top it?  The trio didn’t pull any punches with the song, harvesting all the energy of the album version and showcasing it perfectly onstage.  They destroyed the end as usual, building up to the sonic devastation that marks the last 2 minutes of the song, and I wondered what could possibly be next as JSpace and Dion kept playing, Oliver appearing to change a guitar string.  I sensed what was coming, but couldn’t quite believe it.

You have to admire a band that can take a song such as “I Lived My Life…” and follow it up with something even more amazing, even more inspiring, and that’s exactly what Strangers did that night.  Their ability to continually outdo themselves in live performances suggests the grounding for their immense popularity.  If Exploding Head is a must-have album, then a Strangers performance is a must-see event that tops any video, any downloadable track, any B-side, any remix. 

Oliver was almost done with his string and I was just waiting for JSpace to confirm my suspicions.  Yes, it was “Ocean.”  J began the distinct drum line for the monumental song while Oliver strummed his Jag into a frenzy.  I closed my eyes, standing in an ocean of music lovers and an ocean of a song.  Halfway through, Oliver takes a marked pause to contemplate what he’s about to do:  reveal his passion as a musician and lover of distortion.  Sharp feedback, then Oliver wildly strumming the strings of a guitar that he sometimes yanked viciously toward the sky, and other times brought low to the ground, cowering over it like a predator.  And then, in the middle of it all, he jumped offstage, jumped right off the front of it, and disappeared into the ocean of onlookers who were left to balk at Dion’s and JSpace’s now-solo performance.  I turned to watch Oliver dissolve into the dark, into the smoke, into the crowd. 

In his absence, the rhythm remained strong.  Though one of the highlights of Strangers’ music is Oliver’s wild guitar, J and Dion showcased the underlying beauty of it all with a staunch reverance to catchy, danceable hooks.  Finally, Oliver returned and climbed the stage.  Without strapping on the guitar, he finished the onslaught he started, gesticulating and thrashing while his six-stringed assault weapon screamed above the sea of viewers.

And as quickly as it started, it came to an abrupt end.  There was one final upheaval of noise, swelling to an immense apex before the sound died suddenly, lights out, darkened figures moving offstage. 

The experience ended in darkness.