Remember the night back in October when Wilco frontman Jeff Tweedy took a swing at some jerkoff fan that hopped on stage? [youtube]5wmAvy7C2co[/youtube] Well, the Yankee Hotel Facepunch heard ’round
We are gonna switch things up for this week’s edition of GTA. Usually we review four or five shows in this space, but this week we’re featuring just one. ‘Cuz really, this show deserves it’s own post. Dale “Sociable Chappy” Chapman turned me onto this incredible Pavement soundboard from the Great American Music Hall in 1994, and it comes with a piece Dale wrote about his experience at the show:
Pavement 04/23/1994 SBD (MP3):
The buzz around Pavement started in 1990 or 1991. Nobody knew for sure if these guys were actually a band or if they would ever release anything other than quirky 7″ and 10″ vinyl singles. By early 1992, however, months before Slanted & Enchanted was released, Rolling Stone called it one of the best records of the year, or the decade, or the millenium. One of those things.
When tour dates were announced and I secured my ticket for the show at San Francisco’s Kennel Club (now The Independent), my mind was exploding with anticipation. The performance was tentative, awkward and aloof, but it was absolutely spectacular. The first song they played was Loretta’s Scars, and I regressed to that kid in a candy store. A pig in slop. Grin from ear to ear.
Read on for the rest of Chappy’s tale and the downloads themselves…
Tom Hamilton’s putting his energies into the wrong band. Brothers Past is good at what they do, and I’m sure it’s more lucrative. But I can’t say that BP’s music has ever ensnared me quite like his American Babies side project did at the Knitting Factory last night. Given a proper upbringing, the Babies can grow into Monsters.
Hamilton’s slimmed-down version of American Babies — a powerful quartet featuring brother Jim Hamilton on bass, Sir Joe Russo on drums and Scott Metzger on guitar — expertly showcases his incredible songbook. I don’t mean to trip on over-enthusiasm here, but this show for me catapulted Hamilton onto the list of great young songwriters. His originals strike the perfect lyrical and musical balance between wide commercial appeal and misunderstood critical acclaim.
Capitalistic endeavors will likely lead him to pursue success for his more well-known band, but watching this semi-supergroup made me wish he’d put the Brothers in the Past and concentrate on bringing up the Babies.
Urgh! A Music War is one of the most criminally overlooked music films ever made. In 1981, the music scene was smack dab in the middle of punk giving way
Photos by Brian Diescher of Particle, performing at The Paradise Rock Club in Boston, MA on April 18, 2007.
Before we dive into an obvious theme below, let’s kick off the proceedings with a rippin’ version of Medeski Martin & Wood’s Think from the Umbria Jazz Festival in 2001.
We’ve been wanting to see Rose Hill Drive for a while, yet we missed this weekend’s show. Thankfully, Neddy was there, and he filed this report…
I felt like there was a white duck following me around Mercury Lounge on Saturday, abruptly squealing “AFLAC!” every couple of songs. The occasion was the Rose Hill Drive show, and I spent much of it feeling the limits of my flesh and bones, wondering if I needed supplemental insurance.
It was about three songs into the set that I was wondering if my regular insurance would cover all the hemorrhaging my ears were doing. You see, Rose Hill Drive was making my ears bleed. Sharp, loud, intense — guitar, bass, drums — ouch, ouch, ouch. It was a cranking start to the show.
The room was crowded and loose for a Saturday night, and they lit right into it. There was a “Showdown” early on, and they wasted no time getting onto the Hendrix bus with Band of Gypsy’s “Power of Love,” but song titles didn’t seem to matter much to me and my ears. There are few bands doing what Rose Hill Drive can do every night — Wolfmother, Earl Greyhound and, um, you tell me.
But none are doing the base, primal power trio face-melter thing with as much talent and zest as these guys. Not many have ever done it — Jimi Hendrix, Cream and, um, you tell me. I’ll take these under appreciated boots-to-the-head over whatever you got. I hadn’t felt this way about a band since the first time I saw Gov’t Mule for the first time almost a decade ago. A couple songs into the set and my head was buzzing, my nose was running and my ears were bleeding. What would happen if I lost my hearing — or sense of smell or taste for that matter? The rock was burrowing deep into me like a parasite, nibbling away at my soul from the inside. [AFLAC!]
Read on to see if Uncle Neddy makes it through the night…
Well-preserved archival live music’s not very tough to find, if you’re looking in the right spots (and you’re not a wall-eyed doof). And when I’m bored at work, or when I wish
The record is a very bizarre change in direction that falls apart at the seam, with the Brit-pop of “Ashes” the only early redeeming moment.
Seattle band The X-Ray Eyes put on a solid show recently at Chop Suey, adroitly playing songs that were clearly familiar to the audience while still making time for newer material. Their sound grounded solidly in straight-ahead rock with just a tinge of folk, the three-piece act put on a polished show.
