The Girls Gone Wild Rocks America Tour at Water Street Music Hall was lame in the extreme and a
little embarrassing. It was more like Girls Gone Mild and Guys Gone Desperate.
Sure I love, love boobs — but on my
own terms. I wanna earn ’em. It ain’t a spectator sport. And I’m more than a
little tired of the bleach-blonde bimbetteprototype that’s supposed to
turn me on.
So
after wallowing with the trench-coat primate reprimanders, I headed over to
catch Stinking Lizavetta with Gil Mantera’s Party Dream and Sulaco. Stinking Lizavetta was long
over with and I’m sorry I missed them. I kinda dig their angular,
migraine-set-to-music prog rock. I’d heard raves about Gil Mantera’s Party
Dream. They were just getting off stage when I got there, and from the looks of
the guy in the white shoes and speedo, I’m not sure I’m sorry I missed them.
But
man, did I catch Sulaco. They are so loud it’s hard to tell just exactly what
they’re doing. The bass was so erotically subsonic it had the physical effect
Girls Gone Wild was supposed to have.
Scott H. Biram may be lost in Austin but he done got found at The Bug Jar two Thursdays ago
along with Syracuse’s Rocko Dorsey.
Dorsey and his band, The Individuals,
looked young, fresh (new gear, shoes, and everything), greasy, and, well kinda
like a rockabilly band — which ain’t a bad thing. However, they didn’t sound
at all like a rockabilly band — that ain’t a bad thing either — but filled
the room with a buzzy kind of pop.
Biram
is the kind of guy you don’t laugh at all the way just in case he really is
crazy. We all wanna be entertained, but nobody wants to get stabbed in the head
with a screwdriver. He broke out some new material and played it like it was as
old and wore out as his old Gibson, which incidentally had the tone of a
Massey-Ferguson stuck in the mud. Biram closed out the set with a stark, dark,
lonely, harp-and-vocal-only rendition of Son House’s “Grinnin’ In Your Face.”
The way he kept time by banging the Marine Band against the mic conjured images
of a haunted chain gang, or a sadistic dentist… on a chain gang… with a
screwdriver.
Tora,
tora, tora! Japan invaded Rochester last week with shows from Electric Eel Shock and Shonen Knife at The Bug Jar. Warming up
for EES’ Wednesday show was Babayaga who, though obviously rooted low down in stoner rock, played with assorted
grooves and tempos that really sounded cool along with the surprisingly and
refreshingly discernable vocals.
Next
up was Oxford, England’s The Thieves,
who played straight-up ’70s-ish hybrid rock ‘n’ roll a la Cheap Hoop or Mott
The Trickle or The Who before the hype. Everyone was there to see Electric Eel
Shock but I think The Thieves were the surprise act of the night. He shattered
his ankle running from hotel security in Los Angeles, but guitarist Hal rocked
nonetheless with his bum leg propped on a stool.
Electric
Eel Shock put on the same show they’ve put on the last three times they’ve been
to town. And that was the problem. They were tight and wild, but it’s time for
something new. The whole band is genuinely nice and obviously thrilled to
entertain. Their broken English commands and thanks were endearing. Things like
“Rochester most important city!” were actually gained in translation.
The
next night Shonen Knife kept up the
Far Eastern attack with a sold-out show that included The Scarlets and Visqueen.
And like The Thieves the night before, Seattle’s Visqueen was the star of the
night. The band played shaggy rock ‘n’ roll with minimal guitar flash and a
singer whose Suzie Quatro swagger had Mailman Todd’s heart all aflutter. OK,
and mine too. Shonen Knife was cute and played the same song for an hour.
Last
Thursday and it was the RPO with a
mother-daughter duo (Eugenia Zukerman,
flute, and Arianna Zukerman,
soprano). Conductor Christopher Seaman warmed up the “Uncommon Women” show with music from Joan Tower (in which the
music had Jack Webb chasing Felix The Cat in my head) and Sheila Silver. The
Libby Larsen Piece (featuring the Zukermans), “Notes Slipped Under The Door,”
was clever in its premise — a mother and daughter’s communication through,
you guessed it, notes slipped under the door.
And
though Arianna Zukerman’s soprano was rich and sweet, the piece seemed devoid
of any melody — or at least one that made sense. I know I’m a bit of a novice
to this genre (and I’m working on getting better, I promise), but the tune just
seemed to meander on and on like a kite with no string.
Slipped
out mid-Mahler for the Eddie Israel 81st birthday soirรฉe going on at the Clarissa Room. The joint was packed. The
stage was packed. Israel floated cool between bandstand, well wishers, and bon
vivants like a fedora’d diplomat. Here’s to 81 more, my man.
This article appears in Mar 9-15, 2005.
