It seemed like Nancy Sinatra‘sboots
were made for just kinda standing there on the Montage’s groovy, new, and
improved stage. She launched the early show with the sexy cool she’s known for
with a super-sensual rendition of “Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down),” but that
was it.
The
show was a yawn fest with occasional pangs of embarrassment like the kind you
get watching your mom try and sing karaoke in heels while buzzed on chardonnay.
Kinda creepy, kinda Blue Velvet. And
the age-defying lighting (i.e. the dark) didn’t help those of us with cameras.
Dick The Dancing Record said the
later show was equally surreal but phenomenal due in large part to the huge
audience response.
I
left in order to thin out the blood in my caffeine stream and to rekindle my
love of women in rock. Slid into Java’s for the joe and slid Loretta Lynn’s Van Lear Roseinto the dash to sate the rock jones. This is just an amazing
country record.
A
few days later I found myself again in stitches with NYC
beat-punk-poet-laureate and caustically casual observer Hamell On Trial. The way this guy personifies the inanimate and
addresses the absurd while beating the hell out of his guitar is engaging. It
was one man, one acoustic guitar (still really loud), and a quiver of songs
about true love, jerking off, liberal politics, rock poseurs, and John Lennon.
Sunday
was fun-day with The Dovers and The Deadly Snakes. The Bloody Hollies skated on the bill ’cause their drummer done
quit. They could have asked Rob Filardo. He’s got time for another band, right?
The Dovers are a new stripped-down trio of lo-fi coolness. One guitar, one
singer, one drummer (two arms). Their set was frenetic and kinetic and rocked
all Sympathy-like. I dug ’em a lot.
The
Deadly Snakes are rough and raw and bluesy and soulful to the max — on
record. Bop Shop Otto Hauser loaned me their two discs and I was all jazzed to
catch them live. But the sound kinda sucked, or was just really unbalanced (it
was all bass and drums), and they just stood there. They looked uncomfortable.
Maybe they were having an off night, it being Sunday and all.
k.d. lang’s Thursday night show
at The Eastman Theatre was spellbinding simply because of her voice. Lang and
band put on absolutely no stage show, offered limited banter, and filled the
spaces between songs with tangibly dead air. But it didn’t matter. Her voice
will put your jaw — if not all of you — on the floor.
She
gave my goose bumps goose bumps when she tore into Roy Orbison’s “Crying.” The
hushed, barefoot tone of the show just added to the weight of her voice. When I
die and go to heaven I know all the angels will sing like her… or maybe like
Popeye.
Unfortunately
all my hobnobbing with lang made me miss The
Deadstring Brothers. I love their lonesome-sounding CD though: Detroit
country, and good country at that. They warmed up for The Bastard Sons Of Johnny Cash. They were OK, but let me just say:
If you refer to yourself as a bastard and refer to the Man In Black — in your name no less — you’d better
bring it. The Bastard Sons Of Johnny Cash were a tight band, but leaned on too
many covers for my taste and didn’t come off nearly as gritty as I need to get
off. Plenty of twang but no bang.
Speaking
of which, on the same night the incomparable Hi Risers banged and twanged Dinosaur’s doors off. They slowed it
down just long enough so I could get a slow dance in before kicking back into
bop overdrive. Can anyone sit still at their shows? I dunno, corpses perhaps.
Veluxe rocked deluxe at The Bug
Jar last Saturday. With soft contoured pop melodies, interesting chord
structures, and just enough velocity, these guys rock.
The Diva Show at The Montage is
really a great idea: the Peachy Neechies backing up a string of would-be starlets. Though there were obviously varying
degrees of experience or proficiency, the packed house poured love and support
all over those who ventured on stage.
Caught
Canadian singer-songwriter Mary Simon at Milestones the same night. She still sounds plaintive and innocent, but her
backing band fleshed out the groove and put her in a more rock light. It was
pleasant and catchy. It looks like she’s let her hair grow, too.
The Flour City Knuckleheads were at The
Club at Water Street last Friday. These guys are punk, sloppy, and cool. They
seem to have the right idea — touring, touring, touring, playing, playing,
playing — and are building a strong fan base here as well. Everyone in the
joint seemed to know all the words.
See
all you angry inches at Hedwig this
week.
This article appears in May 26 – Jun 1, 2004.
