Beautifully bombastic

The Suicide Girls have brought bump ‘n’ grind one step closer to rock ‘n’ roll. Pushing the
standards of traditional burlesque and augmenting it with punk rock, this
troupe of punk pop tarts stripped and teased and copped heaps of attitude to a
capacity crowd at Buffalo’s Soundlab two weeks ago. Black electrical tape
pasties, and a handful of risqué scenarios put the Girls into the altogether on
their own terms.

            When
the roadies began to cover the speakers and other stage valuables with plastic
in preparation for the chocolate sauce finale, I knew it was time to step back
a few feet. I’d seen enough t&a. Besides, I’m sweet enough. Openers from
Florida, Bloom, are hopefully what
the next generation of power-pop will sound like.

            Last
Tuesday, Sonny Landreth blew into
the Montage to a packed house. It always pleases me when a show this cool does
well, because normally it seems my heartfelt endorsement for a band winds up
being the kiss of death. Landreth’s playing was simply amazing, his demeanor
low-key and sincere. Torrents of notes flew from Landreth’s relatively standard
Marshall rig. Jaws hit the floor more than once as his left hand walked the
nickel-plated tightrope and the right hand’s digits fluttered and blurred like
hummingbird wings.

            With
Sonny’s Louisiana boogie still burning in our ears and the Montage’s Louisiana
gator fritters burning in our bellies, my shutter buddy Liz, ex-Rochesterian
and Lilly’s Buffet belter Cheryl Laurro, and I traipsed over to a pre-war
Berlin Bug Jar to dig The Dresden Dolls.
The duo brought a keen sense of intimidation and wry humor to what appeared to
be a somewhat disturbed reality. Pianist-vocalist Amanda Palmer tickled the
ivories, occasionally adding a syncopated skip to odd measures, giving the feel
of a dusty 78″ skipping and spinning on a beat-up gramophone. The Dolls were
wonderfully weird and hauntingly beautiful.

            It was the
second time around for Fat Possum’s Juke Joint Caravan starring T-Model Ford, Paul Jones, and Kenny Brown at The Montage this past Thursday. It was the rough ‘n’ raw blues from the
Delta, baby. Good and loud, too. The last time Jones was in town he leaned a
little on the r&b side. This time it was all gritty, gutbucket funk with
Jones playing essentially the same searing solo on every song.

            T-Model
Ford seems to have mellowed and cheered up a little since last time. He picked
and grinned the blues and strode his guitar through classic blues stompers in
spite of the god-awful flanger effect he has adopted.

            Then
there was Burnside protégé Kenny Brown — a rarity on Fat Possum records,
because he’s young and white. This man positively burned up the slide guitar
with Burnside’s grandson Cedric putting some serious muscle into the drums.
This man’s music got under my skin quick. None of the acts had bassists. Who
needs those uppity meatheads anyway?

            Stuck the
Veins’ Hollywoodland in the dash and
jetted up to Toronto during the night to avoid border tie-ups. A person with a
lot of tattoos frequently suggests, “Search me and my car.” Destination: Lucha Va Voom, a spectacle of authentic
Mexican wrestling with beautifully bombastic burlesque routines. Brought to you
by the people that brought you GWAR, this is gonna be huge, I tell ya.
Highlights included Los Minis
Superstrellas (midget wrestlers) and a routine by the amazing Miss Cardinal Cyn that was so intense
not one of the roughly 30 pictures I shot were in focus. Maybe I was just a
little distracted.

            I spent
this Saturday, once again, at the Montage for The Preservation Hall Jazz Band. The band came out stripped-down
and bluesy, slowly adding additional members with each tune. They weren’t as
brassy and Dixie-fied as I remembered, but they were a lot of fun, and
encouraged plenty of audience call and response and even a conga line of sorts.
It was simply beautiful American music, and hopefully, there’s more on the way.
Stay tuned.

This article appears in Mar 10-16, 2004.