Joe
Romano soulfully blew some laidback sax for our frozen bones on Friday at The
Montage Grille. The joint was cozy, cool, and warm. And here’s the guy to play
in the background on Valentines Day, or when you simply have to say “I’m
sorry.”
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย When we’re not busy downloading
celebrity nudes, my know-it-all buddies and I love to debate punk rock’s
necessity, legitimacy, and worth. Was it necessary? Is it still necessary? Must
it die to live? Who the hell do Blink 182 think they are anyway? The whole
discussion can get pretty tangled and usually ends with someone in tears. For
there is no clear answer. And with the industrial-strength suction found in commercial
payola-driven radio, we need one, dammit. Guess what? I found it. It’s here in
our own front yard, amidst the Impalas on cinder blocks, dead grass, and lawn
jockeys. It’s loud, it’s snotty, it’s legit, and it’ll no doubt die eventually,
as all good things do. Never mind Sandra Bullock, it’s The Shakletons.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Two Saturdays ago I saw this band
for the first time. It played squealing punk rock with a general disregard for
anything but the form and its own transgressive mischief. The energy quickly flashed
throughout the room, causing the audience to genuinely act-up. Lead vocalist
and wrangler Patrick (first names only, please) held an expression of mock
confusion, quasi-anger, and genuine glee while the band pounded out its
bruising beat. This is one of the best bands I’ve seen here in a while. Dig
’em, punk.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Flew out to California to see James
Intveld play some slick country rock ‘n’ roll, dance to The Eddie Reed Big
Band, eat at Roscoe’s Chicken & Waffles, and wish former Rochesterian and
current Maroon 5 tour manager Ron Mesh a happy 40th. And just when you thought
it couldn’t get any better, Quiet Riot and Skid Row are coming to town. Cum on
feel the noize.
—
Frank De Blase
This article appears in Feb 5-11, 2003.
