Seeing Seattle’s The Makers two weeks ago squeeze their big rock into the little Bug
Jar made me dislike The Mooney Suzuki even more. When MS played here last they
pranced around like arrogant pricks, even after The Datsuns mopped the stage
with ’em. All these bands owe a lot to The Makers, who, on their latest CD, Stripped, and latest tour pay tribute to
themselves by redoing a lot of their earlier Estrus material.
Frontman Michael Maker moves with a
classic Jagger swagger and looks a lot like Prince. He seemed intent on
exposing his left nipple often, as if it made some sort of statement. The
little puckered brown protuberance frequently made the scene amidst the stage
fog, feedback, and general mayhem. The Makers’ set was tight, relentless, and
even showcased a few cuts off Rock Star
God, their rock-opera-type concept album I know a lot of their fans weren’t
initially wild about.
The
Priests opened with cuts off their new CD, Tall Tales. The band was a little less feral on stage than usual
but the music’s relentless strut sounded amazing. They’ve practically ditched
the bass and adopted a creepy Manzarek-type demon drone with a Farfisa —
creepy and cool.
The next night, Bob Log III rolled into town with Boxcar Satan, Singapore
Sling, and The Town Bikes. For
all his oddball breast-obsessed posturing, Log is a fantastic guitar player in
the spirit of Kimbrough, Burnside, and Hooker. Sometimes there’s nothing sexier
or sleazier than the slither of a low tuned slide guitar.
Dammit, I missed Boxcar Satan, but I
already have both their albums and love ’em. As I approached the joint a woman
came running out yelling, “My God, they sound like Beefheart!” And how often do
you get to hear that?
Scandinavian psychedelic, Singapore
Sling, hit the stage with a Jesus & Mary Chain wall of sound. Swirly and
edgeless, they reminded me a lot of The Brian Jonestown Massacre, complete with
epic, seemingly progression-less jams and a disconnected tambourine player who
managed to only get out “Raaawwchestaaahhh!” between songs.
The Town Bikes, a delicious duo of
cuties, did a cross between light burlesque and martial arts training to
piped-in music. They exhibited keen nunchucks skills, and seemed relatively
empowered, despite their name.
Two nights later it was The Cramps, who get better the older
they get. Guitarist Poison Ivy looked dangerous as ever in stiletto boots and
black vinyl as she banged and twanged her big guitar. Vocalist Lux Interior
looked horrifically beautiful as he strutted, pranced, preened, and repeatedly
sucked the mike until it squealed. With the addition of The Blaster’s Bill
“Buster” Bateman on drums, the band was wired tight, tight, tight.
The
Irving Klaws got themselves a new drummer too. And though I miss Wease,
their former caped-crusader-in-tights stick man, the band had a much tighter,
garage punch than before.
Detroit’s beehived Gore Gore Girls have grown up to a
quartet. They were sexy, raunchy, and cool. The new guitarist had such an
intense gaze that she burned seductive shame into the front row as she shredded
her strings. I just wanted her to scold me.
All bands on the bill rocked, or
appeared to, ’cause frankly the sound at The Sphere Entertainment Complex
(Buffalo) sucked the big one. There were all kinds of ear-splitting feedback,
garbled vocals, and drums out the wazoo.
The
Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players mesmerized the near-capacity Dryden
Theatre last Monday. The music is relatively crude and nerdy yet the duo’s (dad
on guitar and keyboard, 10-year-old daughter on drums) unpretentious attitude
was endearing. What really struck me was the life they breathed into otherwise
forgotten people through slides of them at birthdays, on vacations, or various
states of living a life that was important, at least to them. The songs were
all beautiful, often-hilarious comments on lives that could very well be ours.
Just make sure and take lots of pictures.
One-man show-opener, Touching you, also approached his
songwriting from Mt. St. Geek, but with an ominous, ironic twist, frequently
opting for death over love. His language and tone helped weed out some of the
casual observers who thought they were there simply to see old slides.
Sam
Roberts opened The Tragically Hip show last Tuesday at The Auditorium with thick-chorded guitar grooves and a
sound like Tom Petty before he took singing lessons from Bob Dylan. The Hip,
possessing one of the most recognizable voices in rock (Gordon Downie) packed
the joint with fans that seemed to know all the words. The sound was lush,
intricate, melodic, and loud. They’re big in Canada and getting bigger
stateside; all things Canadian are seeming more and more appealing, what with
the draft once again looming over young American heads.
This article appears in Oct 27 – Nov 2, 2004.
