The Aerosmith-Cheap Trick bill at
Darien Lake three weeks ago drew one of the ugliest crowds I’ve seen in a
while. Apparently, all the good-looking folks couldn’t afford the $40 to $85
tickets.
Cheap
Trick’s all right, they just seem a little weird. They are true pop-rock
masters, but definitely their own biggest fans. The band seemed pretty jazzed
to be on stage after all these years and came off as excited as their fans when
hits like “Hello There,” “I Want You To Want Me,” and
“Surrender” rolled off the stage.
Aerosmith
continues to pound out heavy, bluesy rock ‘n’ roll with one foot in the jungle
and the other in the grave. These guys have been around forever and still no
one does it better… except for maybe The Veins.
I
spent an afternoon in the Waxahachie, Texas, shade two weeks ago to celebrate
the life of rockabilly legend Ronnie Dawson. Ronnie didn’t want no stinkin’
funeral, he just wanted everyone to get together and play music. And that’s
just what we did. Bands and musicians from all over including High Noon, Marti
Brom, Ray Sharpe, Bill Kirchen, Nick Curran (recent W.C. Handy Award-winner),
The Levee Singers, and Spongebob Squarepants descended on Gryphon’s Motorcycle
Club for what amounted to a big family picnic full of old stories, beer, and
rock ‘n’ roll.
Let’s
hope we don’t have to have a memorial for Monty’s Krown. There are all kinds of
fingers being pointed, but the bottom line is the joint’s in trouble. So drink
up, tip heavy, and dig the bands (some of the best — and sometimes some of
the worst — you will ever hear). The multi-band benefit last Saturday netted
a modest sum to shore up the cracks in Monty’s financial dam. I only caught two
acts: The Piechey Nietzches, who drew large, and The White Devils, because,
well, I’m one of ’em.
Then
I had to get over to the Bug Jar for The Autumdivers’ multi-media CD release
extravaganza. The band was great and the packed room, enthusiastic. Their
dynamics work in an ever-building continuum of atmospheric tension and release
— they continuously draw you in, even when you feel you’re as far as you can
go. What a great original band.
Wednesday
night found me diggin’ on The Margaret Explosion (complete with a rehydrated
and upright Paul Dodd) in the Little Theatre Café. I can get sick of just about
everything I like, eventually — fried chicken, blondes, The Stones — but
not The Margaret Explosion. Their esoteric wonder paints pictures in my head
nonstop. And I mean cool stuff too, like a three-legged Little Egypt undulating
up to her knees in coconut cream pie, while big bears on little motorcycles
circle around singing “doo wah diddy diddy dum diddy do.” No drugs,
honest, just real good music. Good deserts, too.
Two
new signs of the apocalypse: a kid at last week’s Harry Connick, Jr. show
sporting a Dead Kennedys t-shirt and Joe Clay’s rare but rockin’ 1950s hit,
“Don’t Mess With My Ducktails,” playing in the background at The
Dewey Avenue Friendly’s. Harry’s FLPAC show was the same one he always does.
The audience just eats him up. The guy’s a monster talent when he and his
amazing band get down, though lately he’s been getting a little too sugary for
me. But hey, you can’t disappoint those soccer moms.
This
past Saturday was an outstanding multi-band rock bill at The Bug Jar with The
Paybacks, Suran Song In Stag, Gad, and The UV Rays. It was here that El
Destructo and I decided wrong is the new right.
I
came in late after my umpteenth visit to Sticky Lips BBQ (and no, I’m not Uncle
Frank) to catch Gad screeching through a Stooges cover. I’ll come earlier to
catch ’em next time, I promise.
The
Paybacks rocked mercilessly. This quartet is every cool automotive metaphor you
can dream up. Their music is as desperate, violent, and ugly as their hometown,
Detroit. Their lead guitarist wailed relentlessly and banged his head so
joyously, I’m surprised his glasses didn’t fly off. Mine would’ve.
Suran
Song In Stag rolled in from Brooklyn, and sounded a thousand times better than
last time, when the performance of drenching herself in blood prevailed over
the music. Suran later told me the blood was actually chocolate sauce. And
because she couldn’t always wash it all out on the road, it gave her lice —
twice. How hardcore is that?
This
time the band was engaging, quirky, and fun. The drummer was easily replaced by
a CD drummer who occasionally decided to skip — or was it to syncopate? I’ll
definitely go see them again.
Though
it was The Paybacks’ night, the stars were The UV Rays, who rocked snotty,
cocky, and loud à la The Dictators. Theirs is a wild show with a genuine
element of threat and disaster. Good, loud rock ‘n’ roll that will never make
it on the radio ’cause it’s so ugly and beautiful.
And
now I’m heading down south for some real summer.
This article appears in Jun 30 – Jul 6, 2004.
