Bare midriffs, sandals and burning sage galore! I stopped by the Harmony Festival tonight just in time to see a guy recite a song about hacky sacks, a clown-nosed Wavy Gravy ramble about yippie tomfoolery from 1968, and Dweezil Zappa lead his band in “Peaches En Regalia” while girls in fishnets and angel wings twirled near the pulsing lights. Later, over in the Grace Pavilion, the Jazz Mafia took the stage with ‘Brass, Bows & Beats,’ which you can read about in this week’s Bohemian column. “I wanna say thanks to the Harmony Festival,” said Adam Theis before the opening notes of his hip-hop symphony, “for taking a chance on something different.”
Theis is an avid skateboarder who always takes his board on tour; “if you don’t,” he told me, “you end up pulling up to the venue and there’s a skatepark next door.” That was the case tonight, since Jon Lohne and the rest of the Brotherhood Board Shop crew have assembled a mini-ramp and street course behind the Grace Pavilion. There’s even a VW bug car jump! But the real treat, at least to anyone who skates, is the fact that John Cardiel is DJing. No shit.
The beginning of the great Vice documentary Epicly Later’d: John Cardiel shows Cardiel in his room, flipping through Barrington Levy 45s and talking about how everyone expects him to like heavy music, like Slayer, to match his intense skating style. “I mean, I love Slayer, I love hard music,” he says, “but really, where my heart’s at, if you want to talk about some shit, let’s talk about some reggae.”
Tonight, Cardiel spun reggae and hip-hop records on a small stage next to the mini-ramp while festivalgoers in all manner of ridiculous costume walked by. Here’s one of the most influential and inspiring skaters in recent history, whose career was cut tragically short when he was accidentally run over by a trailer in Australia, DJing in Santa Rosa! Earlier in the day, fellow skate legend Ray Barbee played a 45 minute jam on the same stage, wailing on a Gibson guitar. Omar Hassan’s there tomorrow, and hell, even Tommy Guerrero is gonna be skating there on Sunday, so who knows what kind of musical mayhem will go down?
Click here for a full .pdf schedule of the skate area events.
More Photos Below. (more…)
No, it’s not a joke. The Ford Amphiteatre in Tampa, Fla. has actually, truly been renamed The 1-800-ASK-GARY Amphitheatre. Good Lord.
As reported by Kim Wilmath and Sarah Hutchins at the St. Petersburg Times, the new name comes from the lowest pits of hell a three-year, $1.1 million deal between the Live Nation venue and a local injury lawyer referral hotline owned by Gary Kompothecras.
The reporters managed to find one person in Florida who was excited about what’s clearly the stupidest venue name in America. That’d be a “close friend” of Kompothecras who goes by Bubba The Love Sponge Clem, and man, when I look for advice on names, he’s the guy I consult.
The rest of the folks, including the venue manager himself, could only offer somber reminders about the economy and the venue’s financial straits, which is what every single venue says while forcing the music-loving fans of their community to utter words of complete shame when talking about going to concerts.
Let’s repeat it, just for effect. It’s called the 1-800-ASK-GARY Amphitheater. Say it out loud. I dare you. We out here in the Bay Area have had to live with AT&T Park, the Oracle Arena, the HP Pavilion, Network Associates Coliseum and plenty of other horrendous corporate names, but this is without a doubt the worst venue name in history.
To the people of Tampa, I send my deepest condolences. Really. I’m truly sorry for you. And your children. You don’t deserve this. The rest of the nation is laughing at you, and it’s not your fault.
So I have some advice.
Do like we do in California when this type of insulting malice is foisted upon the public and simply refuse to acknowledge it. Call the place The Amp. “Whatcha doin’ Friday night?” “Oh, going down to the Amp to see Rihanna.”
And if that doesn’t quell the resentment? I can’t officially recommend breaking laws of any kind, although I will point out that spray paint is cheap and venue signage is accessible. Do with this information what you will, Floridians.
This Just In: The Lytton Band of Pomo Indians has donated $500,000 to the Wells Fargo Center in order to renovate and remodel the performing arts center’s lobby. No, this doesn’t mean they’re planning on building a casino on the site. It just means that the lobby will be named the Lytton Rancheria Grand Lobby, which for a half million seems like a bargain, don’t you think?
On to you, press release:
In addition to seismic upgrades, some highlights of the lobby project include dimmable architectural and theatrical lighting to replace the chandeliers, acoustic and visual improvements to the walls and ceilings, new floor treatments and carpeting, new stainless steel cable railings, first floor men’s restroom renovation with improved accessibility and ultra low flow fixtures, and 8 to 12 new plasma televisions to simulcast performances and events from the theater into the lobby and to be used for organizational messaging.
Organizational messaging! The new lobby—artist’s rendering above—should be completed by the end of the summer. None of the center’s planned shows or events will be disrupted. Work on the new space starts today with the removal of the lobby’s large, much-maligned chandeliers. And for that particular bit of sad news, I shed a tear.
Ode to the Chandeliers
Poor, poor chandeliers
I loved you so
Gigantic and wrought-iron
You oversaw church services
You illuminated everything
Red wine in tiny cups
Synthetic fiber in grandpa’s toupee
The sea of black clothing when Morrissey played
They claim you are ugly
But you were there when I was 5
And you were there when I was 34
And today they tear you down and take you away
Don’t let the bastards win, chandeliers
Only I sense your true inner beauty
Come live at my house
You are as big as my house
But I know we can make it work, chandeliers
The last time I ever saw Filth, right before Shit Split came out in 1991, less than thirty people bothered to show up. Nearly two decades later, for the first of four much-heralded reunion shows, you’d think there was a gigantic magnet at 8th and Gilman in Berkeley. At 6:30pm, there were 300 people in front of me in line; when doors opened, the line stretched around the block.
The rumor about tonight’s show was that Blatz was supposed to play too, which on sheer holy-fuck levels would have probably caused a Guatemalan sinkhole. As it stood, Filth sold the place out and just about threatened to tear it down. In a word, MAYHEM. It’s 2:14am, I just got home, drenched in sweat, smelling horrendously, delirious from being crushed by bodies, eardrums essentially kaput, and full of love.
You can go anywhere in the Bay Area and find your run-of-the mill, dull show. Not the case with Filth. Wheelchairs in the pit. People making out in the front row. Dozens of people on stage. Horrible sound. Entire crowd screaming “The List.” Swarming crowds falling at a 45-degree angle. Being held up by willpower and adrenaline. Boys wearing nothing but nuthuggers. Setlists stolen. Songs falling apart. Everything falling apart. Glory, glory, glory, glory.
Hanging over Filth like an albatross in their heyday was this really ragged notion that they began as a joke, exaggerating punk’s nihilism to ridiculous extremes, and that over time the joke morphed serious as their fanbase expanded. I’ve heard this rumor used against Filth, e.g. “Walk through the filth / You will find me there / Needle hanging from my vein” isn’t a reflection of Jake Sayles’ reality, but a hollow posturing to initially mock punk and eventually—when no one got the joke—to capitalize on it.
But can you name one band, or at least one great band, that doesn’t posture even just a little bit? The portrayal of what music listeners want as reality is often just as important as that reality. Maybe more so, actually—if Jake had needles hanging from his arm all the time, Filth probably wouldn’t have lasted long enough to record the most scathing, incredible crustpunk anthems to ever come from the East Bay.
I never gave a shit if Filth truly lived the chaos or not. What mattered was how their songs affected me, which is to say: strongly. Not only did they lend empathetic understanding to self-destructive impulses, they crafted said self-destruction as a powerful, torrential force. “You Are Shit” is still the most empowering song about the ineffectual nature of humankind ever written; if one realizes that we are all truly shit, and we accept that lowly role, then we receive liberation from the expectations of the world. It also totally fucking kicks ass.
Tonight, Jake ominously paced the stage like a bald eagle, virtually unchanged in the last 20 years. That same icy gaze and cold detachment. While songs occasionally sputtered—Lenny, Jim, Mike and original drummer Dave E.C. were really struggling amongst the waves of fans on stage repeatedly beaten back by security—the sheer fray of energy superceded technical “quality.” When Sayles reached the apex of the set, hundreds of suffering souls screamed along with the lines that defined the night: “You are within me / WE ARE ONE.”
It can’t go without notice that tonight was the 20th Anniversary of The List, amazingly compiled and distributed for two decades by Steve Koepke. Congratulations, Steve! And the Gr’ups, presumably filling in for Blatz, tore through a rambunctious set that had Jesse Luscious and Anna Joy swapping trademark sarcastic barbs between urgent versions of ageless anthems “On the Way to Frisco” and “Lil’ Red Riding Hood.”
I drove home in a daze. I really, really need a shower.
[UPDATE: Gilman has posted the full audio from the show here.]
If there’s one good thing to come out of Conan O’Brien’s ordeal with NBC, it’s that Max Weinberg is coming to the Mystic Theatre on June 28. He’s playing as the “Max Weinberg Big Band“—a 15-piece jazz ensemble, larger than the Max Weinberg 7 and even larger than the E Street Band—and he aims to recreate the classic era of Gene Krupa, Count Basie, and of course, Tonight Show icon Doc Severinsen. I am having nerdy visions of him walking out on stage to the Conan O’Brien theme song, although a swing version of the intro to “Something In The Night” would do nicely, too. Tickets are $30.
I first came across Guy Henry playing guitar three years ago, in a shed on Slater Street. Clubs were getting shut down left and right in Santa Rosa, guerrilla shows were thriving at Boys Club and the Boogie Room, and he and Nik Proctor passed a red hollow-body guitar back and forth among the wood-plank walls, making some of the most beautiful, eerie music I’d heard. I immediately crouched in the corner and started writing in my notebook. I wanted to capture it. I sensed it wouldn’t last.
Even though Guy is still playing music under the moniker Low Five, he’s always changing things up. Two years ago he added Goodriddler‘s Nicholas Wolch and bassist extraordinaire Kyle Lindauer to Low Five, and the shows I caught were mind-boggling—the songs swelled and drifted and crashed and rose like gales of paramecia. Every time I saw them, the songs were different; inverted, folded, turned inside-out, a cousin to Animal Collective’s guitar-driven Feels era mixed with ragged, free-form improv.
Against likely odds, Low Five quickly became a veritable buzz band around town. But then… the band took a hiatus. “We’re scrapping our set and writing all new songs,” Wolch told me. What the hell? How could they just ditch all that greatness and start over? Didn’t anyone record them?
Fortunately, local recording engineer Ross Harris did. Those full-band tracks mixed with some of Guy’s home-recorded solo material comprise Low Five’s debut album November, timely captured and released this month by Saint Rose Records. You can pre-order it here.
As for that hiatus? Sources tell me that Low Five had band practice again just last night. I can’t wait to see what new tip they’re on when they reemerge.
– Ceremony’s new record is called Rohnert Park. The cover photo is awesome. I talked to vocalist Ross Farrar about it before the band left for Korea; it’ll be in the Bohemian next week. “I have mixed feelings on Rohnert Park,” he told me. “I do have a little bit of tension. A lot of things happened when I was growing up here, but I realize now that I’m very appreciative of it. So calling the record Rohnert Park is a balance between homage and hatred.”
– The Christina Aguilera record has leaked. Don’t laugh. She’s got an amazing voice that’s always wasted on poor material, and I’ve been waiting for the material to catch up. This could be the one. “Bobblehead” is straight-up Manaj / M.I.A. Stylez.
– The wedding of the year took place over the weekend, and on the decks was the erstwhile DJ Broken Record. While Ben and Desiree walked down the aisle to a throng of cheering friends, this remix of “Rebel Girl” played triumphantly. Specially curated for the Star Wars obsessive and/or Bikini Kill fan. Way to go, Edgar.
– The Arcade Fire is putting out a new record. Despite attempts to be blasé toward it, the first couple teasers sound really good.
– Eric Lindell recently left Alligator Records, started his own record company Sparco Records, recorded an album at Grizzly Studios and put it out on vinyl. It’s the best record he’s ever made. Includes a stunning version of the Impressions’ “It’s Hard to Believe,” and even a song dedicated to Bodega. He plays the Forestville Club this Saturday, May 29.
– I saw Jeff Ott at the wedding, which reminded me that Fifteen has a new 7″ coming out. You read that right: it’s an old recording of the band’s cover of “Caroline,” the Jawbreaker classic. I’m pretty sure it previously appeared on Eggplant’s tape, Later That Same Year, which I still have. I do know that Hanalei contributes the B-Side; a cover of “Petroleum Distillation.” Order it here.
– Hanalei has an amazing new record coming out this weekend called One Big Night. See him play on Friday, May 28 at Thee Parkside and Saturday, May 29 at the North Bay Film and Art Collective. Also playing the Collective show are the New Trust, now (again) with a fourth member, Chris Brum, and also Paper Hands, the new band of Michael Richardson, Kevin Buchholz and Dio McLeod. Pants will be shat.
– I was pleased to see the New Yorker‘s Sasha Frere-Jones give a tip o’ the hat to Type Records and the noise scene in general this last week. As previously mentioned, the Yellow Swans LP is magnificent, as is Grouper’s Dragging a Dead Deer Up a Hill. I stopped in at Amoeba after the Giants game on Sunday and bought Jóhann Jóhannsson’s And In The Endless Pause There Came the Sound of Bees LP, which is rather beautiful classical-ish music written as the score to a film. To counter, I also picked up RRR-1000, which may be the most ridiculous record of all time. (Since RRR-500, at least.) Quite an incredible essay on the subject of locked grooves, and RRR-1000, is here.
– David Byrne is suing Florida governor Charlie Crist for using “Road to Nowhere” in a campaign ad without permission.
– What’s that about Mike Richardson? The Benton Falls album Fighting Starlight is reissued on vinyl? No way. Also: Converge’s Jane Doe and available as a pre-order from Plain Recordings, Spiritualized’s Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space.
– Do take pleasure in this video for E-40’s “Lightweight Jammin’.”
– Lauryn Hill is headlining this year’s Harmony Festival, and it will either be so bad that people will flee to the gates and demand their money back or it will be the greatest comeback in ages. Assisting the chances of the latter: she’s rumored to be doing her entire album The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill in its entirety at select Rock the Bells shows this summer. Or maybe not. Or maybe so. At any rate, if she hits the stage in Santa Rosa to the album’s first track “Lost Ones,” shit could go off.
I saw KRS-One on Friday night. He wasn’t really on his game for the first half of the set, and covered by saying that he was soundchecking. Soundchecking in most circles means you’re supposed to show up to the club at 5pm to check levels. (Soundchecking in hip-hop means you show up to the club 30 seconds before you hit the stage and then get on the mic to complain that the levels are all wrong.)
So KRS-One kept switching mics, but he also kept switching songs—drop the beat, verse and a chorus, cut to the next track. Skittish. “My Philosophy,” “Sound of Da Police,” “Criminal Minded” and more got lopped short while KRS ran the usual berating-the-crowd-for-not-knowing-the-classics. Sigh. He still couldn’t find a mic he liked, nor did he ever finish an entire song.
But the show went from averagely average to awesomely awesome in one quick moment. KRS found a mic he liked, cried, “oh, that’s the one!” and hopped off the stage into the crowd of people. I thought he might stay there for half a song or so, but instead he cleared a huge circle for various breakdancers and kept rapping. The song ended; he kept rapping. Another beat dropped; he kept rapping.
For a half hour out on the floor—much to the confusion of the club’s security team—KRS-One brought the place to life. What’s more, he brought the spirit of his Bronx upbringing, and thus the spirit of hip-hop’s upbringing, to a little club in Santa Rosa. He’s been on “tour” forever, but he calls it a mission, and left a few converts in his wake on Friday, for sure.
You hear about heavy metal singers dying even before they’re dead. Jazz musicians, it usually takes a couple days. Hank Jones died on Sunday at age 91. I really loved his playing.
The NYT has a somewhat voyeuristic look into the 12′ x 12′ room where he holed himself up in his final months, practicing incessantly. It’s a surprising vision of where even the greats like Hank Jones end up.
If you’ve never seen the Tel Aviv quartet Monotonix, you might be better off. A quick search on Google Images gives you the idea: lighting their drums on fire, crawling over every imaginable venue surface, flailing upside down over audiences. Everyone I know who’s seen them reports back either amazed or terrified—or, as in the case of a San Francisco show where band members ran out into the streets half-naked and finished their set in a tree, thoroughly amused.
Last year, Monotonix played the UK All Tomorrow’s Parties festival and were summarily banned for mayhem of their usual sort. That didn’t stop Pavement, curators of this year’s festival, from requesting that they come back. Looks like the band tried and tried and tried to be calm and polite—for once! But, alas.
This in from the band:
Like we said before, for the ATP show we tried something different to make sure they don’t shut us down – because the country club that hosts ATP freaked out about last time we played there and the nature of our show. We asked them to make a little mobile stage for us, put it in the middle of the room, and we will sit on chairs on that stage and play 10 new songs that will make most of our next album without moving or doing anything except for playing music —with the audience around us.
The organizers tried to get the audience to sit down on the floor, but as soon as the crowd got up and started dancing, getting a very rough treatment from security, they literally pulled the plug on us, during the beginning of the 5th song, while we are just sitting on chairs playing our new songs.
Another amusing thing was that security refused to let half of the people into the venue until the middle of the first song, they wanted to “see what we’re gonna do” first before they let the people, who paid money to see the bands, come in. In the middle of the first song the other half of the people came in, and during the third song – everyone (except for us) got up and started dancing and having fun.
There were representatives of “Butlin’s Country Club” in suits (!) making sure “nothing happens,” and 25 security guards around us, it was a pretty surreal experience altogether.
We just wanna thank all the great people who came to that show, we had a blast playing those 4 new songs to you and it was very special, regardless of how short it was. It was nice to see everyone connecting to the music so much when there was really nothing but the songs. We’ll see you when we tour the U.K in September or other parts of the world this summer. Till then…