I went out to the State Theatre last Sunday to see Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.I’ve been a fan of the band since 2005’s Howl.That album was filled with acoustic blues-stompers and earthy Americana.It was a departure for a band that built its reputation on heavily overdriven garage rock, but that record’s sound is the standard by which I’ve measured the band since it was the first I heard.
Therein lies the problem.
The California band, named after Marlon Brando’s motorcycle gang in 1953 flick The Wild One, built a reputation as a psychedelic garage-blues band with its first two albums.The most recent, Baby 81, was a return to this form.BRMC was at its best with Howl, but Baby 81proved that record wasn’t representative of the actual character of the band.I came in to the show with unreasonable expectations, and as a result I was a little disappointed.
Londoners The Duke Spirit opened the show.Bleach-blonde singer Leila Moss noticeably evoked Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon, wailing over walls of guitar.With her blonde locks, cute British accent and bluesily raspy croon, she exuded sex appeal no American Idol-produced pop tart could ever hope to match.In retrospect, the Spirit might actually have been the better band to take the stage this evening, and they left me in high spirits despite the general apathy of the audience.
At one point, Moss practically begged the audience to move around, asking, “How are those seats? Comfortable?” Unfortunately, the State Theatre is ill suited to the kind of audience involvement that befits this band. Even so, the Spirit turned in a fun and respectable performance.
BRMC didn’t take the stage for more than an hour after the opening act finished.The crowd grew progressively more restless, cheering when a song with the opening lyrics “I’m getting tired of waiting” came on the PA.
An explosion of strobe lights engulfed the theater when the band finally took the smoke-shrouded stage. The lights were pointed toward the audience, which proved to be immensely distracting throughout the show. At times, it felt as if the audience was under attack from the stage.My notes include such choice phrases as:
“Never point strobes at the audience.Thanks.”
“More strobes… having trouble seeing to write this”
and
“Punctuated by the strobes from hell”
I can’t be completely sure anyone else feels so strongly about strobe lights, but it sure as hell put me in a crappy mood and seriously infringed on my enjoyment of the music.I digress.
Guitarist Peter Hayes and bassist Robert Levon Been split the vocal duties, with Nick Jago on drums. Hayes’ deep, smooth voice balanced well with Been’s more nasal delivery.The set list included several cuts from Howl.
Unfortunately, the band played both of that album’s two best songs, “Shuffle Your Feet” and “Ain’t No Easy Way,” near the beginning of the set. Both of these were harmonic and acoustic guitar-driven blues stomps, while the rest of the songs in the set were enjoyable psychedelic rockers played with earnest intensity.
The transitions between acoustic and electric numbers were a little jarring. Because the State Theatre is a venue better suited for the former, an all-acoustic performance from the band would probably have been more desirable.
The rest of the people in attendance didn’t seem to mind the strobes and the odd order of the set list.After the first number, Hayes thanked the audience for its support.The man a few seats down from me took to howling “Thank you!” at the band following every song.Though he was genuinely thanking the band for making a stop in State College, I had never before heard the phrase coming from the crowd instead of the stage and felt accordingly uncomfortable every time he said it.
I’m still a fan of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and I’m glad I went to the show, but the next time they come through Pennsylvania, they might be opening for the Duke Spirit instead of the other way around.
Image what the Weather Channel would sound like if your TV was on ecstasy. That pretty much summarizes Lotus‘ style: smooth jazzy guitar work, funky bass lines and copious hand percussion infused with trance beats and sampling.
Lotus is always a fun show, and last night was no exception. The crowd was lively, having little trouble finding room to dance in spite of constrictive auditorium seating and narrow isles. Over-zealous ushers with little flash-lights and big egos tried in vain to confine fans to their assigned seats.
This Philly-based quintet can definitely jam. They worked through down-and-dirty dance sections, raging crescendos and funky break-downs with a skill and poise deserving of their recent national acclaim. And you’ve got to respect any band that can play through an hour-and-a-half set without having to pause to take a breath.
It could be that I’m just a sucker for hand-percussion, but I think Lotus’s dual-drummer approach created a densely layered rhythm section and lent a unique edge to their sound. Everyone loves a cow-bell. And what’s cooler than a cow-bell? Why more cowbell of course. Or try three cowbells being played in unison by two drummers with all sorts of tambourines, bongos and the like thrown into the mix. Then you get something really cool.
Lotus has come a long way since the last time they played in State College two years ago. Back then their sound was far more organic, resembling something much closer to straight jazz-fusion. Nowadays, the jazz influence still rings through but is often down-played or drowned out in favor of a style closer to the techno persuasion.
The new sound they’ve evolved seems generic; they’re just like the many other trance-fusion acts out there. It’s as though they’ve tailored themselves to fit a niche. The heavy jazz/funk element is what made them unique and I’m a little sad to see it go.
Even still, Lotus is a solid group and they’re certainly worth checking out.
Medeski, Martin & Wood want you to go to summer camp. Their summer camp where you’ll play dodgeball with John, have arts & crafts hour with Billy, and build fires with Chris.
OK, not really. But it is a summer camp where the boys of MMW will be on hand to be your INSTRUCTORS. That’s right, you’ll be learning directly from the geniuses themselves.
From August 5-10 at the Full Moon Resort in the Catskill Mountains, 80 musicians of varying talent will be able to learn from the great John Medeski, Billy Martin, and Chris Wood.
Camp MMW is open to anyone (16 years and up) and to any instrument. It doesn’t matter if you suck because this camp is a chance to journey into one’ musical self.
“Our camp environment should be the perfect setting for self discovery, improvisation and interplay,” Martin says in a press release. “Hopefully, we’ll get students to focus and develop their own vocabulary and sound on their instruments.”
It costs $1,750, but keep in mind that it includes five days at the resort, four full days of classes and nightly performances. If you’re interested, you can apply early (late registration will up the price to $2,000). Applicants must be able to provide a recording of your work (MP3 file). All instruments are allowed (so dust off that old recorder and put it on tape).
No matter that he sat in a chair, hat brim pulled low over his eyes, throughout his performance. Winter was just as full of the tortured Texas fire on Nov. 15, 2007 as he ever was in the ‘70s.
Winter played the State Theatre, State College, PA to a crowd of mostly middle-aged fans. It looks like the sun is setting on the blues, but on this night the music was alive and well. Almost all of the venue’s 500 seats were full.
My ticket was for Row B, a seat I was assured was in the second row. However, upon finding it, there were three rows between the stage and me.
“I wonder what the first two rows’re named…” I said to my friend.
The girl in the seat in front of me turned around. “They’re Row 1 and Row 2.”
“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”
The lights dimmed and Winter’s band took the stage. The weathered souls in the audience let loose with as much enthusiasm as if they were back in college and seeing a significantly younger Johnny Winter. A small group of audience members at the front of the stage actually were in college, but they were the minority.
The band launched into a searing blues jam, the Fender Stratocaster-wielding guitarist demonstrating all he’d learned from touring with a Texas guitar master. Oddly, it was the last time he’d be onstage until the last song of the set. Finally, with the band vamping and the raucous crowd jumping, Winter was helped out onto the stage. He’s less sprightly due to recent hip problems, but it only adds to his hard-times blues appeal. Taking a seat at the center of the stage, he was handed an oddly shaped guitar and proceeded to hold the house enthralled for the next hour and a half.
The guy next to me was no exception. As Johnny poured his heart into his guitar on Muddy Waters’ “Hoochie Coochie Man,” my neighbor matched him note-for-note on his air guitar. After a lengthy guitar duel, he retired to the air drums for a while, shouting “Hoo! Hoo!” after every song.
The guys in the college group at the front of the stage spent their time motioning for the crowd to stand up, but the initial ovation for Winter had apparently tired out the aging audience members. Everyone mostly spent their time imitating Winter and sitting in their seats, cheering the man on from a comfortable position. However, when Winter broke out his trademark Gibson Firebird for the encore and filled the room with his impressive slidework, the crowd was on its feet and the sound was deafening.
Winter might be getting up in years, but his following remains as faithful as ever.
Cake is ramping up for another run of the Unlimited Sunshine tour. This is the fourth incarnation of the traveling festival of eclectic acts headlined by the always quirky Cake.
The tour kicks off at the end of this month and runs through the middle of December with 12 stops, mostly along the West and East Coast corridors. Accompanying Cake will be Brazilian Girls, Oakley Hall, Detroit Cobras, King City, and Agent Ribbons.
After mentioning this tour to a few ladies, it became clear to me that the ladies are not so much into the Cake. Is it just that the ladies I know are Cake haters? Or is Cake a dudes-only kinda band? Let us know in the comments.
But enough chit-chat, tour dates and details after the jump …
The crowd at the State Theatre was transformed from reserved to rowdy over the course of the Drive-By Truckers show on October 25. Despite the venue, an old-fashioned movie theater, the atmosphere more resembled a Southern roadhouse before the show was over, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Drive-By Truckers - Puttin People on the Moon
Drive-By Truckers - World of Hurt
This was the final leg of Drive-By Truckers’ “The Dirt Underneath” tour, a string of shows in more intimate venues that aimed to showcase the band’s acoustic material. The Truckers are known for their Southern-fried rocking and this was a surprising change of pace. Frontman Patterson Hood assured me that the show would still kick ass, but I still wasn’t prepared for the amount of ass-kicking the band doled out over the course of two and a half hours.
Ryan Bingham and Dead Horses opened for DBT, playing to a sparse and sedate crowd. Bingham’s a west Texan, evident in the twang of both his accent and his acoustic guitar. As people filtered in he strummed and sang in a smoky voice of Dylanesque Americana, with the Horses keeping time. His urgings to the audience to get up and dance went mostly unheeded until his electric guitarist tore into “Bread & Water,” a screaming slide-guitar Texas blues meltdown. The house was full of whooping and hollering that wouldn’t stop until the Truckers took their final bow.
By this point the crowd had filled in. The guys in front of me took Bingham’s advice and danced between swigs from a flask. As Bingham left the stage, he thanked the Truckers for letting him accompany them on tour and lamented the damage it had done to his liver. Roadies lugged a cooler onto the stage and placed a bottle of whiskey by each chair to prove his point. When I went downstairs to get gum from the backpack I had checked at the front desk, the woman standing guard gave me a stern look. “Go ahead, but leave the beer in there.” The State Theatre doesn’t serve alcohol. I assured her that I would.
Drive-By Truckers took the stage to hearty applause. Their stories of Southern life may at times have seemed foreign to the central Pennsylvanians in the crowd but the meaning was lost on no one. Guitarist Mike Cooley sang with the voice Mick Jagger wishes he had and Hood spoke of tornadoes and unemployment over the hypnotizing ring of John Neff’s pedal steel. Everyone shouted requests at the stage and reacted to Hood’s between-song banter.
“He had never even been to Georgia before he met me,” Hood said about Neff. “He was conceived in Ohio.”
“Is that some kind of football thing? I don’t know shit about football,” Hood said. “All I know is don’t bet against Joe Paterno. I bet on an Alabama-Penn State game one time and Paterno crushed us.”
The entire theater had cheered at the legendary Paterno’s name, myself included. With the audience back in the fold, the band launched into another song. Bottles of Jack Daniel’s were passed from band member to band member. Bottles of beer from the cooler littered the floor. At one point, Hood circled the stage, pouring whiskey the other Truckers’ mouths as they played. The guys in front of me were dancing wildly, having finished their flask.
The show culminated in a rocking rendition of one of DBT’s oldest songs, delicately titled “Buttholeville.” “I’m tired of living in Buttholeville,” Hood sang. “Tired of my job and my wife Lucille.” The guitars, now overdriven, were roaring and the place was jumping. Hood himself was clutching the mic stand, swinging it around and rolling on the floor. As the band thundered to a close, Hood collapsed onstage. He picked himself up and promised the crowd that the Truckers would be playing in a bar and really rocking the next time they came to town.
If this was Drive-By Truckers’ idea of a laid-back acoustic show, I can only imagine what they have in store next.
In 1988, I was a 10-year-old latch-key kid with bad hair and an addiction to MTV. Every afternoon, I would do my homework while watching the daily top 5 countdown, rockin’ out to “One,” “Punk Rock Girl,” & of course “Pour Some Sugar On Me.” So, while other girls dreamed of riding unicorns or playing backup for Jem, I imagined myself in the front row of Def Leppard concert, thrashing and gyrating and singing along with lyrics I didn’t understand well enough to be embarrassed by. {I’m hot, sticky sweet, from my head (hea-ead) to my feet!}
So, yeah, you could say that heading west from Philly to see Def Leppard rockin’ the sweetest (SA-WEET!-est) place on earth was a dream come true. Sort of.
First of all, there was the whole Styx/Foreigner/Def Leppard line-up. In theory, this is a not-to-be-missed celebration of 80s awesomeness. In reality, it was kind of like a marathon of VH1’s Band’s Reunited — an homage to the rock n’ roll cliches of hairspray, spandex, & instrument acrobatics. (The keyboardist from Styx had a rotating Casio, which he periodically spun around, only to stop it suddenly and play it with this his hands behind his back.) Of course, there was a lot of mic stand swing dancin’. You know what I mean: the lead singer spins and dips and twirls the mic stand like he’s trying for a blue ribbon. All three bands were shamelessly guilty, but I think the prize goes to Def Leppard’s Joe Elliot, who seemed convinced that he could balance the mic stand on one finger for the duration of any guitar solo.
To be fair, I expected these bands to bring the cheese — and they didn’t bring anymore than they’d earned after 30 years of rockin’.
We got to the arena about 1/2 way through Styx — and were only in our seats for a song or two. But in that time I was entertained. Foreigner was pretty rockin’. Kelly Hansen, the new lead singer (since 2005) was spot on. His energy was super high, he showed alot of love for the crowd (a few times throwing his legs over the fence-like barriers on the sides of the stage, trying to get closer), and his vocals met my expectations of what all the Foreigner tunes should sound like.
Def Leppard on the other hand was not quite so satisfying. From the very first song (”Rocket”), something was off… at first, it seemed like the volume was turned down on Joe Elliot’s mic or it was way up on the guitars — you could just barely hear the singing. When you could hear it, his voice (much like his general presentation) lacked energy. He just kind of strutted around the stage, sometimes not even singing. About half-way through the show, it finally sounded like they got the volume right on the vocals… unfortunately, at the same time, something went south with bass guitar — and it started humming like an idling tractor trailor. I could feel my innards vibrating — which is as unpleasant as it sounds, making it really difficult to get into whatever song they happened to be playing (particularly when they played the ballad “Love Bites,” when every slow bass note felt like I was being dragged across a giant washboard).
Of course, everything was saved in my eyes when they finally played “Photograph,” “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” and “Rock of Ages.” Of course, I’m pretty sure at that point I was just hearing what I wanted to hear — I was also pretty relieved that it was almost time to go home.
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