Showing posts with label josh gordon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label josh gordon. Show all posts
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5 Ways Not To Blow That Fleshy Mounds Interview and Piss Off Your Editor


Fleshy Mounds are a rookie Buffalo punk band with enough songs for a six- or seven-minute set. The four-piece features newcomers Jamie "Les' Cousin" Claypoole (I think) on bass and Melissa [inaudible] on guitar; first-time-drummer, long-time-punk Kathy [something] sits behind the kit; and local punk rock legend Steve Curefiend (?) (formerly of Sonorous Gale, Robot has Warewolf Hand, and The Control, among others) writhing and howling his way through a pretty good David Yow impersonation.*

Their guitarist plays out of a dual stack of 10-watt practice amps. Sort of as a joke, sort of an "I don't give a fuck," sort of a, "hey, this is my first time playing guitar in a band."

Jamie likes sunflowers. And Abe Lincoln.

Kathy's - nice?

Fleshy Mounds played their first show September 1 at the Glitterbox with Aaron and the Burrs and Black X.

 I interviewed them back in August. I was supposed to post that interview on buffaBLOG, but I didn't. After that, I didn't write a show preview, and I didn't cover the show that night. I did end up writing a real nice resignation letter to buffaBLOG editor/enforcer Mac, which he promptly tore up and spit on, then told me, in so many words, that I appeared to be in good dental health and, from then on, the integrity of my dentition would be tied directly to the quality of my Fleshy Mounds submission.

 Looking back over my interview notes, all I could make of my drunken chicken scratch were three digits of a phone number and "let's fuck." The rest was gibberish. But - no worries - I recorded the whole thing!

 Unfortunately, I don't remember chucking my voice recorder in a fish bowl buried in mud, all of which was submerged in quicksand, but it sounded a lot like that.

 I'm screwed. And so, instead of letting the experience go to waste, I thought I'd offer any aspiring journalists in the audience some advice. Don't do what I did, and you won't find yourselves with a long-blown deadline and an very angry, very violent editor who refuses to take "what do you want, for free?" for an answer.

 Here are five don'ts to remember if you want to keep that pretty mouth of yours.

Above: Mac (artist's impression)


 1. Don't dick around on the Internet, watch porn, drink beer, and play video games

 Just add "smoke weed" to the list, and you've got yourself a PSA.

 The Ad Council doesn't give a damn if you're a useless, porn-hungry drunk screaming racist slurs at a young child who just blew your ass up with a pretend grenade over XBox live. That stuff is cool. That stuff is legal.

Go ahead - spend the night on Buzzfeed, clicking through yet more inane, numbered lists of shit you remember as a child of the '90s (not that there's anything wrong with list-based entertainment...), because tomorrow's another day.

 Feel free to drink yourself into oblivion - war is hell you know, and it'll ease the pain of mowing down yet another screaming gaggle of Ay-rabs on Call of Duty. Not only that, it'll erase the memory of that bizarre crush-porn you found after new-tabbing over from "35 Popples You Forgot About Until Just Now" and discovered yourself in a very weird corner of the Internet.

 Anyone remember that Stile Project video (SFW) with the tiny guy and the morbidly obese lady's bellybutton?

 Me either.

 Are you a drooling, bigotted, flag-humping, thumbless alco- and porno-holic with no job and no marketable skills because you've spent all your time playing racist war simulations and getting Doritos dust on your junk while watching diapered adults pop balloons with their stillettoes? That's cool.

 That stuff is fine. That stuff is legal. The Ad Council doesn't care.

 As long as you're not smoking weed.

 Because if you're smoking weed, this definitely happens:

Sarah smoked weed. Now Sarah is flat. Fuck you, Sarah. You coulda been somebody.

 I don't smoke marijuana cigarettes. Not me. Never. But I do have my vices.

 Which is why Fleshy Mounds never got the press I promised them.

I should have posted their article two weeks ago. Unfortunately, I had vidya games to play, beer to drink, RedTube to surf. I'm a busy man.

 Speaking of which, PornHub just released an interactive map of the top three porn search terms by state. Check it out!

 Oh, and GTA V releases in a couple of weeks - better read up on the latest rumors, despite the fact that I've preordered the shit out of that game and I'll get to see everything in it for myself in a matter of days! What's that? I can play golf in the middle of my larceny-and-murder sim? Yes, please! AND I can buy car insurance? I hate doing that in real life, but in a video game?! Look out, rival gang members! Outta my way, prostitutes! I've got fantasy-bills to pay!

Wait, what were we talking about?


Above: Satan's minions (artist's impression)


 2. Don't turn a local band interview into a piece of groundbreaking journalism

 Oh yeah.

 After failing to deliver this article the first time, I knew it couldn't just be an interview. No problem - Fleshy Mounds had a show coming up: it'll be a preview and an interview. Great!

 But after another missed deadline - and then another - I knew it had to be bigger than that. Shit, Mac is gonna kill me - it's got to be THE BEST FUCKING BAND PROFILE EVER WRITTEN!

 This isn't about Fleshy Mounds anymore. This isn't just a local punk band so new they don't even have a Facebook page, let alone a demo. No - this interview will go down in history as a timeless piece of journalism, one of those great, rare conversational exchanges that alters the modern world in some fundamental way. 

They're Malcom X now. And I'm not just some schlub on a local music blog - I'm Alex fucking Haley, telling it like it is and profiling a whole social movement in the process. I'm Dan Rather; they're Saddam Hussein, and it's just days before the 2003 Iraq invasion. They're Nixon; I'm Frost.

 Yeah, that's it! There's a lot riding on this one. And if I don't get it in on time, the home audience will never know that the bassist of Fleshy Mounds has mentioned Abraham Lincoln as her greatest influence, or that the drummer thinks accordions are the shit ever since she bought one from a German dude named Werner ("Vuhh-nuhh") in Manhattan's Chinatown. Important stuff!

And now that I've raised the stakes so high that I can't possibly live up to my own expectations, the whole thing will be that much easier to write, edit, and publish to enlighten the readers of the world!

 Right?

 I mean, this stuff is so heady and so important, it writes itself!

 Right?

 About that...

Fleshy Mounds: The next Malcolm X?


 3. Don't spend the entire interview talking about your mutual acquaintances while drinking all the beer ever

 Did you know the drummer's landlord used to be in Plates? And that everyone in Fleshy Mounds knows the guy who runs Feral Kid Records, though I've never met him, despite seeing Biff play in various bands throughout the years?

 You do now!

 Fun fact: the women of Fleshy Mounds are part of a group calling themselves the West Side Gash Crew, which counts members of fellow Buffalo indie/punk band Cross Stitch among its ranks. Emma LaQue, who plays bass for Cross Stitch, dressed up as a rabid frozen treat in Mallwalkers' Future Shock video. Which of the two frozen treats appearing in the video was she? I have no idea. I don't know Emma. But I do like Cross Stitch and Mallwalkers a lot!

What a craaaaazy coincidence!

 There's an angle for this story, I know there is. But it took a wrong turn somewhere around What Punk Bands Do You Like Avenue; Hey, Check Out My Homemade Bea Arthur Backpatch Street; and the second gallon of beer. I'm still waiting for this story to find its way home, and, last I heard, it was bumming cigarettes off some dude with a mustache in front of the Essex St. Pub, two pitchers and a twelve-pack deep, ranting about the Dewey Decimal system or some such. 

In journalism circles, we call it "interview juice"

  
4. Don't stay awake drinking until 6 a.m. on the day your post is due - again

When a friend says he's having a Labor Day barbecue and could you please come over to help him eat ten pounds of pulled pork, I don't care how delicious that pig sounds, don't do it.

 And when the two of you have drunk you way through one case of beer, don't offer to run to the store for another twelver because, in your mind, the night is still young, and you've still got plenty of time to drink and write.

 You don't.

 And when the sun comes up and you realize you've just spent the past 14 hours drinking Genny, eating barbecue, and complaining about what a rut your life is in, don't just fall asleep on the couch.

In drinking circles, we call it "hangover juice"  



 
5. Don't go to Wing Fest directly after that

 After you've had three or four hours of beauty rest, don't wake up, slink home, and splash some cold water on your face.

 And definitely don't get dressed, pop a piece of gum in your face in a futile effort to hide your paint-curdling breath, then head to Wing Fest.

 I know it's only once a year that all the best wing joints from Buffalo and beyond shovel deep-friend chicken wings from a communal trough and slather them in hot sauce under the unblinking hell-sphere that is the late summer sun.

But you're dehydrated.

 You've only got one shoe.

 Your keys are missing and you've got half a wallet covered in dog bite marks and what looks like - and, hmm, tastes...yes, definitely tastes like - barbecue sauce. Wing Fest comes every year. You'll go next time.

 You've got an article to write, you idiot. 

Be gentle, Mac. Be gentle. 


*UPDATE: After re-reading this dreck, I realized I should actually name the people in the band: Melissa Monahan plays guitar from of the biggest stack in Buffalo; Jamie Claypoole is on bass (no relation to Les Claypool), and she really does love Lincoln; Kathy Doran smashes drums and saves lives; Steve "Robert Smith" Curefiend sings songs and ruins homes.

I also want to thank Fleshy Mounds for the interview and the opportunity to cover their first show, though I'm sorry I couldn't see you guys tear it up during your debut. The actual reasons for the poor coverage are much more boring than the ones I've offered above, so we'll stick with what's written. Please keep making rock and roll, dudes! And, if I'm still invited, I've got the next show covered. 




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Concert Review: Titus Andronicus


Last night, Glen Rock, New Jersey-born Titus Andronicus, supported by Brooklyn indie outfit Lost Boy?, kicked off their coast-to-coast Manifest Destiny tour at the Tralf.

I was finishing up my own tour of every rest stop between Buffalo and Kalamazoo, Michigan, which explains why I was late for the opener.

Twelve screaming hours of highwaybabybladder brought me home just in time to dump bags and suitcases in a mad heap and run downtown for the show. I parked the car and hurried over to Main Street just in time to hear "Future Shock" by local partymonsters Mallwalkers humming through the walls.

A sports whistle solo was screaming down the hall while a bouncer eyed my license, and shit, shit, shit, I could still catch the last song!

But, just my luck, it was over before the glue on my wristband was dry.

Damn you, adequate security!

So I sat down with a $3 tank of Genny Light to acquaint myself with the next act, Lost Boy? ("It's a question"). Take an upbeat Sebadoh, add the high-pitched vocals of Math the Band and Benadryl-woozy guitars, and you've got Lost Boy?. They had their awkward moments ("Buffalo's been so good to us. You can shit on the walls as long as you tip." No response. I thought it was funny). But when they rocked, they rocked. The highlight was a song called "Bank," which starts off sounding like Tiny Tim, then kicks it up a third of the way through. Check it out:



'Course, most folks were there to see Titus Andronicus, who showed up as a four-piece - guitarist Liam Betson being the odd man out. Frontman Patrick Stickles played the part of super-literate rock star to a tee. He took his place at the helm in sunglasses and a hoodie, sounding a little soused and looking like he might keel over at any moment.

Happily, any worries about a half-assed, drunken set were allayed when Stickles ditched the glasses and Titus Andronicus started playing. The crowd was a little thinner than I'd expected, but we were ready for a show. Kids up front hopped when the music told them to hop and swayed when things got slow. Stickles guided us along like a piss-and-vinegar Virgil, explicating lyrics and making sure everyone was comfortable "in their own personal space."

As I said, the crowd did dance, but we seemed a little polite for a rock show. Maybe it was just a Monday night in Buffalo. Things got so quiet at one point that a dude clutching a plastic cup on his way to the back bar yelled, "Toronto's thing is nobody dances. In Buffalo, nobody talks!" Some smartass responded: "so shut up and dance!"

But it was all right. Guitar licks - from both Stickles and lead guitarist Adam Reich - were tight, and the rhythm section held their own. Reich and drummer Eric Harm switched places for a number, with Harm playing guitar and singing lead and Reich on skins - and it was a pretty impressive showing of musicianship all around. The crowd chanted "you will always be a loser" during "No Future Part Three" and all the "doo-doo-doo"s  and "your life is over"s during "Titus Andronicus," and all was rock and roll.

TA played some old songs, some from their latest, Local Business, and some from their upcoming project, which Stickles, ever sarcastic, called "CD Four." I didn't catch the name of the tune (and this was my first TA show, so forgive me), but their only major screw ups came during an "audible" in the set list which, if Stickles is to be believed, they'd only practiced a few times. Even then, it was rocking enough that any flubbed notes didn't matter.

One minor bitch: no encore. Encores are a little like a birthday card from grandma - you should be grateful you got anything, but you can't help but be disappointed when there's no money in the envelope. No one owes you an extra song, but it sure sucks when you don't get one. "They're holding us to an 11 o'clock curfew," said Stickles. Which may or may not have been true. Regardless, it was Monday in Buffalo. Some people had to work in the morning, y'know.


~Photo by Andrew Odien
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Album(s) of the Week: ronaldraygun - cd two and ROnAld RAy GUn - American Space Nazi


Depending on who you've been talking to - and despite what they taught you in school - you might be aware that there is, in fact, more than one Ronald Reagan.

According to your high school history teacher, Ronald Reagan was the 40th president of the United States. He's the guy who pushed trickle-down economics, told Mikhail Gorbachev to "tear down that wall," and starred in a movie about training a chimpanzee to score touchdowns for a guy dying of strep throat (that last part I grabbed from Wikipedia).

Ronald Reagan was also a mechanical, Commie-smashing, stars-and-stripes-shitting superhero who, according to some right wingers and folks whose fontanelles never hardened, was the best thing to happen to the U.S. of A. since George Washington used his wooden teeth to beat the piss out of the Nazis at Waterloo (thanks again, Wikipedia). 

Then there's ronaldraygun, an occasionally spacey grunge-punk act from Buffalo who just dropped a pretty bitchin' record last week.

And, finally, there's ROnAld RAy GUn, a basement-rat hardcore trio from Cuba, NY - a band so punk they use Myspace - who have spent seven years coming up with eight songs and to make one punch to the throat of comfortable, white suburban dudes who like to use the word "sheeple."

Two of the above are going to save this country from a slide into moral decrepitude brought about by freedom-hating, devil-worshiping, baby-stomping socialists. The other two made the cut for our Album of the Week.



Backed by a dirty, distorted bass, seriously crunchy guitars, solid drumming, and oh shit, a theremin(!), ronaldraygun's frontwoman, Ashely Kyle, sounds like a sorta-sweet, seriously sleazy mix of Tilt's Cinder Block and Belly/Throwing Muses' Tanya Donnelly.

ronaldraygun aren't so far off the map that they qualify as strictly indie, and they're not cranky enough to be purerly punk rock. However, you'll find just enough angst and weird moments on cd two that the music could easily fall in both camps. I guess if this were still the '90s, I'd call ronaldraygun "alternative." It's beefy, dirty rock and roll with a weird edge. These cats could have opened for 10,000 Maniacs 30 years ago, or they could hold their own on about three different bills. You could put them in any punk rock basement, gallery show, or set 'em loose on stage at Nietzsche's. Be be careful though, they just might goad you into another shot of Jack, regardless of the fact that you're on your last Spirit and the Pink already kicked you out for booting in a urinal.

"Versatile" is one way to describe raygun's sound. I like "inkblot" better: whether you hear punk, indie, or just a good record, it really doesn't matter. I'd call it dirty spacepunk with a grown-up whiskey burn, as opposed to the dumb, 40-ounce clunk of straight oi.




And that's where ROnAld RAy GUn, the CamelCapped hardcore three-piece from the hills of the Southern Tier, come in.

 If anybody remembers Rochester's The End, RAy GUn sound a hell of a lot like that - pissed off, chaotic, and punk as fuck. If not, try a sloppier, d-beat-ier Born Against and some Reagan Youth (go figure) thrown in for good measure. It's hardcore, pure and simple.

 My copy of American Space Nazi came with a CrimethInc. anarchist propaganda booklet and a laser-printed album liner that declares - unabashedly - "7 years 8 songs!" and "fat, old still punk" (sic). Between the self-aware humor and the earnest, anti-capitalist literature, I'm not sure whether I'm part of the joke or fighting the good fight when I start picking up change and windmilling to these tracks. Either way, my fist is bruised, the lamp is broken, and I've managed to piss off the old lady next door. Shit.


  
I'm sure the Ronalds - raygun and RAy GUn - could rock the same show, though I don't know that you'd want them to. Aside from the divide-by-zero, universe-fucking cataclysm that would result from having two bands on the same bill with essentially the same name, there's the fact that one is apples and one is oranges. One is drinking Jim Beam in a Googie rocket ship, the other is blasting punx in the face with empty Mickey's grenades. Both share a common ancestor in Punkus Rawkus, though at this point, the two are on completely different branches of the family tree. If you're not feeling one, give the other a whirl. I'm digging both.

 In true punk rock form, RAy GUn haven't uploaded American Space Nazi anywhere online, nor is any label or distro currently carrying the CD. So I've done them (and you) the favor of uploading the album here. Go forth and listen to some goddamned decent hardcore.

Check out ronaldraygun's cd two here.




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5 Tracks No Self-Respecting Punk Should Enjoy


Recently, I've had more or less the same conversation with a couple of different friends: there is such a thing as what we "should" be listening to, and then there's what we've been listening to. And between the Bro Police and the Punk Rock Gestapo, we're definitely on the wrong side of the law.

Esteban, myself, and...El...Travis? (names have been changed to protect the innocent) are all adult men who've made our bones in one punk scene or another, and we all agree: there comes a point when we've been soaked with enough vegan dude sweat, taken enough wild, pit-borne fists to the head, and slept on enough punk house floors that we've earned the right to enjoy whatever sounds we damn-well please. We've listened to 7 Seconds and Bad Brains and Misfits and, God knows, more ear-splitting, foul-smelling, couch-surfing local acts than any human being should ever have to endure. And those bands are mostly fine (or mostly terrible, depending on how you feel about punk music). They're audio broccoli. But you've got to balance your diet, now and again, with a goddamn ear-Twinkie.

 Here are five tracks that will rot your teeth out, and that no one, let alone any self-respecting punk, should ever listen to. But the fact is: I don't care. I love it. Fuck the police.

 5. Icona Pop ft. Charli XCX - "I Love It"

 I've never wanted to be a 16-year-old girl so badly.

 Well, I've never wanted to be a 16-year-old girl. Except when I listen to these two Swedes, probably drunk on vodka and Red Bull, sounding absolutely ecstatic about head-on collisions, kicking bags of shit down the stairs, and being a '90s bitch.

 Other married dudes pushing 30 won't admit to pogoing to this song. But they do. Even if it's just a little bounce. In the driver's seat. You know, when you're on your way to Wegman's and you've had enough of the grown-up bitching on WGR or NPR or, God forbid, WBEN, so you hit whatever the hell is bookmarked under preset 6 - and this starts playing. And you can't help it. You just need to bop. It's all right, brothers and sisters. YOLO...YOLO.


4. Vita Chambers - "Fix You"

 +1 nerd points for sharing your name with a fictional piece of hardware that exists in a dystopian sci-fi universe.

 -100 nerd points for the dubstep breakdown.

 -1 million nerd points for singing a dance-pop number that serves as an urgent plea to run away with/"fix" what I can only imagine is a swagalicious, suburbanite weinerbaby sporting purple leopard-print maternity pants and an enormous New Era cap stamped with a logo for, I don't know, how're the Minnesota Wild doing these days?

 LOL. Sports r dum. Those lids r fresh tho!

3. Martin Solveig ft. Dragonette - "Hello"

 Whenever Esteban and I play punk rock tennis - a variation of tennis that involves mohawks and a lot of cursing - this song is plays in my brain. If, just once, one of the ubiquitous throng of Canadians idling at the Peace Bridge next to the Front Park tennis courts would roll down a window and blast this song for us, I would lose my shit.

2. Rihanna ft. Calvin Harris - "We Found Love"

 I first heard this song playing over the radio in a Canadian sex shop. Browsing the lube and novelty dildos, I couldn't imagine anything more ridiculous and hamfisted than that chorus. (We found love in a hopeless place! We found suds in a soapless place! We found drugs in a dopeless place!)

 But then I saw it. Right there, on the wall: glorious in its sheer monstrosity. I'm not sure what sexual niche it fills, but, Christ, does it fill it - and I haven't been able to find one since. Anyway, it's a lot like this (NSFW?), except with a...hamfist.


1. Taylor Swift - Everything she's ever done

 My good friend El Travis is a filthy punk. His bona fides: tried being vegan; had a mohawk for awhile; has an anti-swastika tattoo; beat up one-and-a-half jocks using only a pyramid belt and a pair of Doc Martens.

 El Travis also loves Taylor Swift.

 Actual quote: "You should really sit down and listen to Taylor Swift's albums in order, from the country stuff to now."

 Actual quote: "Remind me to never get drunk and buy Magic [the Gathering] Cards and t-shirts again. I spent 80 bucks on, like, three cards and an 'I heart Taylor Swift' t-shirt. But I really like the shirt."



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Album of the Week: Cross Stitch - Cross Stitch


Mac, our fearless editor, threw a tape on my desk. "Listen to this. It's pretty phat."

 "Fat?" I said, "like it won't fit into my Walkman?"

 "As if! Dude, I mean, like, gnarly. Hey, I'm going to the mall for a slice of 'za. Wanna come with?"

 "Nah," I said, a sense of déjà vu creeping into my brain. "I'm actually not feeling so great. I think I'll take the afternoon off."

 "Whatever, man. That tape is hella fly, though. Let me know what you think."

 I had to get the hell out of there.

 I grabbed the tape and hurried out the door. My black Chevy Cavalier, the one with the rust hole in the trunk clear to the street, was parked on the curb. I hopped in a sped off, trying to shake the uncanny feeling that had taken over my head.

 I started jonesing for Bagel Bites.

 "Music," I thought, "music will help." I jammed Mac's tape into the deck. Cross Stitch. It was good. Bikini Kill good. Like the Breeders and the Kelly Deal 6000, but with less slow artnoise and more rock. Like Archers of Loaf met up with Throwing Muses and Sleater-Kinney to make beautiful, off-kilter, not-quite-punk indie rock. "Pretty dope," I thought.

 I was really getting into the tunes when the tape deck started eating the cassette. "Shit," I swore to myself and pulled the tape and a tangle of ribbon out of the stereo. "Not again!" I looked up in time to see a Zubaz-wearing doofus drinking a Crystal Pepsi get crushed under the grill of my car. Shit.

Not again.

It was my recurring '90s nightmare, right down to the mercy killing of a man wearing terrible pants. Only this time it came with a bitchin' soundtrack.
* * *

 To be honest with you, I've got a hazy view of the '90s. For one thing, I was too young and lived too deep in the hinterlands of the Southern Tier to really engage the broader culture and trends. For most of the decade, I was an awkward, red-faced turd with a mullet doing my best to drown out the "sizzlin' country" and holy rollers that pervaded the radio waves. To that end, I'd throw one of my parents' Def Leppard or Guns N' Roses tapes into my yellow and neon-blue knockoff Walkman ("Color Tunes") and endure.

 It wasn't until I left for college that I discovered what I'd been missing. College radio and indie rock opened my eyes and ears to a world beyond hair metal and honkey tonk bullshit. It was like leaving my tiny world for another planet. The mother ship had finally come.

 Cross Stitch takes me back. Not necessarily to the '90s, when Riot Grrrl was in full swing and bands like Sonic Youth were making guitar noise for shaggy, flanneled hipsters. That just wasn't me. But I love the sound from that era. And Cross Stitch would have been very much at home. They sound like one of those secret bands we only find out about when an older brother or sister or a super-cool crush puts them on a mix tape and clues us in. They've borrowed the mantle of pree-2000 indie and they wear it proudly.

 There's a definite feminist vibe running through these tracks, but it seems more, I don't know, mature? Nuanced? Back then, Bikini Kill et al. were the vanguard of third-wave feminism with a "fuck you, I'm a woman, and I rock" attitude. Which was fine at the time. Cross Stitch seem less aggressive, but no less girl-positive. The fact that they've labeled themselves "craftcore" (a tag they share with but one other artist on Bandcamp) suggests that, this time around, the party line is closer to: "If I want to wear a skirt and crochet a tea cozy, that's my business. Now, fuck you, let's rock!"

 There's a certain amount of irony here. I can't tell if the whole craft thing is tongue-in-cheek. I'm sure part of it is. I look at Cross Stitch the way I look at modern Sitch 'n' Bitch or Steotch: maybe you're being ironic with this whole girly, arts and crafts business, but you've got to spend a lot of time and genuinely enjoy your work - just a little - to get Jabba the Hutt's needlework jowls to look just right. 

 You can find Buffalo's best craftrock quartet on Bandcamp and Facebook. Check out their self-titled below. My only complaint is that their six-track digital EP is too damn short. I want more Cross Stitch, and I want it 20 years ago. Preferably on cassette.

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S.W.B.C. R.I.P


I predicted something so-so.

We got a bloodbath.

We tore up the lawn. We defiled the neighborhood. We brought down most of the rest of the ceiling in Jeff's basement. And under all the drunk and the dust and the smashed drywall, there, too, lies a shard of my restless, idiot soul.

I suppose we all died a little that night. Aside from the thousands of brain cells cooked crisp and lifeless in deepfryer whiskey bottles and beer cans, a few of us, maybe, are a little older, a little wiser, a little more hollowed out. Maybe.

I suppose, too, anything we do is killing us - at least a little - because, instead of doing one thing, we're on another, and we've only got so much time. Instead of spinning the same records again and again, I could be listening to something new and potentially life-altering. Instead of watching TV, I could be learning Spanish or running a marathon or ending poverty. Instead of ripping through eighteen beers and a bottle of whiskey, I could be fighting or fucking or learning to play the bass better so that, next time, we won't be so sloppy.

But this time, there isn't a next time.

This time was it.

Straight Whiskey Black Coffee played our last set. It was a mess. We warmed up and tore into the first song - it was loud, at least, but even though we were on the same frets and more or less the same beat, at least one of us was crushing all the wrong notes. Unbeknownst to my drunk ass, the nut on my bass had come unglued, yanking everything out of tune. By the end of the set, Haggus and I had to stare each other down, droopy-eyed and slumping, to stay in time with one another. Our guitarist was great; the singers were on fire, despite knowing only a few of the words. But that was all right - the crowd didn't know them at all. All the mob wanted was to get half-naked and slam into each other, slick-chested, nipples spiked like the tips of heat-seeking missiles fired from a tailspun fighter jet.

At least we made people lose their minds a little. At least they danced.

That was something.

* * *

Haggus left. Dear old Haggus. He's headed out west like a zit-strewn pale horse and is sure to wreak untold destruction wherever his miasmic ass settles. I wish you all the best, you miserable disease. And to those who find themselves caught in the wake or, Heaven forfend, the resting place, of his bubonic cloud, I'm sorry. Haggus is your problem now.

God knows, Cubatown found itself in the awful throes of a body ridding itself of a longtime affliction. The townsfolk called in their babes and shut up their horses; they turned out the lights and drew their blinds to wait out the terrible madness that whirled around them.

It was like the meeting of a derranged cult. Dressed in the ragged uniform of the devout, those heathens not in the basement ripping down the ceiling were dancing around a firepit like bloodthirsty acolytes, sucking down beer - and inhaling pizza and wings - as if, with enough noise and debauchery, we'd awaken some ancient god to come down and obliterate us all. And maybe we succeeded. My memory, at least, is wiped almost clean by a spooky and otherworldly hand.

We spit, we yelled, we threw beer cans and trash on lawns and probably kept more than a few people awake a lot later than they'd have liked. Sorry, folks. Won't happen again.

You know it won't, because Haggus, that fountain of shit, is gone now.

* * *

There's a little bit of us that disappears every time we meet someone; and we give so much of ourselves to other people in our tiny, peach-tender lives, whether we want to or not. Most of the time we only give and get the slag and lime that hides our rust-and-ruby hearts; but there are those who manage to steal away with a few precious pieces. I'd ask for them back, those caratwights of soul I've lost to you borrowers and thieves, but I'm no better.

How much have I got left? How much have you taken? And how much have I stashed in cracks and behind false walls? If I've got the scale to measure it all, I haven't met the woman or man who knows how to calibrate such a complicated piece of junk.

So I'll drag it around, whatever I've taken and whatever I've got left, and when I'm called forth to answer for my filthy looting, I'll know just how much is in the bag.
 

~Photo by R. Jeffrey Proctor    
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Straight Whiskey Black Coffee: An Ode To Mediocrity


Sometimes it's ok to start a band and not want to be bigger than Jesus.

Sometimes it's ok to play music without any message or greater aspiration than to feel the unbridled and simple joy of making a hell of a lot of noise.

Such is - and, about 36 hours from now, will have been - the case with Straight Whiskey Black Coffee, a dumb-as-rocks punk band started six years ago in a living room in Fredonia, NY, and which was never meant to last longer than the end of the college semester.

 We were all right. Haggus, our drummer, kept a beat most of the time, but a meth-addled orangutan could have played better fills. I played bass - and still do - like an idiot crab made of thumbs. Travis had no idea how to play guitar. He wasn't much of a singer either, but he was the best of all of us, and he got the job. Our best reviews came when he broke a string and had no backup, so he just started punching people. Or when he wrecked his amp and had no backup, so he just started punching people.

Our first show was a disaster. We weren't ready. We started songs at different points, jumped into choruses that didn't exist or verses that belonged to other songs entirely, and addressed the crowd with weird, jittery banter, like, "sorry, guys, we'll be out of your neck in a minute." Cross-armed and stock-still, they were clearly not feeling us. At one point, I said something like, "I want to see you fucking dance!" To which one replied, "play better music!" 

Touché.

According to friends at the show, the best moment came when Travis blew the bass amp he was running his guitar through. That, at least, made the noise less shrill.

 So we went back to the living room, practiced, retooled our set, and, by the third gig, we'd hit our stride. The one when Travis snapped a string and punched a kid's glasses off. I'll never forget looking up from my fretboard (because I'm a mediocre bassist and I only stare at my fretboard) to see Travis sock this straight edge dude with thick-rimmed glasses straight in the face. Dude stopped dancing, picked his glasses up from the floor and then stood, wide-eyed, mouth agape, with two halves in either hand. Just when I thought dude was ready to throw down with our singer, his his face curled into the biggest goddamn grin I've ever seen on a perma-sober victim of assault. "That was awesome!" he screamed, and danced on.

Even though we weren't headlining it, that guy later made a point to come to our (supposed) final show - in the basement of 99 Custer Street - a ring of tape bridging the crack in his glasses.

Not bigger than Jesus, but it was about half an hour's drive for him.

 That was something.
* * *

This Saturday will be our for-real final show. We've been trying to get the band back together, as nostalgic never-has-beens often do. We had an ok run. But it's time to put this one to rest. This will be our last chance to make it big before Haggus moves across the country, Travis continues his big boy job five hours too far away for a godawful punk band, and I - well, I don't know. I'm thinking of starting an experimental noise project. Crabthumb, maybe? If any of you know an ape with a meth habit, sent it my way. I need a drummer.

Any talent scouts in the audience are sure to pick us up. If that's the case, I'll see you losers later. Buffalo, the West Side smells like farts after it rains and the Bills and Sabres suck. "Anonymous," your comments are generally snide, unhelpful, and pissy, and I never wanted you to read my posts anyway. Mac, you're a tool. I never liked you. 

But even if Straight Whiskey Black Coffee don't break out before we break up, I won't be that disappointed. For one, I've got Crabthumb. And a lucrative music blogging career (right, Mac?) And, in the end, we've done exactly what we'd set out to do: start a band, play a few shows, and create a thing that, at least in the lives of a few of us godless heathens, was bigger than Jesus.

That's something.


P.S. I doubt very much that anyone reading this will want to trek out to the sticks (an hour and a half from Buffalo) for what really is just a filthy basement show. First of all, you'll all be at Duke's for buffaBLOG's summer bash, which promises to be the best damn party going that night (right, Mac?) Second of all, these basement shows exist in a legal gray area and, though this particular venue has never been shut down, we'd like to keep it invite-only to better our chances. If, for whatever reason, you're dying to come, you can email me, josh@buffablog.com, for directions. Otherwise, watch this column for drunken recollections and/or public apologies.

Go Bills.




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Album of the Week: Mallwalkers - Shake The Rust Off


It's not easy to get a bead on Mallwalkers. After seeing them live and listening to their new record a few times, I'd say they're an eleven-piece funk outfit that grew up on seven-inch records, back patches, and Don Covay. Or: imagine the horn section of Rocket from the Crypt joined U.K. Subs, hopped onto a papier mache flying saucer, and did their best P-Funk impression for Byron Brown.

If you've got a better one, I'd like to hear it. The comment section is wide open.

This much I do know: Mallwalkers' first full-length, Shake the Rust Off, released on Peterwalkee Records, is the standard bearer for funk 'n' punk rock, Superfund beach parties, and dancing like you just don't give a damn. The hopping, twisting partybeast that is Mallwalkers is tied down - barely - by sking-y guitars, distorted, sometimes driving, sometimes funky (sometimes both) bass lines, beat-for-beat percussion, and a party bus of horns, fronted by the sing-song shriek and sunglasses-inside cool of co-frontpeople Jamie Rowitsch and Dan Carosa.

I say "barely" because there's no way a hunk of vinyl can contain a beast of this magnitude. There's a party going on here, and it's as much a rock "record," in the traditional sense, as it is a record of a zeitgeist, a vitals chart of the living, breathing thing called Mallwalkers, in Buffalo, right now, today. It likes to party. Some jerk fed it after midnight. And now it's coming for your children.

To get the full effect, you've got to see these cats live. I always admire bands who can kill it on stage while still managing to put out decent records. Go to any Mallwalkers show and you're as likely to see a guitarist in go-go boots stomping on a cardboard Buffalo while Godzilla spews condoms and candy on your drunk ass as you are to find yourself surrounded by inscrutable, thrashing picket signs protesting (or calling for?) senior-aged Tex-Mex and baby Triassic flying lizards.

None of that finds its way on the record, of course, so, in some sense, you're getting the short end by listening to these guys in stereo. But while you're having a good - if weird - time at a live show, you're probably too busy dodging prophylactics and ducking the Funk Police to soak in the subtlety of the whole affair.  

Don't get me wrong, there's plenty of fun to be had on this record. "Get You Back" is a tongue-in-cheek, off-key doo-wop about breaking up, for better, for worse, or for meh. "Baby Pterodactyl (I Don't Wanna Be A)" is about as straightforward as they come, and includes a laughing solo by "Cackles" Rowitsch. "Funk Police" rounds it all out with a party jam that dares you not to jiggle those cheeks, despite the inbound dancefloor beatdown.

But underneath the party is something else. Beneath the strata of oddness, under the mountain of sound, and beyond the bedrock of attitude lies something extra. 

Listen to "Future Shock." The tune starts off with a burning fuse of a bass line and lyrics like, "we are the future...you are the past...we're gonna break it all down, we're gonna turn it around," promising a brand new sound for whoever's listening and warning everyone else to get out of the way. The bomb really goes off on "Going Downtown." Carosa testifies: "older folks have been sayin' that that's the way it's gotta be. They're sayin' that in this town you can never, ever be free."

I can't tell you how many times I've been taken aside for an avuncular piece of advice, something like "I used to be like you - I used to want Buffalo to be something. Then I grew up." Or how many times I've been at a party where some doofus from Cheektowaga or a Tonawanda hears I live on the West Side and tells me "you've got to get out of there as soon as you can" because a parent or an aunt or someone or other was robbed or beaten up or had to deal with an inordinate amount of black or brown people. 

Then it blows up: "don't let them drag you down," shouts Carosa, "'cause when they try to pull you in, you got to stomp them to the ground.

"We're goin' downtown to shake the rust off the door. It's from the East Side to the Niagara shore, we're gonna show you how we really break it down. So get your feet on the floor and dance your mess around."

I feel you, brother; I hear you, sister. 

Tunes like this make me want to strap a PA to the roof of my car and head out to the suburbs. I want to crank this record while swinging around every cul-de-sac in Amherst; I want to blast it in the sidestreets of Hamburg and Cheektowaga; I want to rattle the Tonawandas to their swampy core. I want to scare the shit out of every white flight slug who left the city to die.

Get scared, Orchard Park. Start shaking, Williamsville. Buffalo's coming back. Your real estate's about to tank. Your sweet little Cape Cod is sinking. Buffalo is rising.

It's ours now, baby. And if you're not dancing, get the hell off the floor.

Mallwalkers are just the beginning.

Pick up your copy of Shake the Rust Off from Peterwalkee Records here.


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We're Rebuilding This City On Rock And Roll


Like a ferrous phoenix Buffalo is rising from the railyard slag and toothless warehouses in a flurry of cranes, hardhats, and optimism.

And it's not because a bunch of real estate developers decided, all at once, that Buffalo looks better as a city than as a parking lot. Nor is it due to the fact that the inbred cyclopes that are our local and state governments finally figured they'd stop banging their cousins because, you know, it's getting in the way of progress.

You can argue that blue collar workers - your everyman with a family to feed and humble aspirations - he and she kept this city going in darkest days. But blue collars come and go. That's not a knock on working folk - I come from a pair of thick-armed clock-punchers who traded their backs and better selves to feed the family. Fact is, when you're relying on the herd for food, you've got to follow the buffalo when they - or it - moves on. 

 Kids got to eat.

 The reason Buffalo is on its current track, I think, is due in no small part to the hard-nosed, hard-working romantics that, for whatever reason, hear "Buffalo" (that old punchline) and think, "home."

 Guys like Matto LaQue, whose blood, sweat, and brutal bass licks have given rise to Peterwalkee Records, a local D.I.Y. label specializing in punk and indie.

 Matto has been in the indie-and-punk game for over 20 years, playing shows around the Capital District, Buffalo, and points beyond and between since his first gig in 1991, with acts like Albany's Kitty Little and Buffalo's Resist Control.

Matto's been organizing shows and releasing records under the banner of Peterwalkee, including last night's record release and tour kickoff for Mallwalkers at the Polish Library (read our review of Mallwalkers' first full-length, Shake the Rust Off, here). Peterwalkee has put out a few dozen records by the likes of indie rock veterans The Figgs, Finnish hardcore quintet Hero Dishonest, and a slew of punk and indie bands local to Buffalo, Albany, and environs.

Guys like Matto and projects like Peterwalkee are the sorts of things that keep a community breathing even when the body is limp and lifeless. Artists, musicians, and pig-headed builders and makers are the reason we have quirky enclaves like Elmwood Village and Allentown. People with D.I.Y. sensibilities and a foolhardy sense of ownership and home have made these neighborhoods the strange, organic places they are today.

It's because a few folks lit a candle - long after anyone with any sense had turned off the lights and shut the door - brushed the dust off, and gave the place a new coat of paint that Buffalo isn't a windswept asphalt veld right now.

I don't think I'm being hyperbolic here. Because, for me, in my darkest days, when the frigid hole of hell was opening up and calling me in, it was music that brought me out, warmed me up, and made me feel a little alive. There I was, standing on the edge of a Subway platform, waiting for the E train to swallow me up and suck me down the throat of another miserable day, only to vomit me out the other side. I was dead on my feet. But I had my music.

Thank God for headphones. And baruch atah Buffalo music. For me, it was Sonorous Gale that called me back from oblivion, brought me up and landed me here. 

Maybe music, especially the blood-and-guts, do-or-die D.I.Y. I grew up with, doesn't mean as much to you as it does to a poor slob like me. But I'm not being hyperbolic when I say that, time was, I was dead, and music rose me up again. It's bringing all of us up again.

Next year in Jerusalem, dear friends. And next year in Buffalo.  


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Picking Up The Slack For MTV: Pixies - "Bagboy"


Yes, Kim Deal is no longer a member of the Pixies.

No, that's not Kim on "Bagboy," but the backing vocals bear a spooky resemblance to the beloved and lately errant bassist, despite the fact that it's a dude.

I'm not sure how to feel about this track. Like Dad's new girlfriend, she sounds nice, and she looks pretty, but she smokes and wears heels. I don't know if she's trying too hard or what, but it's not mom. Mom would take us to the quarry and sing about luxurious fabrics. Or she'd do a dead-eyed impression of someone playing rock and roll while we sat and wondered what we should do with our hands.

This new one lectures us about hygiene. She tries to tell us stories. Dad seems happy, anyway. I just don't know how to feel about that...about any of it.




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Your Band Is So Gay...Isn't It?


Queercore is a 30-some-year-old hodgepodge of bands, zines, artists, films, and what-have-you that uses DIY and punk ethics to explore issues affecting non-hetero folks.

Poindexter is not that. Poindexter is a local three-piece for whom I play bass when their usual guy is out of town. Poindexter is power-pop, closer to Weezer with a cat fetish than Cheap Trick (I know, Weezer isn't all power-pop. Keep it to yourselves, nerds).

But there's some debate among band members: are we a "gay band"? Some of the lyrics are about dude-plus-dude love; the frontman is gay; wey've played Buffalo Pride Festival. Does that make Poindexter gay? 

As it happens, I'm the only member with a column on a music blog, so my two cents are going public.

It's true that Jeff, the lead singer, is a proud gay man, and his lyrics, when they're about love or relationships or bad sex, generally sport two or three boners. Otherwise we play songs about things you might expect from a pop-rock act: the ennui of growing up, the weird hypocrisies that worm their way into our lives, entirely clinical, true-story butt spelunking, et cetera. Any gay-centric message is pretty much accidental.

Jeff likes dudes, which should be as eyebrow-raising and as none-of-your-fucking-business as the fact that I'm a righty, but I can switch-hit if the need arises. (If you think I'm talking about baseball, we'll just leave it at that. If you catch my actual meaning and things have suddenly become weird between us, I'm sorry. If you thought I was talking about baseball until that last sentence and things have suddenly become weird between us, I'm sorry.) But since Poindexter are making music in a part of a world and a stretch of history where some folks, for whatever reason, find homosexuality disturbing, we stand out as a "gay band."

 Some bands make it their mission to explore gay issues up front. Pansy Division come to mind. As do Gayrilla Biscuits, whose schtick is repurposing hardcore songs to promote a gay message. To wit:

Gay til death!
We're gay and should be taken seriously!
You say we should change our ways and go for nasty women
You said that you can't be queer because of your lame wife
Well, we'll be gay for life!
Has your ass gone straight?

Poindexter is...not that.

Then there are bands like Propagandhi, who identify themselves as gay-positive, and who sing about and stand for a lot of things, for better or worse, including anti-homophobia and anti-racism. Also, the suckiness of ska.

I wouldn't say we're a gay-positive act. Jeff does sing about relationships - good and bad - between men, which creates a safe space to explore gay issues. But it's also a space for exploring human issues: things like love, sex, and regret, which most of us will deal with at some point. If not every goddamn day.

On some level, declaring Poindexter a gay band is akin to calling the Foo Fighters a straight band. Both groups sing about hookups and breakups, so why not? And anyway, breakup songs aren't positive toward any kind of love: they're about how much love sucks, whether it's between two men, two women, one of each, or a man and an underage Japanese body pillow.

 Poindexter is gay-positive in the way that, at this point in our culture's history, not being ashamed of gayness equals a positive act. It's hard to believe it was only 15 years ago that Matthew Shephard was tortured and beaten to death by two confused, broken homophobes. And it'll be two years ago this September that our own Jamey Rodemeyer committed suicide after being bullied with gay slurs. Just ten years ago it became legal in all 50 United States to exercise our God-given right to slip our God-given body parts into whatever consenting holes we goddamn-well please (we also just got around to telling a deep-fried, diabetes-racked pharmaceuticals shill that a slave-themed wedding isn't cool either, so cheers to that).

 If Poindexter is a "gay band," it's by default. When anyone has anything non-negative to say about the gay experience, it is, in a way, a positive. I look forward to the day when that's not the case. Poindexter's real message, as far as I can tell, is nothing new or controversial: growing up sucks; growing old is weird; people ought to fuck each other more and fuck with each other less. 

And that's just rock and roll.
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