“Neon Junkyard” busts the album open with power and intensity, while Bradford sings about “finding the fluorescents in the junk” you find your ears sifting through noise to catch the addictive melodies bursting from within. By the end of the first song, you are hooked and before you know it, guitars and reverb are blasting, both high in pitch and volume, in your ear drowning out all thoughts until eventually the noise takes over and dancing becomes uncontrollable. Which follows seamlessly into “Leather Jacket II”, just digging a little deeper into the noise and just when it sounds like everything is falling apart, we are reminded of the band’s lighter side. “The Missing” (very much like “Agoraphobia” from Microcastle), “Pensacola” (dancy tune about taking a road trip and how you can’t control everything), and “Dream Captain” (getting a little noisier and wanting to get lost without going anywhere) are all enjoyable but easily replaceable songs. They remind us that while Bradford Cox doesn’t always shit gold, whatever comes out is typically still enjoyable. “Blue Agent”, “T.H.M.”, and “Sleepwalking” bring the album to peak, being the most easily enjoyable songs on the album. “T.H.M.” is particularly noteworthy as it starts softly, building momentum with each chorus. Initially it’s just the clapping the gets you moving. By the end of the song when the tambourine, clapping, and what I can only make out to be wheezy coughs filtered through a lot of reverb, all come in full force the only safe thing to be doing is dancing. “Sleepwalking “could be one of the most easily accessible songs on the album, if you are looking to get a taste of their sound with something a little less abrasive. The next three songs, while still enjoyable, aren’t worth much mentioning. This brings us to the end, “Punk (La Vie Antérieure)”, which was mostly recorded by Bradford himself (due to the fact that he was drunk, or “in character” for that song when he recorded the demo and it came out quite confusing). The song carries the band’s darker outlook in hushed tones and closes the album with a beautiful whisper.

In a recent interview Bradford stated that when they went to choose songs for this album he had over 600 songs to choose from. When talking about the songs chosen for the album Cox said “Some of my favorites didn’t make it on the album. Some songs that I didn’t really think were worthy did make it on the album. Some songs that we all though were the best ones didn’t make it on the album. I don’t know how that works.” While we can only dream of how much better everything would have sounded had the band gotten the song they wanted on and a few of the lesser songs dropped off, the album comes out shining. This is easily my favorite Deerhunter album to date, although I am not a die hard fan. In the end you wonder what is this singular thing that he is obsessing over? At times it seems to be another person, or the depressing nature of our existence, however after continued listening I have found what I believe to be the true singular obsession of this album: making me dance.

First up were local heroes and former members of the Hot IQs/current members of Denver band Raleigh, Accordion Crimes. The band was introduced and fronted by Bryon Parker, a man whose attire and initial demeanor led me to believe he might be most comfortable leading a lecture on Political Philosophy. As the evening progressed it was obvious that this wasn’t your average, meek looking group of nerds. I watched as Parker ferociously snarled over the earnest tireless drumming of Dave Sprague and jarring bass of Brian Feuchtinger. This ferociousness translated to Accordion Crimes handling of the audience; when Parker was interrupted by a heckler who wished for ‘more cowbell’ Parker asked him to, ‘politely go expletive himself.’

Up next was No Joy. I’d heard a lot about this long distance project between L.A. based Jasamine White-Gluz and Montreal located Laura Lloyd. Watching No Joy I thought of the miserable lack of female representation in rock music, and the wonder and credibility that No Joy brought to the table with their debut album Ghost Blonde. The live instrumentation for their new album Wait to Pleasure was just as tight and filled-to-the-brim with enchanting shoegaze as was their debut album. But something felt lost as the band performed live. White-Gluz’s vocals were lost over the enveloping noise of the rest of the band. Perhaps the shine of new materials in a studio that was filled with technological goodies proved too tempting for this typically DIY band. I found No Joy forgettable. Regrettable, particularly because it was their performance I looked forward to the most.

No Joy

No Joy

METZ frontman Alex Edkin continued with the theme of mock meekness by shyly greeting the audience before fusing with his band members and turning into an instrumental steam engine. As I watched I realized this brief introduction was intentional. Edkins realized what only becomes obvious when the band plays: that is METZ is at their best when they’re furiously rocking away while Edkin shrieks over them. They’re a three headed, heavily instrumented, muscular rock hydra. The music is precise—an uncommon feat for post-hardcore punk/noise rock. Yet it’s noise rock with discernible organization, the sort that’s even distinguishable to the non-musically inclined. This is an intellectual’s noise rock.

At one point Edkin stepped to the top of drummer Hayden Menzies stand, playing his guitar over his head while touching the ceiling. It was then that, as if on cue, a man stormed the stage, and jumped into the crowd spurring a crowd surf. By the end of the show Edkins, Menzies, and bassist Chris Slorach were soaked in sweat.

Sweat.

Many reviewers mistake METZ as having little substance to their lyrics and instead figure them for an act focused primarily on besieging the masses with the power of rock. These reviewers are half-right. A live METZ show is certainly and intentionally designed to—to borrow a colloquialism—rock one’s face off. But it’s more than that. Listening to the lyrics of songs like, “Headache,” or the aptly titled, “Wet Blanket” one quickly realizes that the words are carefully chosen; think bleak lyrical concerns that are somehow not weighed down by their own misanthropy. Instead of wallowing Edkins channels his anxiety and apprehension into a manic release.

METZ

As I watched the crowd burst into a cathartic ball of flame before me I remembered my friend describing his experience at a METZ show weeks ago, from a gentleman who is a PhD candidate in mathematics and can easily be described as, ‘bookish.’ I remembered him describing METZ storming the stage and his sudden decision to take his shirt off and begin swinging it wildly overhead; an out of character move. I realized that this was the joy of a METZ show; there’s something about them that summons up the beast within.

The first act was Wall of Death, a French psyche-rock trio that offers a solid sound similar to the headlining act. Despite being only a guitarist, keyboardist, and drummer, their sound was strikingly full, and easily captivating. Between acts, I was able with talk to them at the merchandise table and could tell from their joyous moods how excited they were to be on a U.S. tour with a premier psychedelic band (it was at their first time visiting Boulder or the Rockies, and were pretty awestruck by it all). At some point, it dawned on me that Wall of Death seemed oddly familiar. Noting their ability to get the crowd moving and grooving, despite being a small first act, I suddenly realized I had seen them before, when, about 2 years ago, I happened to be in Paris for an earlier Black Angels show that they were opening. Though they are personal friends of the Black Angels, seeing a small French band for a second time, roughly 5,000 miles away on a different continent, still blows my mind.

Next up was Californian Hanni El Khatib. When compared to the other bands on the lineup, his music was less psychedelic, more straight up garage-blues-rock goodness. For the first few songs, a technical problem caused his guitar to be underpowered. But this issue actually worked to his advantage, because once this was sorted out, he managed to segue into a high-voltage wall of sound, that made his liveliness and on-stage presence even more evident, and drove the entire crowd crazy. Check out his latest single, “Family” off of the Dan Auerbach-produced album Head In The Dirt, and then imagine it turned up to 11, and perhaps you’ll have an idea of why all bystanders were suddenly electrified. That said, even after listening to his recordings, no matter what the volume, I was still caught off guard by his raw energy.

Hanni El Khatib

Hanni El Khatib

It’s hard to say what I was expecting from the Black Angels. This was not the first time I had seen them, so I realized that the previous shows would be hard to top. Whenever I see a band for a second or third time, my hope is they will be able to create the same or better atmosphere than the previous time. On this tour, their new album, Indigo Meadow, offered a multitude of songs that had the potential to really kick up their performances, and their lightshow would undoubtedly work well with their embrace of the psychedelic motif. However, considering the variation between each of their albums (look at the differences between their first two and Phosphene Dream), there was also a chance of change in their live performance (perhaps good, perhaps bad), and I braced myself for this. And separate of their performance, there was also a question of whether the audience would welcome them on the same intense level of the first time I had seen them.

After this show, I would not rule out the possibility that the Black Angels have learned how to read minds. Or, I guess the more reasonable assumption is that they have learned to read their fans like books, and know exactly how to cater to them. The lightshow was everything you would expect, especially the throwback projection of ever-transforming designs. I was particularly impressed by the order and choice of songs. Jumping back and forth between every album (particularly Phosphene Dream and Indigo Meadow), and not just saving the most memorable for last, the excitement of the fans was constantly renewed. There was never a dull point.

The Black Angels

The Black Angels

The diversity of the crowd astounded me. When I first heard the Black Angels would be playing at the Boulder Theater, it was hard for me to imagine a band with such a specific style attracting a large audience. Boy, was I wrong. The audience was clearly devoted (shout out to all those I saw with 1190 shirts), and visually expressed their excitement very similarly to those high-school explanations of what happens to the atoms of a water molecule when it is heated up (in other words, I was able to watch one hell of a mosh pit). Like all good concerts, the key to the atmosphere was two-way. The band delivered a calculated show that hit all the right buttons, while the crowd played their part in returning and redistributing the excitement.

It seems obvious that during most truly amazing concerts, a point like this must occur, where a band manages to the strike the right balance that causes some primal reaction in the audience, whose vivacity in turn fuels the band, creating a sort of feedback loop of awesomeness. This situation was more than prominent throughout all of the acts.

I would safely say it was a grand-ole time for all present.

Oh, and I was able to buy a bottle of the Black Angels’ very-own hot sauce “Black Grease”, and it was everything I hoped it would be. I may need to order a few more.

Be sure to catch the Black Angels this summer at Red Rocks when they open for Robert Plant and His Sensational Space Shifters on July 10th.

Review by Will Rempel, photos by Alexis Aeeng.

Bill Callahan isn’t the kind of artist who makes it easy for listeners to understand him, but anyone gazing at the absurd artwork on this absurdly titled record should already have some idea of that. And yet all of Callahan’s work under the Smog moniker has a curious way of reinventing the singer-songwriter template on his own terms, like a sarcastic 21st century approximation of Bob Dylan with political angst traded in for idle sarcasm and romantic honesty reinterpreted as self-deprecating perversion.

There are at least four Smog albums that could proudly be considered his masterpiece, but Knock Knock might be the easiest entry point just for how sprawling and realized Callahan’s vision feels. All the trademark Smog elements are all here: the potpourri of sonic choices from song to song, the subtly effective arrangements, Callahan’s ability to turn everything you have ever felt into one repeating two-chord pattern. But rarely does he encapsulate so many different stories and moments with such consistently knockout results.

On a lyrical level, Knock Knock actually functions surprisingly well as great Midwestern rock opera of sorts, seeming to tell a general coming-of-age story from the suburban-bound “Let’s Move to the Country” to the optimism of “Teenage Spaceship,” the ultimate liftoff of “Hit the Ground Running” and the culminating, weary cold-shoulder of “I Could Drive Forever.” These anecdotal songs are really where Callahan is at his peak, spouting off phrases with intense directness. “With every mile/Another piece of me peels off/And whips down the road/All down the road/I should’ve left a long time ago/The best idea I ever had,” Callahan chants to himself on “I Could Drive Forever” as a warbly guitar line slowly crumbles around him in drunken confusion. Even more affecting is the minimalist ballad “Teenage Spaceship,” with its three-note guitar lick and gentle aura glowing as Callahan confesses, “I swore I’d never lay like a log/Bark like a dog/I was a teenage smog/Sewn to the sky.” The fact that Callahan was still capable of channeling sentiments like this despite being 33 at the time of Knock Knock’s release is a hint to the trials and tribulations behind his musings.

Even at his most upbeat, Callahan’s always been the odd man out, glaring from his isolated vantage point and making slight mutterings that we were only so lucky to listen in on. Smog never seemed to have a laugh that wasn’t at someone else’s expense, and while Knock Knock doesn’t necessarily toss tradition aside, it does find Callahan making some of the most legitimately serene music he had made up until that point. When Callahan suggests in the introductory track, “Let’s move to the country/Just you and me” on top of a looping bed of hums and violins, there isn’t a trace of irony in his voice. This earnestness is true of the music as well. “Held” and “Hit the Ground Running” are the closest Callahan has ever come to writing good old-fashioned road rockers. Of course, it doesn’t take long to get to a scornful line like “Boney cowboys and southern gentlemen/Betting women that’ll never mend/They ride the roads as they bend/As they bend to their dead ends,” but there’s always a genuine joy tied into the irony here.

Approaching an artist like Smog for the first time can be a jarring experience just because of how soaked the music is in the singular mindset of the creator. Before Knock Knock Bill Callahan was the do-it-yourself king of sorrow, and afterwards he became the everyman with a permanent half-smile and ever deepening vocal chords. But Knock Knock is perhaps the most encompassing of Callahan’s records and indeed one of the most defining records of the turn of the millennium. If Neil Young was the voice of the disillusioned, Tom Waits that of the downtrodden, J Mascis of the uncool and Thom Yorke of the paranoid, Bill Callahan summed all that up in two words: “No dancing.”

By Sam Goldner.

Malimob from Somalia via Seattle

I knew nothing of Malitia Malimob prior to the show, though I soon figured out that they were two MCs touting their Somalian origins. To say that we have it easy in the US, compared to war-torn Somalia, would be a comic understatement. During their conversation with the group outside Larimer Lounge, they mentioned their idea to associate gangster rap with notions of actual Somali gangsters, pirates of the high seas. Not much is known about the public profiles of the Seattle artists known as Malimob, though now as immigrants to a country whose own striving dream is limited, their story remains relevant. hile we as Americans might not have pirates, a lack of potable water, and war as a daily threat, their appropriation of American gangster rap to illustrate the immigrant struggle for recognition is fitting. My interest was piqued when I saw a young man, presumably accompanying the group on tour, appeared from backstage, a Somali flag draped over his head. His thick accent and exuberance to tout their origins, mated with the rappers’ message definitely got me hyped for the remainder of the night.

THEESatisfaction together.

The second act, THEESatisfaction, sashayed onto stage with the confidence of a group who knew exactly how to time their performance. Unlike the opening act, they chose to forgo a DJ cueing up their tracks. With a Powerbook at the ready, they started one of a dozen songs and with only quick breaks to hydrate, continued to woo the audience for almost an hour. Their Spector-era harmonies and subtle TLC-like choreographed dance moves were a perfect accompaniment to their hybrid of soul, jazz, and 1990s backpack era hip hop. It’s not so unexpected that Catherine Harris-White and Stasia Irons were recently signed to Sub Pop, the label of headlining act Shabazz Palaces. The ladies were featured on two tracks from Shabazz’s most recent release, 2011’s Black Up. Also of note is that during a self-released video, THEESatisfaction could be seen talking while Digable Planets’ “Black Ego” played in the background. THEESatisfaction’s empowered groove surely carries on the torch the intelligent, empowered rappers of the 90s, including Digable Planets lit.

No DJ.

Shabazz Palaces.

If THEESatisfaction was the slow burning fuse for the show, Shabazz Palaces were the earth rattling exploding denouement. What THEESatisfaction provided with well-rehearsed choreography and wordsmithing, Shabazz Palaces added live instrumentation. Their connection cannot be understated. Ishmael “Butterfly” Butler, formerly of seminal downtempo 90s hip hop group Digable Planets, brought his shifting, sharp lyrics and MPC, while sideman and percussionist Tendai Maraire brought all of the necessary live beats. On record, it’s difficult to identify individual instruments vs. electronic accompaniment, whereas the live performance helps to decode the puzzle. Butler furiously taps at his lit MPC buttons while Maraire switches between maracas, congas, a sampler drum pad, and an electric mbira. It’s fascinating to watch what is essentially an MC create something as complex as a classical jazz band on stage, with no pauses for tuning or to catch up with the set list.

Ishmael zonin’.

To close out the set, THEESatisfaction came out to accompany Butler and Maraire on several songs, and though I left before the end of the set, I wonder if they were able to even recreate the magic of Digable Planets with some cover songs. My wish is that the power that this show brought to Larimer Lounge continues to influence new hip hop shows, many of which are heavy on hype but remarkably absent of on stage musical prowess.

Maraire’s mbira.

Photos and review by Kerry Nordstrom.

Now in their second season, Colorado Public Television’s SOUNDS ON 29TH brings the best of the local music scene straight to your television, recorded at the CPT12 studio on 29th & Welton.

You can tune in to these awesome performances on channel 12, and check them out a week after they air on their site as well. Previous performers include absolutely fantastic locals like The Knew, Hindershot, Go Star, Snake Rattle Rattle Snake, Chella Negro, Ian Cooke, Sauna, and seriously so many more. They’re all great.

Here’s what’s coming up.

MAY 4TH:

9:00PM: Heather Snow & FaceMan
9:30PM: Christie Buchele & The Yawpers

MAY 18TH:

9:00PM: Chris Charpentier & The Raven and the Writing Desk
9:30PM: Nathan Lund & Wheelchair Sports Camp

MAY 25TH:

9:00PM: Elliot Woolsey & The Outfit
9:30PM: Kristin Rand & Sarabelle and Friends

So be sure to tune in to your local PBS station (Channel 12 in Boulder/Denver) for these brand new episodes, and stop by their website to catch up on all the greatness of previous performances.] ]]> http://www.radio1190.org/sounds-on-29th/feed/ 0 http://www.radio1190.org/the-men-at-the-hi-dive/ http://www.radio1190.org/the-men-at-the-hi-dive/#comments Sat, 04 May 2013 02:05:43 +0000 alex http://www.radio1190.org/?p=4916 Dirty Few opened up the show at the Hi-Dive. From their demeanor on stage at this and four other shows I’ve seen them performing, they consistently channel as many party vibes as the stage can contain while imbibing before, between, and during songs.  Friday was no exception as they blew through their primary and back-up beers and demanded Twisted Tea tallboys, which were quickly delivered by an attentive friend.

Twisted tea gets the people going.

Dirty Few, yes!

If they weren’t teetering on the edge of drunkenness, their schtick would seem forced. But the moments when Spencer, twin brother Seth Stone, and the rest of the band kick into one of their many catchy songs, the crowd is fully convinced that their honest music is all they need to party. Interspersed between songs and sips of alcohol are bursts of a common DJ sound effect (wamp wamp) and a call to give the band a “God Damn!”  Spencer and Seth make excellent hype men, and during the set, quite a set of performance artists as Spencer spit a spunk-thick loogie onto the ceiling and waited for it to fall back into his mouth.

Spencer waits.

I’m not sure where I see Dirty Few in a couple of years when their collection of roughly 10 songs grows stale and their audience starts to demand fresh material, but as long as they can continue furiously pounding out their current party jams, I’ll remain a fan.

The second band is another local by the name of Glass Hits.  While they allegedly draw influence from Drive Like Jehu, a wonderfully raucous punk band the likes of which are rarely seen, I found them to be an overly serious attempt at groove driven heavy rock. At one moment, when a fan walked on stage, gyrated towards the band and then dove off.  As the fan approached, I saw the singer look at him cautiously then back away rather than embrace the fan and his passionate energy. Had this happened during Dirty Few, Spencer might’ve jumped with him.

Glass Hits.

I certainly don’t believe that every band playing fast and loud music should be devoted to partying and subject themselves to humiliation and injury, but at least some humor should show through the act they bring to the stage. During a very intimate set by How to Dress Well at Larimer Lounge about a month ago, a group of rude fans continued to talk and yell during quiet moments of his set, to which he responded that he wanted whatever they were on.  He added that the next song was for them and hoped they would enjoy his and the next act’s sets.  At no point during Glass Hits’ set did they seem to engage with the audience or show the passion with which Dirty Few showers them.

Plainly, The Men.

Lastly, The Men.  I’ve been excited to see this band since first hearing their previous release Open Your Heart.  Its pulsating rhythms and LOUD, sometimes twangy guitars are unlike anything I’ve heard in the rock genre for a long while. That they bristle with honest lyrics only makes the songs more appealing. I’m not sure if the records are recorded live, but on stage, each band member seems to have an almost telepathic understanding of when to shift from a repetitive groove to an improvised section and then back to the recognizable song.  Some of the songs being played stretched on for nearly 10 minutes as lead singer and guitarist Nick Chiericozzi shook his hands after a song to relieve the stress of that consistent playing.

Everyone sings.

The most remarkable thing about The Men is their ability to throw together vaguely related genres such as country, guitar pop, Americana, and psych rock without sounding forced. Perhaps it is the ability to bridge between melody and cacophony that makes them so believable. There wasn’t a time during the set where I didn’t feel like their guttural abandon would miss a beat or sound forced, but I really don’t know how they can do it every night of a tour without burning out. They must be The Men.

Harmonica and lap steel.

<em>Review by Kerry Nordstrom.</em>

Inspired partly by Hval’s recent work with sound installations, Innocence is Kinky sometimes seems like a puzzle trying to figure out how to connect various pieces of some massive, gnarly drawing together. Songs that begin as minimal R&B dirges slowly mutate into sprawling collages of ideas, guided by an absolutely gorgeous attention to sound design. With the help of producer John Parish, most well known for his work with PJ Harvey, Hval’s vision feels extravagant yet naked all at once, or to put it different, like the sound of an ambitious artist finally beginning to sound effortless.

Out on Rune Grammofon Records, Jenny Hval’s Innocence Is Kinky is Radio 1190’s pick for May. We would like to thank Twist and Shout for their continued support of the CD of the Month Club. If you’d like to join the club, contact membership@radio1190.org.