On The Scene: Tame Impala at Terminal 5, 10.7.15 by Liz Maher

Still sweaty from their Radio City show, Australian 1-5 piece, Tame Impala pounded Terminal 5 with a light show worthy of any Friday teen metal night that ever went down at the Hayden Planetarium. From our seating we were spared the gimmicky stage show and instead focused on the impressive menu of pedals and fuzzboxes TI’s white coated roadies arranged for Kevin Parker on a Persian carpet. Parker took the stage barefooted and used his toes to squeeze various gadgets throughout the night, often forgetting he once played guitar.

A full house of worshipping TI fans licked up Parker's dance-psych wizardry as though it were acid soaked stamps printed on images of superheroes. Fans sang along to most songs, swaying and yelling for Parker as he drenched them with Poland Spring his brand of holy hallucinogenic water.

The Kev's pedal fetish comes in a sumptuary array of pedal porn, both left and right boards. A garage band this is not. He seems to use a Boss heavy metal delay on most songs and an Electro-Harmonix phase shifter for the TamImp signature sound, which is really about goofing the universe and making your world appear to flicker. Sophie Sleigh-Johnson from These New Pilgrims has a show where she stands and delivers her Chthonic Index at Focalpoint in London: Focal Point Gallery - Current Exhibition. You should check up on this before you have the same old thoughts you have always had and will again always have had. Really, there is so much more to say, but it is all footnotes about obscure peds, mostly non-tube little gee-gaws, do-dads, and jabberwockies dreamed up by geeks in a Roald Dahl fantasmagoria of applied techi-crunchi toe-jam lickin' on the magic Persian carpet delight. Kev is a true ped-o-phile, but remember kiddies, it is all about the flicker, not the means of mental abduction.

Tame Impala does not fall into the classic mold of psych music - more of a molly rush than the traditional 13th Floor Elevator acid variety. That being said, Tameye’s musical peers and critics consider Parker's project as one of the most influential bands since Zeppelin. Forget Nirvana, White Stripes (who, according to Jack White, everyone copies), Jay Z, Dav Gagguetta and fill-in-more. Rising stars of Brooklyn-based alt bands, Sunflower Bean penned a devotional ode in their honor.

Did I post a review of the Sunflower Bean gig here? No. Here it is: Minor chords emphasized like Coldplay, only Sunflowers do it better with less annoying personalities. Julia Cummings is promising but needs to find more of her own voice to keep up. She sounds like she's afraid to sing in public. Loads of potential there.

Back to Tame I. Parker evolves psych by steering clear of the stale high-treble and Rick formula that would only result in a 13th generation psych bar band. Parker blends club music technique with trance pounding distortions that appeal to today’s music buyers. It’s a brilliant marketing scheme where Parker gets it both ways-alt cred and mainstream income.

Parker’s lyrics continue to cleverly reveal so many universal truths - about himself. He flaps his arms a lot and thanks the crowd often but doesn't interact much beyond that.

No stranger to pop music, Parker saw the limited appeal of a one piece and gave up the bliss of solitude to transition to a five man for Currents. He seems to have lost muscle tone in the transformation though. Cause he’s a man of course.

The evening’s setlist was almost a mirror image of their Radio City show with the insertion of Oscilly and Walk On. Settled into TI’s current transition theme, Parker stuck mainly with Currents material vocals and foot pedaling, using his guitars mainly as cool props. Shimmery waves of reverb and other fun noise gimmicks muffled Parker’s sinewy vocals. Live, their performance amplifies the psych connection that outshines their recordings by parsecs.

Toward the middle of the night, a strategically placed Elephant perked up the crowd after a rather introverted Less I Know the Better. Cause I’m a Man is my new feminist anthem. It explains so much.

As wayfaring as TI’s choreographing is intentioned, everything that happened so far was anything Parker controlled skillfully executed without undermining Parker’s mock Yessuz serendipity. From the uniformed roadies to the merch, TI/Parker is the new rock god of the universe.

On the Scene: Tame Impala at Terminal 5, 10.7.15

Thank you Liz Maher

Liz Maher reviews Viv Albertine's Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys

Order the book here. Visit Viv's website here.

By Liz Maher for Stupefaction

Viv Albertine, original Slit girl and It girl of the 70’s London punk scene, long before the Kates and the Caras, has released her memoir CLOTHES, CLOTHES, CLOTHES. MUSIC, MUSIC, MUSIC. BOYS, BOYS, BOYS. (Thomas Dunne, on sale 11/25) The title comes from Albertine's long suffering mother’s exasperated summation of Albertine’s autoelectic description. Mother Albertine nailed it. Fortunately, Albertine grew up impoverished in the UK council estates (you know, the staircases and hallways are on the outside like at an Eileen Warnos era Florida motor court) instead of the USA where she could have easily have taken the ubiquitous mall rat turn. Thus charming transcends annoying. Malcolm McLaren and Viv Westwood’s frock shop, Sex, was Viv’s university and family, and they used her without mercy. The Diane Lane film based on Viv and her mates, Ladies and Gentlemen the Fabulous Stains, missed that part.

Albertine’s memoir does more than reminisce about her days as guitarist of the pioneering female punk bands (The Slits, The Flowers of Romance, and Flying Lizards), it tells a coming of age story which also serves as a historical insider’s guide to London’s early punk scene. The Slits served as female counterparts to The Clash - touring with them and The Buzzcocks and opening for The Sex Pistols. Declaring herself a feminist throughout the book, Albertine eschewed the traditional groupie/girlfriend role women - think Bebe Buell, Uschi Obermaier (my brother’s fave), Pamela Des Barres – women who also obtained a measure of agency through a more traditional and outwardly submissive role. Instead she immersed herself into the music scene as a musician and artist and uninhibited public persona who redefined her identity to embrace the world beyond the council flats. What Albertine might actually mean by “feminist” seems to be an autodidactic sense of rejecting the role of the abject and being assigned to ontological irrelevance. A plaster caster, she was not.

Admittedly she could not actually play guitar when she started out but that was part of punk’s search for the arche blues energy and its charm as an arresting fairy tale in the age of disco, self-absorption and Silver Jubilee commorative tea sets. Obsessed with having the perfect look and band cred, she eventually learned to play power chords. On the side she dated The Clash’s Mick Jones, inspiring the song Train In Vain, and Johnny Thunders (who I remember watching on stage wedged in between two speakers, drunk out of my mind at age 13,) was Sid Vicious’s BFF and ran with Chrissie Hynde and Siouxie Sioux.

Albertine offhandedly stakes her claim to setting the Doc Martin with minis, shrunken dress and taped torn stocking trends and Sid started the safety pin thing. More accurately, it happened around McDowell and Westwood’s boutique on Portobello Road and they glommed onto the trend and pushed the merch. At one point Albertine mentions her influence on 15-year old Slit’s bandmate Ari Up (RIP, Johnny Lydon’s daughter in law and creative msifit). Later she served as role model for Sleater-Kinney, Carrie Brownstein, Courtney Love and Kurt Cobain through the phylogenic persistence of her “mosquito guitar” sound). If that is not enough, her analysis of Sid Vicious’ handwriting alone makes it worth reading. I had always wondered about graphology and the creative process. In Sid’s case he was a sensitive slob, behind his – um – public image.

In keeping with the brevity of punk tracks averaging under 3 minutes, Albertine’s writes in speedy, two page per chapter bursts, a roman a clef version in the vein of Dashiel Hammnet, James McElroy and the 30 Second Bunnies ‘tunes. She takes the reader through a treacle flavored tour of her life from her first memories as a child immigrating from Australia to an dodgy life in England, growing up in an abusive broken home, coming of age on the cusp of punk rock’s development in the UK, attending art school hoping to follow in the footsteps of Ray Davies, too many boyfriends, battles with addiction, cancer and personal demons. Albertine experiences more in three chapters than most people experience in a lifetime. In short a Scholastic Books type morality tale for the middle –aged. Albertine writes about a lot of sexual harassment which she doesn’t feel the need to call out thereby making a stronger statement. She muses wistfully upon Joe Strummer’s lack of loyalty to his bandmate Mick Jones as Strummer “pesters (her) to sleep with him” despite his rotting teeth and overbearing political naiveté. Strummer wasn’t the only Clash member to solicit her. On the other hand, Vicious is portrayed as the eternal gentleman, if gentlemen spit, curse and start fights.

The Albertine-Jones relationship is complicated. It starts out with her whining to Jones about another

boy she's shagging after which he asks her on a date. With no effort or intention on her part, it progresses to a thing with Albertine reluctant to publicly acknowledge the romance (on the surface not conform to societal expectations but really because she didn’t want to hurt her chance with other boys.) Their love is challenged by Jones’ jealousy, a lonely abortion, more jealousy from Jones, Jones’ infidelity leading to VD for VA and finally ends with his blowing Albertine off after she won’t have sex with him will dealing with depression. She really should have gone with Thunders, possibly the only larger narcissist on the scene.

CMB is sectioned into two parts: Side One (young Viv) and Side Two (Middle Aged Viv). Side Two brings to mind the Arctic Monkeys’ anthem Fluorescent Adolescent of a woman who “used to get it in your fishnets, now you only get it in your night dress.” Part Two has our heroine trying to remain relevant by attempting re-create her band, teaching aerobics and taking a sort-of traditional job. Cancer, divorce, aging and loneliness enter but Albertine doesn’t let that or any man get her down. Albertine presents as not overly self-conscipus of her own talent. She is very skilled at showing things with her writing without having to state it, a sure sign of someone who never fit in. Her refusal to submit to undermining statements from male mouths is pronounced a bit too often and loud, we got the point. However, it is appreciated and maybe does need to be pronounced, discussed and chanted like a battle cry. It all ends on an uptick with Albertine counting her blessings and again her determination that no man will break her spirit. Albertine soundtracks her whole life in an appendix at the end, omitting the Arctic Monkeys. Let's say she lost her groove after 1981.

CMB is a great read/gift for both punk-o-philes and young women who these days identify with strong heroines (i.e. Katniss Everdeen.) There are a few cringe-worthy sex scenes in the book but they are so strained and uncomfortable they are more likely to promote abstinence than promiscuity. Vivian Albertine, you will never become a fixture in the Victoria & Albert, but her exegesis will be referenced in the catalogue.

On the Scene: The Wytches at Glasslands (Brooklyn 7.25.14)

Best $12 I Spent All Summer! 

by Liz Maher

by Melissa Gallagher

The Wytches played their first NY show at Brooklyn’s Glasslands on 7/25/14. The band is a three piece from Brighton, England, by way of Peterborough, comprised of Kristian Bell on vocals and guitar, Dan Rumsey on bass and Gianni Honey drumming. Bell and Honey are barely of legal-drinking age, although Honey, a slight boyish man, maintained in a White Board Project interview a few years back they are all very experienced musicians. Wytches is on its first US tour and has a debut album Annabel Dream Reader, out in a month. Rising steadily on the radar of alternative bands, Wytches offers music definitely worth checking out.

Backed by hypnotic beats faintly reeking of Eastern influences, Wytches’ lyrics transport listeners through the darkness of Bell’s and Honey’s psyche, thumping with riveting waves of bleakness and despair. Wytches’ trippy sound doesn’t let you stay in the dark too long, moving you through the anxiety and pain out into the harsh daylight like an amusement park ride moving from dark shriek-filled terror scenarios to the overly bright, possibly worse, outside at the ride’s end.

by Melissa Gallagher

Wytches is a bubbling caldron of 13th generation psych, grunge, geek-horror, trance and surfer reverberations patchworked between thrashing hardcore interludes: not quite ready to be served up but smelling so good you find yourself salivating like a dog waiting for dinner to come. On occasion, they throw in riffs reminiscent of grade B thrillers soundtracks. A dash of this, a dash of that like Alex Turner paired with the zombies of Black Angels while being garroted by his own guitar strings. The band describes its music as surf-grunge. One could also find comparisons to the Rolling Stones’ Satanic Majesties with more sustain or even Cream’s Disraeli Gears.

The lads appeared a bit uncomfortable in front of a small crowd of maybe 30 or so people. Camouflaging their giddy shyness, Bell and Rumsey kept their faces and back hunched down toward their Fender products. Hidden behind shiny long black hair, Wytches appear as three nerdy kids practicing with each other in an unlit garage. However, they give off sounds equal to a full band complement of multiple gits, keyboards and synthesizers at Glenn Danzig’s funeral. Limited to three pieces, Wytches lead and rhythm are the same, which eliminates annoying little riffs and allows for a richer melody with more sustain.

Bell’s lyrics (Homey also writes) and singing style bring you on a poetic, psychologically-fixated tour of his anxiety, disappointment in himself, life in general, sexual frustration, a hopeless and perpetual collapse of his dignity swinging over him like a pendulum. A sad, torn box of band t-shirts hauled across the Atlantic reverberated the despair and agony at the corner of Glassland’s stage. When Bell parts his hair, you see the pale mask of a soul tortured by his inherent failures. At age 21! Even Romy Madley Croft isn’t as self-conscious as Bell. So much talent here even when the individual bits are sub-mediocre. A misleadingly impressive package. That being said, while Wytches started and closed strong, there was a bit too much practice and shrieking covering for yet unwritten songs sandwiched in between Wire Framed Mattress, Crying Clown and Beehive Queen. The recordings are better than the band is live - which doesn’t mean they are bad live. Actually, they are very good live but even better when Liam Watson of White Stripes Elephant reigns them in to a loose (really loose) wire frame. Similarly, their videos are campy and low budget, which fits into Wytches brand as a DIY group. Their art work is mostly Bell’s creepy thin-line drawings, similar to the equally discomforting art of Screaming Female’s Marissa Paternoster’s drawings. Wytches successfully markets itself as post-post-punk psych, while getting ready to lose the training wheels through appearances at various festivals and showcase events in the UK and SXSW 2014. It’s working as they’ve steadily gained fans while moving from opening act to headliners. Even if they are headlining to crowds of 30. Highlights of Wytches’s short set included Beehive Queen, Crying Clown and Robe For Juda. Wytches score high on song progression and are at their best when breaking off into more rehearsed flowing tunes. Bell and Rumsey’s synchronized head movements are also fun to watch. Don’t expect an encore because they simply do not have enough material for one.

Opening for Wytches was Canadian act HEAT, who were pleasant enough in a Strokes-minus-the-angst way and a loud, incredibly polite two-man Florida group SLAAVE. Did someone leave their cap locks on? Anyway, we emerged from the upbeat gloom of Wytches only to be greeted by the sunny smiles of SLAAVE, making this the best $12 I spent all summer.

On the Scene: Governor's Ball, Day 2, (June 7, 2014) by Liz Maher

Liz Maher checks in enduring the suffering that must have been day #2 of Governor's Ball 2014 on Governor's Island, NYC. Take it away, Liz:

Anyone not properly drunk or medicated enough, and probably most of the staff working the show at Governor's Ball NYC on Saturday, can relate to legendary Fear's "Let’s Have a War". I know, my bad, so forgive me for any grumpiness that comes across.

Fitz & the Tantrums, playing at the Honda Stage, are a "fucking party band." Not a bad one, but

A fucking party band

do they really need to remind a crowd to "fucking get down and party" more than once, no less seven times? Dropkick Murphy’s been there and done that better, too. They do have a James Lovelock point about living a meaningful life in the face of ecological collapse and the well-deserved extinction event that is the past shelf-date death of humanity. So, "fucking get down and party!" That being said, the giddy crowd obediently waved their hands in the air and, like Miley advised prolifically on the eve of her Walmart collab, chorused back a dutiful "Yeah!" Noelle Scaggs was beyond super-human, dancing in the heat non-stop, self-flagging herself like a Penitente with a tambourine through F&T's full set. It was almost like she was at another band’s show instead of at frat-boy central. She said, "I was going to be all cute in black" but was also suffering in the heat despite being exactly what she intended. Future fest-goers should take hints from her flattering shorts,and pink sports bra, offering both coolness with a hint of color, all shrouded in airy and forgiving black mesh and fringe. Of course, "Out of My League" and Scaggs-sung songs reigned as successes for the adoring hoard. A cover of Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams" was pretty good, too. Scagg on!

Fashion note here, wearing only a bra works best if you are fit and flat chested. If you disregard this fashion hint, at least don't wear a dirty, flimsy nasty grey-colored bra. Back in the day, Courtney Love pulled it off only because at 6'2", with arms toned from Hole performances, she only wore quality vintage. Only young, firm flesh should be exposed and Lena Dunham’s sisters should stay on the wall at the Rijksmuseum in the Hague lying on couches and eating grapes in Rubens portraits. Consider what works best for you, not what starlets wear to past Coachellas. Plunging neckline tanks looked fresh on just about everyone. Have you noticed that humans (you mean Americans? - Ed.) are only allowed to enjoy the passing of time if it is commodified and sold as an event?

So, next up was Broken Bells, but we needed water, so spent enough time in the sun-battered water

Broken Bells

line to send us into delirium, which required crashing in the shade of the Gotham Stage. On the way we passed a long line at the Flower Crown concession. Another fashion note, flower crowns had a moment four years ago. They don't anymore. Especially so if said head piece is made of plastic in China. Gilded head combs are lighter, more flattering and in style, although I am not a head comb girl. Another fashion note: If you have long hair, please braid it as a courtesy to those unfortunate enough to be standing behind you. Also, do not dip your braids in chemicals.

The Strokes "look terrible but sounded great," remarked my astute buddy. "Still cool!" according to Julian Casablancas, who has come full circle from style icon to punch line to retro chic. Appropriately, he wore a Hawaiian bowling shirt. Didn’t I see him in a Gin advert or at a Walkmen reunion? And so the Strokes, in a set thankfully dominated by Room On Fire and Is This It? made me wish I had not passed on their pre-GovBall NYC show at The Capitol Theatre. Should we be worried about Fab Moretti? He's looking like Charlie Watts now does. Guess their 30's are the new 60's. Albert Hammond Jr. looked the healthiest, kind of like Tim Broun does these days although his business model is closer to Jarvis Crocker. No matter, the songs are solid as one would expect after so many years and 35-year old Casablancas's voice remains strong. (Probably all the spiru-protein veggie garlic smoothies.) Their VU repetitive chords remain unscathed and perfected with Strokian non-chalance. Drone rock this was not. "Barely Legal", "NYC Cops", "Take It Or Leave It" and "Reptilia" got the biggest applause. 

The Strokes by Dana (distortion) Yavin. See more at Brooklyn Vegan (They really DO look like crap! - Ed.)

Spoon was strategically ditched in order to score a better spot for Jack White, which was just as well as they sound dull as hell. Passing on that new album. Yeah, and the Guster record, too.

Festival Etiquette Lecture: Please men, do not use women as arm rests or recliners, especially when said male is over 200 lbs and said woman is 110 lbs. Please also refrain from smoking when fellow concert goers are squeezing the life's breathe out of each other.

About a half-hour before Jack White went on, I passed out and wound up in the medic tent, which is a strange experience. My only comfort was that I was too hot and dehydrated to evacuate, like poor still-dead Hunter Thompson after a gin binge (again, pretty sure that was Casablancas in the gin advert). Most of the staff was caring, winning praise for working under stressful conditions. Whoever was in charge that night should be nominated for a Grammy for humanitarian acts of kindness. My assigned doctor looked like an un-buff, episode 7-8 Matthew McConaughey in True Detective, but then I was semi-delirious. It's sort of interesting watching them play "Guess Which Drug(s) This Guy Took?" as they gather around and spit out various remedies. Naltrexone, anyone? Then White came on and it was time to end my accouchement. I caught the first few songs from the tent, and they rallied me to get back out there and cover this show. Remember dear reader, I suffer for you.

Jack White by Burak Cingi/Getty Images

A trim White looked amazing and sounded even better. His stage show was stunning: bathed in blue light with scaled up "Highball Stepper" and "Lazaretto" vid effects. The stage set made the entire White experience feel like we were all watching TV in a dark living room, reinforced by the blue and white wave display television from the video. Wearing a Liberty-like printed floral shirt and suspenders, White was in top form, covering new material with a few well-chosen early Stripes songs that fitted well with his current reflection on early-twenties Jack White and one Raconteurs' "Steady As She Goes". "The Rose With A Broken Neck" was even thrown in for those who missed the film. Honestly, "We're Going To Be Friends" never sounds as good as Jack Johnson's cover of the song for his Sing-A-Longs and Lullabies for Curious George soundtrack, although it was a pretty good effort on White's part. He was undisputedly the best dressed person at the show, even without a flower crown. "Lazaretto" is almost made for audience sing alongs - When I say nothing, I say everything. Guess the litigation as therapy is working out for him. White, more energized and less stressed than he was during his Blunderbuss tour, cut his pounding, physical performance with dramatic stops to build on his tone and atmosphere, outdoing any synthesizer or shoe-gazing act out there. His phrasing on the lower bridge of the neck was impeccable, as always, and it is that precision which allows him to stop, unlike many sloppy shredders whom I will not name. His new material is dazzling, making you scratch you head at how he achieves various effects and causes. Supporting him is a band retaining only Lillie Mae Rische from the Peacocks and most of the Buzzards. White's intimate performances with Rische were sweet, making every woman in the audience wish they had red hair. Unfortunately, the closeness of these two performers killed any chance of Allison Mosshart making a cameo.

Aside from White's slightly patronizing quips like "Is that too much for you, NY?" and "If you want to sing along, I won't get mad at you," he made the whole horrible festival experience and medical emergency drama worth it, but it wasn't worth missing handstand workshop the next day. We're eagerly awaiting the release of White's album tomorrow, and hopefully a full tour that includes NYC's smaller arenas.

Daily Travels: Javits Center

As seen by Liz Maher at the JANY Show

Daily Travels: Williamsburg

By Liz Maher at the Music Hall of Williamsburg for the Black Angels & Roky Erickson tonight

On the Scene: Arctic Monkeys at Madison Square Garden, 02.08.14

 

Liz Maher reports: Arctic Monkeys took the stage for a sold out show at Madison Square Garden clearly elated at having sold out tour t-shirts and pom pom hats. They also put on a good, not great show, though I’m sure audience adored them even in the death grip of Buyer’s Remorse at $30 for an acrylic hat which looks all too twee. Hell, I adore them - sooo cute! Remember best-beloveds, as the poet wrote, ‘the world is mud-licious and puddle-wonderful’. Monkeys would have been better, same show, at Alt-Venue-Shift-Delete-MSG which manages to distill almost every concert to the intimacy of a podiatry exam – then sports fans will tell you there is always the danger of falling off the step seat levels if you experience a Deleuzian moment of transcendence – of becoming Monkey. Another gripe is the show only covered 20 songs including encores. Yesterday’s annoying-in-an-amusing-way twits from Sheffield are today’s corporate slugs. (Continued after the jump.)

Daily Travels: The New Yorker

As seen from 11th Ave by Liz Maher

Five By Five: Year End Favorites, Part 3

 

I put out the call to some friends for a simple list of five favorites from the year...anything: events, concerts, recordings, personal moments, whatever. The title is in honor of the first responder, Andrew Loog Oldham, being inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. A big congratulations to him! This is the third of three installments. HUGE Stupefied thanks to everyone who contributed, and to everyone who takes the time to have a look at Stupefaction...Happy holidays all!

 

Gillian McCain -  semi-off the top of my head:

1. Alice Munro receiving Nobel Prize
2. Matte magazine
3. And Every Day Was Overcast by Paul Kwiatkowski (Black Balloon Publishing)
4. Megan Cump's photography
5. Ann, a one-woman show written and performed by Holland Taylor about former Texan Governor Ann Richards

Liz Maher - 2013 - not such a great year. I nominate sleep as the best thing of the year:

Arctic Monkeys - AM - Good Pop-thump, thump, thump…
My Bloody Valentine - MBV
Black Angels - Indigo Meadow - Maybe 3 very good songs, several other ok songs
Queens of the Stone Age -...Like Clockwork
Beyonce - Beyonce over Sadat X "We In New York" because I'm going mall over street
British Sea Power - Machineries of Joy
Prince - "Screwdriver", "Breakfast Can Wait" and "Da Bourgeoisie"
Daft Punk Random - Access Memories
London Grammar - If You Wait
Lorde - Pure Heroine - I admire Lorde's contempt
The Wytches - Beehive Queen & "Digsaw"

Ed Ward - 
 

1. Einstein on the Beach at the Netherlands Opera, 1/11/13. Never thought I'd get to see this, and then the opportunity and means to do it dropped into my lap. Astounding. 

2. Leaving Europe after 20 years. When I moved to France in 2008 after 15 years in Germany, I was happy to be there. At the same time, Amy Rigby and Eric Goulding were pulling up and moving back to the U.S. I didn't understand this, but five years later, I do: it was evident that the people who run France do not want Americans living there, despite what other French people think. So I'm not.

3. Mick Farren dies a very rock and roll death. Never met him, never really had any back-and-forth with him. Introduced to his blog through Stupefaction, though, and he felt like part of the family. Shocking he went so young, but coming off-stage at a gig? Coulda been lots worse. 

4. Dan Penn: The Fame Demos. Lotta wisdom in these three-minute pieces. 

5. The tamale lady: A couple of weeks after I moved into my place here in Texas, the doorbell rang on a cold day and a little woman with an insulated bag offered me a dozen chicken tamales for ten dollars. She's come back several times since. The tamales are stupendous, and she's made me feel like I'm tied in, some way, to my neighbors here. It's a start.



Andy Schwartz - 

1.     SPRING BREAKERS [movie written & directed by Harmony Korine]

2.     THE DOUBLE [novel by George Pelecanos]

3.     FRUITVALE STATION [movie written & directed by Ryan Coogler]

4.     THE GEATOR PRESENTS “THE DIVAS OF ALL TIME” [concert hosted by Jerry Blavat a/k/a “The Geator With The Heater” – Kimmel Center, Philadelphia PA. With Darlene Love, Freda Payne, Candi Staton, The Tymes, Baby Washington, Blue Magic, and The Soul Survivors]

5.     A.K.A. DOC POMUS [documentary directed by William Hechter & Peter Miller]

Binky Philips - 

1. My guitars and playing them with The Planets

2. My new tiny thug cat, Monte Rock IV

3. Women with bare feet

4. NASCAR/The Who (an apropos pairing, no?)

5. Abusing Reefer

I left off my wife and daughter because they are ALL of it put together.

 

 

On the scene: Queens of the Stone Age & The Kills, Barclays Center 12.14.13

Liz Maher was there & submitted this report:

It’s only appropriate that Queens of the Stone Age, a band from So. Cal., who play songs with Beach-boy-ee-sounding names such as ‘I Worship the Sun’ and ‘Feel Good Hit of the Summer’ should play NYC in the midst of a blizzard. Even better that they do it out of Manhattan in Brooklyn at a venue that frequently doubles as Jay Z’s back porch. QOTSA’s frontman, Josh Homme, sounds like a federal entitlement program for out and proud folk, ripped Jay Z this past summer for manhandling the Queens and then attempting to photobomb them in a drive-bye marketing op. Apparently, Queens bear no grudges. Set it to a 5 chord desert rat progression and GNR it and you might call it ‘Mr. Knowles is My Bitch Slap Rappin’ Summer Fun Friend’. 

Opening for QOTSA were The Kills who make no money from album sales and have to tour to keep Kate Moss kitted out. The Kills are best playing intimate gigs where Hince’s peddling can be fully appreciated and Mosshart can throw sweat and flic cigarette butts at the audience. This was not a full set but a mere handful of songs that did not involve the strum und drang of past 2 hour psychodramas. All in all, the Kills were a tasty amuse-bouche even if we’ve tasted that flavor many times before or as another aforementioned SoCal band intoned 20 years ago ‘I think we’ve seen that movie too’. 

The Kills' Blood Pressures, 2011

Having to go big following The Kills, a huge back screen started a dramatic count down from 60 ending in Jon Theodore’s pounding drum solo intro into You Think I Ain’t Worth a Dollar, but I Feel Like a Millionaire.The song ended as a huge cloud of black coated the now brilliant money-green screen, leaving the stage in momentary darkness. A magic moment of alchemy while the irises adjusted. QOTSA slammed right into No One Knows and, to the fur trimmed (looks like so much pubic hair) snow-coated crowd’s delight, My God Is the Sun. The back screen became a sixth member of the show projecting vintage-y billboard QOTSA letter illustrations from various angles which reminded me of an installation at Art Basel 2013. The screen eventually flew around animated Songs For The Deaf arrows and exploding planet headed women.

Thunderous pounding dominated the first half of the set with a lot of energy coming from “Dutch” Troy Van Leeuwen and Michael Shuman jumping around and kicking about. QOTSA’s latest effort ...Like Clockwork rightfully made up the majority of set. Their mics were turned up way loud on the drums (just like on Bonham in old Led Zep shows) and Homme, so the entire non Phil Spector wall of sound seemed a little top heavy and uneven and possibly not as good as the studio version but still very good and even perilous as it all looked to come crashing down like a drunken Hooters waitress. The bold energy and charisma of the band made up for any shortfalls – RHCP used to have this energy before they became effete health food aficionados.The QOTSA added dimension by jamming out their tunes longer and harder than on the recordings – the reason why you whip out the debit card for a live show instead of booting up Spotify. Homme frequently held up a glass of something, making me think guest appearances from David Bowie, David Grohl and Alex Turner toasting champagne would have added a nice photo op for marketing purposes. Didn’t happen.

Homme dominates the stage with his mass but it was best when he doesn’t talk, or when the people behind and to the side of me don’t sing along which they unfortunately did throughout the entire show. I was ready to strangle the girl next to me with her topknot for butchering Kills and QOTSA songs. Homme lost points when he mentioned playing Boston causing the possibly terrorist crowd to unexpectedly boo and when he spoke of being friends, urged the audience to sing along (not Ms. Topknot) and made a sickening intro speech to Feel Good Hit of the Summer. He also had everyone holding up lighters at the end which even Lorde is tired of. Jane’s Addiction has it right “all talk and no action.” Dude just does not get NooYawk. He did get Westchester and Connecticut though as seen by all the little school boys boarding Metro North trains post show carrying Rough Trade bags.

QOTSA's ...Like Clockwork, 2013

A well sold audience, some clad in QOTSA holiday sweaters, loved every minute and were exclaiming what a great show QOTSA put on throughout the crowded subway ride home. And it was a rocking show even without leaving me deaf. Barclay's employees, of which there are clearly too many, on the other hand seemed bored. Clearly their minds were on convincing people to spend $11 for a beer.

QOTSA sustained aggressive momentum through lots of transitions which is a skill for which QOTSA is known. A lot of testosterone in this band. They successfully bridge rock, metal, and indie, hitting chords hard and with sustain. Basically- a Zeppelin inspired band that progressed into their own sound- Part Soundgarden , part Kings of Leon, Part Chillis-very commercial fast food American hard rock-the McFatburger of guitar bands who play melodic bottom of the neck chords on the hot top pickup. Fat, cheap, deliciousness, unsatisfying and leaving a serotonin-induced rancid aftertaste. A lot of fun.

Highlights were My God Is the Sun, Smooth Sailing, If I Had a Tail, Fairweather Friend (even with huge red and white lights shining mercilessly in the audiences’ eyes), Sick, Sick, Sick, Go With the Flow, Feel Good Hit of the Summer and A Song For the Dead.

QOTSA Set List:

-You Think I Ain’t Worth a Dollar but I Feel Like a Millionaire

-No One Knows

-My God Is the Sun

-Burn the Witch

-Smooth Sailing

-Monsters in the Parasol

-I Sat By the Ocean

-...Like Clockwork

-I Never Came

-If I Had a Tail

-Kalopsia

-Little Sister

-Fairweather Friend

-Make It With Chu

-Sick, Sick, Sick

-Better Living Through Chemistry

-Go With the Flow

Encore:

-The Vampyre of Time and Memory

-Feel Good Hit of the Summer

-A Song For the Dead

Daily Travels: Grand Central Station

12:15AM Grand Central Station, NYC, 12.15.13 by Liz Maher

The Second Annual Stupefaction Gift Guide (2013)

Santa by Walter Steding

Big thanks to Liz Maher for really helping out with this (most of it is hers). 

Not that we expect anyone will actually purchase anything on this list, 

but its incredible to know that if you can think of it, its probably out there!

Bauhaus by Eugene Merinov

Patti Smith by Godlis

The Clash by Kate Simon

Beginning with - own a piece of real rock 'n roll history. Buy an original print photograph directly from a photographer. The list is extensive but any regular readers here might guess that we would start any list of our favorites with Kate Simon, Godlis, or Eugene Merinov. Go ahead, and write to them...they love to sell direct. Prices vary depending on size, etc...Or you could buy a painting, like the one at the top of this post, from the one & only Walter Steding.

Third Man's Bumble Buzz Pedal $325. The pedal is made by Union Tube and Transistor and is based on the chickin’ shack shalin’ pedal they made for Jack to channel Little Willie John's “I'm Shakin'” track on his 2012 solo debut Blunderbuss - no stamped circuits or chips here! A limited edition yellow version designed by Rob Jones is also available for Third Man Records' Platinum Vault members only. Or, if you act fast, you can get Third Man's via Bang Candy Co. limited edition Holiday Libation Marshmallows in Jack & Ginger, Blackcurrant Absinthe and Malted Chocolate Whiskey as well as other confections like Electrified Peppermint Bark and Smoked Spice Orange Syrup to spice up your dark liqueur or drizzle over ice cream. Even the crossroads demon could not resist.

Rickenbacker 660 Ruby guitar $2649 - so important to your beloved pysch-musician.

Step up that $5 glass slide and get your friend a Shubb Axys reversible guitar slide for $29.95 which allows a easy switch from sliding to fretting. Mr. B makes sustainable guitar slides from reclaimed bar-ware. Go for Mr. B's Roughneck Series at $22 for that swamp-thing sound.

$20,000 will buy 5 days at Rough Magic recording studio in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Package includes full use of Rough Magic's Pro Tools HD equipped studio able to catch 16 tracks of live audio and a suite of instruments and front end gear from API, AKG and Neuman with a house engineer available.

Start the campaign for a Lou Reed stamp, or make your own - $14.99 per sheet or $11.99 for a postcard (minimum order of 100) at Stamps.com.

A cool 3 million will get you J-Lo to sing at least 3 tunes for your giftee, regardless of whether or not she/he is a ruthless, murderous dictator. The Thermals probably charge less.

Everyone loves ugly Christmas sweaters...especially rock band ones. This year Consequence of Sound is featuring, amongst others, Queens of the Stone Age and The Descendants for only $34.99. 

Give the anti-gift! Don’t take someone to Seaworld. Captivity of Orcas in bathtubs is fucked up. Willie Nelson and other bands who may have seen “Blackfish” agree. Spend your money anywhere else and feel good.

Give the gift of soundproofing. Soundproofcow.com sells all the barrier and muffling equipment you'll need to make your studio or house a quieter place. This would be the perfect gift for the people over at Rough Trade.

Rather go for the gift that anticipates New Year’s Eve and Carnival or an Eyes Wide Shut-themed party? Head to Midnight Zodiac at Etsy for one-off shock-horror masks and bustiers that will class up your next Masked Ball/Death Metal Show/‘It works for Us’ mock torture role-play soirée with wearable art.

For the jazz fan in your life, you can't go wrong with ANYTHING from Mosaic Records. Or if that jazz fan happens to reside in New York City, how about a gift certificate for The Jazz Record Center?

If that jazz fan reads a lot, you can't go wrong with the beautiful coffee table book, Verve: The Sound of America, or Stanley Crouch's fantastic biography on Charlie Parker, Kansas City Lightning.

Go high fashion, and encourage your tinnitus, with limited edition Alexander Wang Beats By Dre headphones at $449.

And lastly, bring your old band photos back to life with Lomography's hand sized smartphone scanner ($59) which turns 35mm negatives into quality digital images in the blink of an eye.

And most importantly, 
Stupefaction wishes you joyous (funny spell check turned that into noxious) holidays filled with rocking carols and limited snow.

On the scene: Goblin at Webster Hall, 10.07.13

Liz Maher reports (review & all photos): It was a dark stormy night as we turned the corner on 11th toward Webster Hall to encounter Goblin's second US show and comeback tour. Goblin's performance was about what happens when you let go of objectivity and lose yourself in subjectivity. Webster is a decrepit music hall with a sticky floor where drinks get spilled on your shoes - in daylight you might find the owner dead, you have a little blood in your hand and the space had been condemned and closed for years. Goblin music bridges jazz and trance, heavily sampled by Armand van Beuren in trip house Amsterdam.

If the soundtrack from the Exorcist was designed to creep you out, Goblin, an Italian band originating in the mid 70’s and famous for scoring Dario Argento’s Profondo Rosso and Suspiria as well as Dawn of the Dead and Mario Bava films, is designed as an epicurean invitation to participate in creeping yourself out. No lip synching or booty popping here, this was a feast for the senses not for LIRP and COSPLAY WOW enacters and their pathetic little friends. Maybe the scariest bit of the evening was the singer-guitar player Massimo Morante: grizzled, face falling off and decomposing hand with liver spots all decked out like Steve Tyler lost in the San Gennaro festival or at times, like the ghost of Marc Bolan. Hey Liv, come down to the police station and pick up Papa Massimo, and bring a bathrobe, he forgot to wear his trousers again.

My partner speculated on the crowd, reacting to the Golden Age of cinema’s The Passenger, Last Tango in Paris and Interiors, was experiencing a mimetic euphoria. The world is evidently no longer a safe place where the blue light of consumer-capitalism shines through the machine produced fog to show the way to a happy ending as it did on Daisy Buchanan’s dock. But then that was a lie anyway as is the false accumulation of consumer gods. Goblin would have none of it. This was not a dressed up crowd, despite 3 costume stores within a block and Halloween on the way, but closer to a bunch of media studies hipsters trying to make films theory professor cinema references come alive. Whatever. Webster Hall had a surprisingly big turn out for a bunch of pudgy 60-something year old Italian guys in leather pants and spray painted black Pumas. Goblin was more delighted than the crowd to be there, pulling American flags out of their back pockets and waving them to the audience, happy to have crossed the Homeland Security biometric checkpoints before the Federal government shut down. It was their first American show and the band was pumped, despite a lack of good Italian food in the surrounding area.

Goblin opened their 10/7/13 show at Webster Hall with the well-fed goblin girl crawling across the stage floor under faint atmospheric fog. She later reappeared as a black swan sans back bends. Blame arthritis but she would have benefitted from her practicing at Body & Pole's 6:45 flexibility class the night before.

Over the near two hours of sound, Goblin played a full span of their discography with heavier tunes dominating the first set. Mad Puppet, Roller, Aquaman (reminding me of Entourage not really) and Dr. Frankenstein highlighted this part. After that, the band got talkative and launched the “more soundtrackie” part of the show. Bruno Previtali’s Rickenbacker bass supported both sides of Goblin’s range admirably.

When Massimo Morante’s guitar was plugged in, it was trippy and disturbing. The similarly rooted Space Oddity, Bowie’s coeval analog, was a failure to launch sing-a-long by comparison. The synths avoided 80’s cliches. Roland keys (stretched) did not have the proper keyboard amp to expand the personal space one inhabited and shared with other revelers into a collective K hole. Blame the shitty amps but then Goblin has always been a synth band.

The experiental value of the show was that it collapsed space and time. It was like participating in your own autopsy while still alive. Screens flanking the stage exaggerated this feeling although not as dramatically as the full screen show at Brooklyn Music Hall the night before. Referencing Susan Sontag’s essay “On Camp”, White Snake is camp, while Goblin is the genuine article, or the gruesome mutation of Genesis and King Crimson born on the sun slapped cracked dirt of Mama Roma. If Scriabin were evil, he would sound like Goblin. Goblin isn’t evil though, they're actually quiet jolly fellows, conducting the music with their fingers and taking selfies throughout the performance. Danny Elfman, bless him, would be lucky to have 1/100th of the testicles or playfulness Goblin has.

Despite some idiotic chord progressions, mostly as backdrops for Claudio Simonetti and Maurizio Guarini’s synths and previously discussed amp issues resulting in my deafness the following day, Goblin managed to pull together a solid near two hours of rocking, progressive (even after 40 years) of sound with not one lyric sung. Not one. Flock of Seagull this was not.

Long before Fruity Loops and other mixology programs for rap on laptops, Goblin learned how to construct delay and sustain to one perfect Hz frequency of Cathedral Organ sing songing without words. At times very medieval and Gregorian, Profondo Rosso began with a haunting chain of flies and children's voices. This was much sicker than Norwegian Death Metal which as I can tell is all about the noise. Goblin’s spooky soundscapes could be Solange’s next reverse copy when the nightclub act and vague New Order references wear thin.

To “sing” Suspiria, Morante switched out his guitar for a whup-ass big electric mandolin and an Italian actress named Corinna, as stunning as Renaissance portraiture, was brought onstage to sing. Goblin girl was reincarnated as a black swan to toe point behind her, stopping only to bite bassist, Previtali, from Abruzzio “ok, no Italians in the house” in the neck.

Later drummer, Titta Tani, got a solo set. This was a distraction though as pounding was out of context with Tani’s strength lying in his subtle percussion interplays that layered and helped stage the whole atmospheric thing Goblin strives for.

Afterward, we went to the graveyard, ate cold pizza and were killed by a metallic silver ball.