Recently in REVIEWS (Concerts) Category

Minus The Bear closed the door on a seven-week U.S. tour Saturday night, warming up a freezing bunch of shuddering Seattleites snuggled together for heat and rock in the Showbox Theater. The sold out audience, who lovingly adored their hometown cubs, consisted of an overwhelmingly abysmal clan of weirdoes, minors and relatively imbeccelic dolts wandering around the vast room of deafening sound that can sometimes be the Showbox. Who says no one still watches MTV?

Dozens of excitable bodies ran wild in the green room, stuffing mascara faces with hoards of salty meats and snatching quick shots of Jack Daniels from a bottle hidden in an unplugged microwave, while The Helio Sequence, a similar looking two man electro-rock-combo whose new album Keep Your Eyes Ahead comes out on Sub Pop in January 2008, helped stoke the night's fire with their own bombastic elegance.

Almost possessed to fist the rectum of every last person in the audience with an intestine-jarring slug of virtue, Minus The Bear chucked out walloping flares from their interstellar pyre Planet Of Ice, including "Burying Luck," "Thrown' Shapes," "Dr. L'Ling," knocking the hearing out of every head in the room like a committed quintet of seriously fanatical rockers. At one point the bass player told some freakout kiddo in the front row to cool it, but other than that, it was a straight forward serving of esoteric deafness.

The lengthy bridges, slinky keys and airy guitars might have sounded eighteen billion times better, different, more vibrant and expansive, in an outdoor venue such as Red Rocks or even the Gorge. Maybe The Bear can join The Cure at next year's Sasquatch! next May. The Bear provide that swarthy sort of time travel sound that Dr. Who would have on his iPod, exalting a determination as sadistic as Slayer and as clever as Kraftwerk.

I did feel that the punch Minus The Bear packed made this old grizzly want to return to my cave and sleep, for I am a bearded elder and after enduring such a pulverizing session of insatiable prog-goodness, found my tired soul in need of copious amounts of quiet slumber.

Unsigned charmball Jay Brannan squeezed out a supple splash of acoustic bliss at the Mercury Lounge in New York City Tuesday night for the unofficial kick off of the annual CMJ Music and Film Festival. A devout legion of Brannanites crammed into the intimate lounge for a brief set consisting of a "cover-of-a-cover" of N.W.A.'s "Straight Outta Compton" along with his trademark heartmelter "Soda Shop" which we were able to capture on tape. Brannan, whose 4-song ep Unmastered is now available on iTunes, will perform in London and South Africa in the near future in his continuing effort to briskly tickle the ears on every head from here to Timbuktu, without the need or nuisance of a recording contract. Surrender your senses to the sweetness that is Jay Brannan by subjecting your eyes to the sublime live sounds of "Soda Shop" above.

Jay Brannan
MySpace

Deerhunter mortally impaired the collective hearing of all Capitol Hill cools Thursday night at Neumos in Seattle America. Bradford Cox, the emaciated brainchild of these crooked Atlanta instrumental-cases, had a slight wrench thrown into the band's sybaritic mix when earlier in the month guitarist Colin Gee abruptly left the band. The gaping hole in Deerhunter's sternum was spackled shut by Cox himself who now plays guitar in addition to inciting the repetitive droning of his perpetual vocals that kept last night's performance from fully liquidating my rainy city like a category five hurricane.

"We're just getting used to playing as a four-piece," Cox mentioned midway through the band's savage arrangement. "And these are not even our instruments," the unusual artist explained in his Jesus and Mary Chain shirt. "Not to apologize or anything, because I think you are getting your money's worth."



The band confronts their live shows like a speeding bus with numerous allowances for Cox to jump off of without politely requesting a stop. The twig-screamer then leaps back onto the speeding vessel through some unorthodox hole, like a window or the tailpipe. Once the frail bag of bones is locked in, the dramatic results are staggering like the collapsing of your apartment roof when the upstairs neighbor and his fat fucking girlfriend fall through the floor after having heavy-people sex.

Once the initial smashing of souls ceased, Deerhunter aired out the spacious aria "Intro" which then skated into the neon cool of "Cryptograms" from their LP of the same name on Kranky. Cox seemed not only sober but also chipper as he introduced "Hazel Street" which quickly rushed to meet "Dr. Glass" then set off to catch "Spring Hall Concert". The muffled bass on "Wash Off" sounded fuzzier than a sputtering El Camino up a one-way hill of broken carcasses. After striking what he called a "Stereolab" chord with the unimpressed audience of Seattle sleepies, the Atlanta Braves ripped into "Fluorescent Grey," "Octet," and "Strange Lights" for the mighty closer.

Cox, who sported a mean 1980's surfer cut, seemed more normal off stage than while screaming on it. I overheard him talk in his wrinkled falsetto squeak to a fan about Jeff Buckley. He seemed bright and alive in those valuable moments of off duty sincerity. On stage Cox appeared possessed, almost demented with a sickness that acts as the powerful translator for the indecipherable messages which spill from the ATL kid's lustrous brain and into our traumatized hearts.



The live Deerhunter experience in Seattle was something and I'm absolutely OK with still not knowing exactly how to explain what the fuck happened, much like absurd doses of random life. Such a mute conundrum is the ascending beauty and, according to some journalists, the horror of the band Deerhunter. Its very amusing to me that in the early days, some fool yelled out Turn It Up Faggot, which became the title of their first album. Deerhunter's live spectacle is just as much of a baffling slug of palatial noise as their recorded albums. Both are ferocious and arresting.

To give you a better, albeit safer and modulation efficient perspective on just how perplexingly exquisite a live Deerhunter performance can be, check this astonishingly flawless bootleg from July 2007 @ Caldeonia, which can be downloaded right here .

New York City's Battles masterfully improvised their way inside and out of their debut album Mirrored Thursday night for a sold out crowd at the Crocodile Café in Seattle America. The undeniable star of the program was John Stanier, a fellow South Florida boy and once premiere skin slapper for Helmet, who interminably taught a jawdropping clinic on how to absolutely devastate an unsuspecting drum kit. The lookalike of "Shooter McGavin" from Happy Gilmore, Stanier sweated like hell throughout the hour long set, ferociously smacking the drums with a warrior's vengeance, accurately pegging his extended cymbal which shivered in fear some 8-feet above the stage.

Young Tyondai Braxton, with his frizzy afro and introverted demeanor, looked like a timid child who feared to ask for seconds like some Oliver Twist orphan. Braxton dazzled the Seattle sell outs with his ambidextrous skills, fingering keys with one hand while noodling his guitar with the other, while holding a green pick firmly between his mumbling lips. The passive young Braxton would hum his brisk and eerie vocals then quickly loop them onto one of two Apple computers that, along with dozens of machines and electronics, littered the compact setting inside the Croc.

The dexterous crew of improvisationalists organically entered and exited each song captured on the Warp release Mirrored with skillful ingenuity, drifting in an out of "Tonto" "Leyendecker" and the seven minute opus "Atlas" as if they were exploring rooms of a haunted mansion. Timing is a vital necessity for these crafty musicians. The fluidity of each song, how they transitioned from one blast to the next, was locked in air tight with a devil's grip thanks to the miraculous display of expertise from Stanier. I can't stress the amazement on the faces of those Seattle scuzzies enough. Fuck Helmet, Stanier should be remembered for being the omnipotent core of this mind bending quartet.

Battles are a clear picture of how the musical guard must change. Braxton's purposeful misuse of voice, created on the fly with looping vocodors intertwined with Stanier's relentless thwacking of the drums, topped with the wicked guitar/bass of Dave Konopka plus the chilling energy that flew from the hands of ex-Don Caballero kid Ian Williams, combined to the highlight the brutal complexity of this abstruse band of technologic renegades.

For a long time I thought that this project belonged to Braxton, but no, clearly it does not. This was and will continue to be the Mark Stanier show, a stick wielder who hits better than Dave Grohl or maybe even Muhammad Ali. With brittle Braxton and machismo Stanier performing side by side, it was like watching Michelangelo Buonarroti paint a portrait alongside Domenico Ghirlandaio on the amorous shores of Italy, or something just as beautiful.  

Book-ended with Bad Brains and Beastie Boys, the second day of the 2007 Sasquatch! Music Festival was stuffed with calories of cool for a famished generation of audio appetites that came in from Vancouver, Portland, Helena, Salt Lake City, and even Sacramento for the annual Memorial Day feast. Last year we survived a horrifying hailstorm, and this year, like some sassy ex-lover catching you at a bar with your new flame, the old cougar mother nature came out clawing for flesh, with some hurricane level winds that literally blew The Polyphonic Spree off the stage. Hosting both days were comedians Michael Showalter (Stella), Aziz Ansari (Human Giant), and Sarah Silverman, whom I did not see but am positive was unfunny. LINK

Explosions In The Sky played the second of two mind-bending sold out shows Monday night at Neumos in Seattle America, before an audience of underage youths and cocaine nosed hipsters. The reserved quartet from Austin Texas delivered what seemed like one extensive and empyreal song, flawlessly crafted with the similar precision of jazz musicians. LINK

Flashback 1997. Miami. Maladjusted tour. Surprise looks when we were shocked and amazed to discover not one, but two Smiths songs ("Paint A Vulgar Picture" & "Shoplifters") in the set. Flash forward one decade later to Spokane Washington of all places, where I witnessed the most intimate and inimitable Morrissey concert of all time.

I arrived in Spokane, on the east side of the Evergreen State, 4-hours after speeding away from Seattle in my uninsured Ford Focus. The gig was originally booked at the grandiose INB Performing Arts Center, but the demand for Moz on the eastern part of the Wash was anything but overwhelming, so the fanatics were herded into a smaller pen, built to hold 1500. Listen to me now - by my head count there were only 300 bodies in the room. It were as if Morrissey graciously agreed to play a Make-A-Wish show for me and 299 other party patients affected with terminal Moz fever. You couldn't have imagined the fright in the air as we diehards fluttered like Ritalin butterflies in fear of a short set or abrupt cancellation. The excitement kept us paralyzed with anticipation. Strangeways, there we were.

In the back of the building, at around 3:30, I locked into a conversation with this fellow named Brian Bateman, who flew in from Boise, Idaho. Moz guitarist Boz Boorer recently signed Brian's stub and spilled the beans of a giant black bus with a Florida license plate that left about twenty-minutes ago to retrieve the singer from his secluded retreat. Frantically, almost as if on cue, Brian speaks out of the corner of his excited mouth, "oh my god here comes the black bus." I quickly grabbed my Olympus camera as Brian cemented himself in the pathway of our idol. Walking a pace in front of us and heading into the sound check, gliding on a wave of class, came Steven Patrick Morrissey.

At 8 p.m. Kristeen Young and her drummer "Baby" Jeff White greeted the cold, quaint crowd with the surefire ice breaker, "Hello Spokandy." I have great respect for Young, whose face resembled Bjork and whose yowl clawed crazier than PJ Harvey, as she belted out her impressive thrust of energy while fearlessly tangling with an intoxicated heckler. "What's your name?" the sloshy waster yelled. When Young pointed to that violent keyboard of hers, which bore her name in sparkly silver lettering, the drunken dolt admitted "I can't read." We, the antsy partygoers and I, let it ride. Then, like the reveal of a bummer narcotics officer, the saucey stinkpot shits all over our celebration cake when he belts this out; "we love you Tori Amos." The tsunami of groans almost caused Young's eyes to flood. Ever the professional, whose hands were attractively held captive in the plastic holders of a 6-pack which were clipped together but a series of close pins, Young took a deep breath, and let the pain momentarily subside. From there the set was even more vitriolic and fierce. I was close enough to see that the vixen is a shaver. I want more of her.

Shortly after 9 a series of Moz-selected videos began to roll, including one foreign music show that was blessed by a fabulous performance of "Looking For A Kiss" from The New York Dolls. A British female voice over began spouting off free association words. Morrissey comes out in chocolate brown shirt and pumpkin tie. Matt Walker, the power sticker, skips into the sickening drum intro of "The Queen Is Dead" and the music critic melted into a screaming, sweating, sobbing blob of a boy. Here is what you will remember for the rest of my life.

During the fourth song of the set, towards the end of "Disappointed," just before the audience screams "no," Morrissey kneels down and with eyes bluer than the sunniest day, he clutched my lucky hand. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, then the defibrillator paddles brought me back to life.

As the thump of lightning shattered down into the heart of "Life Is A Pigsty," Morrissey lay down on the stage, on his back with feet up on the drum riser, and while the green light illuminated the keyboardist on the far right, Mozzer gradually humped the open air until the staggering ignition of "How Soon Is Now?" The old man, who at 47 doesn't appear to be getting off the stage any time soon, continuously joked behind the good natured attempt at a southern accent. "Where is everybody on a humdinger of a Saturday night in Spokane? Are they out hunting? We should go hunt the hunters." I felt that he was in high spirits despite the punch his ego must have felt, especially since the Los Angeles date of this "Greatest Hits" tour, just sold 17,500 tickets.

Oddly enough, it was during "I Just Want To See The Boy Happy," when Moz threw his third shirt of the evening, a long-sleeve dark blue number, right into my arms. Did I mention that I was front fucking row with 299 stark mad partygoers behind me?! Seconds before he threw it I clearly remember explaining to myself, "Ok Anfinsen, he's going to throw that shirt, and when he throws that shirt, you are going to jump your boney white ass as high as the sky will allow and while you are up there you better pray to god that you come down with that shirt," I explained to myself, "or else you oughtn't not come down at all."

As that sweaty parasol of blue descended, I leaped like a Gazelle and sure as smoldering hell I snatched that shirt, leaving Morrissey without a stitch to wear. Upon landing, my too good to be true body was smothered by avalanche of hunger. Those wolves pounced on my salty flesh. Kicks were felt against my skull but the pain failed to derail my steam rolling smile. My lucky hands had the bulk of the shirt as my new nemesis, the girl with the merciless claws, held the right sleeve of the blue shirt hostage. Those next few minutes were filled with a violence that was neither kind nor appropriate. And I took that time, along with scratches and slaps, to explain to myself, "Ok Anfinsen, you are a thirty-year old man, and right now you are the floor of a night club wrestling a woman over a damp article of clothing."

At the very end of the extremely brilliant set, just after Morrissey belted out this twisted line, "Spokane, my face is leaving in 10 minutes, and you'd better be on it," a pin size hole in the dam popped, releasing a stream of loonies onto the right hand side of the stage. A rush and a push and the small girl next to me saw her chance. We boosted this tiny person up to the top of the guard rail which she bravely leaped from. When she landed on the stage, she didn't realize how mighty of a force gravity truly is, but she found out very quick as she plummeted painfully down onto the floor. Things appeared to be broken. Above the screaming amps and wailing fans, I could hear her writhing in agony. We all felt her pain, including Morrissey who showed a great deal of concern as she was carried away.

When the sharply dressed boys evacuated the torched stage, flame-throwing guitarist Jesse Tobias chucked a handful of yellow picks. One stuck to my shoe like glamorous glue and another other one was quickly snatched and given to one of those cool kids from Boise. Then, like sample day at the Amore store, I gave free love to everyone. High-fived Moz's security guard, bear hugged the merch guy, and lip smacked the sweet cheek of the 50-year old gal who told me that besides Morrissey, her favorite part was watching me in total awe.

Around one in the morning, atop the naked mountain highways of Central Washington, a big black bus with a Florida license plate, like two lovers entwined, passed me by. With a face full of bleary eyes, deaf ears, and indestructible smile, I calmly explained to myself, "Ok Anfinsen, your favorite musician in the history of life, the greatest artist that you will ever experience, this charming man that made your hand smell like an expensive brand of Old Brit Spice, is on the bus directly next to you, on a deserted North American highway, in the middle of this storybook night and you'll probably never see him again, oh, not until the next time."

MORRISSEY

May 5, 2007
 Spokane, WA

Queen Is Dead
 First Of The Gang To Die
 You Have Killed Me
 Disappointed
 Youngest Was The Most Loved
 All You Need Is Me
 Ganglord
 National Front Disco
 Lucky Lisp
 The Boy With The Thorn In His Side
 Irish Blood, English Heart
 I Will See You In Far Off Places
 Everyday Is Like Sunday
 Let Me Kiss You
 Life Is A Pigsty
 How Soon Is Now?
 In The Future When All Is Well
 I Want To See The Boy Happy

Encore:
 You're Gonna Need Someone On Your Side

I still remember Bloc Party. They just played. Eleventh day of March. 2007. Paramount Theater. Seattle America. Super cool night in the Needle. I crushed on them hard when I triggered their Silent Alarm, went out of my way to George Washington to catch them at the 2005 Sasquatch Festival and was let down. The day was not theirs for the conquering. Touring had taken its toll, whoring had turned the rock playing into a life-taking job. They seemed to not want to be there. At Sasquatch or on stage. I sort of turned my back on them after that. I still listened to that record, that dream boat audio ride, but it was not the same. Tonight they won be back, so hard. Listening to the set list right now on playback MP3 it is hard for me to say anything but nice pleasantries about this evening's show. The boys in Bloc Party blew me, away.



Daylight savings time 9:57 p.m. First song from the new album flicks our dicks on. "Song For Clay (Disappear Here)". Album called A Weekend In The City. VICE/Wichita. 'East London is a vampire / it sucks the joy right out of me.' Yes Capitol Hill scenesters could relate. Space Needle sucks the life out of all. For number two the pretty Brits went back to that delicious debut, Silent Alarm, when they were still so young. 'You're just as boring as everyone else,' oh Kele don't I know it. The kids here in Seattle America are so snorey, I swear. Why can't everyone act more like the English? 'Something glorious is about to happen.' Kele wearing a frankly vulgar purple pullover. Mandatory Morrissey reference. Both are witty lyricists with voices as unique as the artistic image they project. 'Play it cool boy.'

As the players became drenched in a sea of blue it seemed appropriate to stick with Silent Alarm for the third song performed: "Blue Light." I did notice that the drummer had taken his shirt off. Matt Tong, I believe his mother named him. What I would like to know is the name of the man who personally trained him. Kid needs to work on those abs. Tonight was the first stop on a vast North American tour and USA babes do not like a fatty! But Matty's terrific banging of the drum saved his neck. Collapsed lung? You mean he suffered a collapsed lung? Why didn't anyone tell me? Shit. If I had human emotions I might feel bad, you know, for calling him a fatso in print. But I don't.

"Hunting For Witches" rushed in hot and bothered like Thumper the rabbit with a bladder problem after drinking a six pack of beer, six pack of beer, six pack of beer. Tonight's set was tight like a virgin on prom night, I admit. "Hunting For Witches" hunks and chunks with the same riff raff heard on "Banquet," the one we continue to adore.

"Waiting For The 718". Who doesn't want to drive to Brighton for the weekend? Shit, I know I do. Don't you? Wait a minute. Is he talking about Brighton Beach? Because that's in Brooklyn where the area code happens to be 718, am I wrong?

Sparkling fadeout of jingle jangle as Kele motivates the Seattleites to clap it tight. Then "Banquet" comes swinging for our fucking faces. Double strum tandem back to back guitar rip rocking us apart red lights blue lights flashing I thought I was being arrested, again. I lost my hearing a lot too. They brought some pretty noise. "I Still Remember."



Kele reveals that it is guitarist Russell Lisack's birthday. Everyone sang that song, the birthday song. Kid turned twenty-six. God I felt old. Am old. I've been going to shows since before you started jerking off.

"This Modern Love" was a pure torcher. Burned the stage off. Crowd was into it. I did notice plenty of girls who thought it wise to wear layer after layer of make up. Too much is too much girl. The face needs to breathe. And if you are going to laugh, ladies this is important, please don't laugh like an idiot. If you laugh terrible you most likely are terrible, and no one wants to stand next to the terrible kid at a show.

Bass preaches out sermon shouts "The Prayer" number nine song of the set. Bloc Party at the Paramount. Kick drum kick kick kicking us all in the sweaty balls, place was a little too warm for my taste. The steam from the heated equipment filled the house with smoke. 'Tonight make me unstoppable.' "Kreuzberg" started up and I faded out. For a moment. Slow opened strums sent eyes to the back of my head. Dream music. It was late and I am an old old man. I have an old man's beard. I wake up at random times throughout the night and go pee. Because I'm so old. That's why these kids amaze me, Bloc Party.

Kele raps with the audience. The little scrawny bass player, who also played the second set of drums and plink planked the xylophone, told us that them boys have been here for a few days. Watching us. Said they visited the grave site of Bruce Lee. Kele started to riff a Jimi tune, I remember it was "Voodoo Chile." Seattle is the land of Jimi. And Kurdt. And Eddie, but he ain't dead. Yet.

"So Here We Are" caused everyone in the Paramount Theater to make out. Seriously. There was so much spit swapping, all sorts of tonguing and butt feeling. I wish you could have seen it. We were hot!

They stayed with Silent Alarm for the first song on that album, "Like Eating Glass." During the show and right now I think of Radiohead. Both the violent early Pablo Honey and electronic mellow Hail To The Thief, and Bloc Party thought about them too. Like drinking poison, like eating glass. As this song slammed shut the entire crowd held its breath. There was a moment of life that was taken, by the abrupt termination of such a remarkable pulse of silence. We all felt it.



The encore wibble wobbled, yes that's right, wibble wobbled back and forth between City / Alarm, started with two drummers and two guitars for "Sunday." I looked for people who would mouth the lyrics 'when your still strung out', and hoped that they pointed at each other, since rumor has it ALL citizens of Seattle are plunger pushers. I myself find that statement to be false, but according to recent reports on the internet, everyone in Seattle has tried heroin at least twice.

"Sunday" also is ironic because the show was on the day of the week with that same name. Also, Sunday is on A Weekend...In The City, available now on iTunes.

"She's Hearing Voices". Midway during the middle part of the first half when Kele is muttering incoherent threats with the guitars creeping and lights burning my eyeballs I swear I couldn't function properly. 'Hey hey hey' the shouting repeated 'hey hey hey!' The crowd was very alert, I must say. They knew both the old songs and the new. The Party shook us into a frenzy of smiles. It was a really fun night you guys. I'm so serious.

"Uniform" is a treasure. Again, with lyrics like "We're so handsome/tell me a joke" we must make a Morrissey comparison, if only for the sake of smarm. When this dazzler launched into the madness at two minutes and twenty-six seconds in, every pair of feet in that chunky meat arena were shakin' bacon like nobody's business. Yes, shakin' bacon. Good vibes from the audience of kiddos, young tykes that were there to see Smoosh, the hometown set of girls. Little blond sister girls. They opened for Pearl Jam before. On Pattern 25 records. 'All the young people looked the same'...slow fade.

And the closer, the final sound blaster, goddamn "Helicopter", that snazzy bitch can do it to me any day. Unfortunately you might remember the explosive guitar opening from your television set selling automobiles. 'Running on bravado.' The lights snapped and the bodies flopped back and forth it was a collective motion to be reckoned with.

I captured the closing moments of this very horny performance. The rush of aroused people who swam up Pine was quite a riptide. Bloc Party made a smart choice to start the tour here, tonight, with us. We like them well. The boys were all smiles, Kele's exuberance brought the dead to life, events like this are memory special. Bloc Party shall not be added to the list of the forgotten. Energy youth and talent are very dangerous attributes for any artist. A pair of vitriolic contributions to the music world in the form of brilliant recordings is a very rare thing. I Still Remember Bloc Party.



Bloc Party
Sunday March 11, 2007
Paramount Theater, Seattle America

Song For Clay (Disappear Here)
Positive Tension
Blue Light
Hunting For Witches
Waiting For The 718
Banquet
I Still Remember
This Modern Love
The Prayer
Kreuzberg
So Here We Are
Like Eating Glass

[ENCORE]
Sunday
She's Hearing Voices
Uniform
Helicopter

By Jason Anfinsen

+++

JASON ANFINSEN is a professional noisemaker who has created weirdo comedy for radio, theater, and print since 1995. He is the writer/performer of the acclaimed solo shows "Popularity Contest" & "Fun Factory," contributing writer for Redefine Magazine & The Tripwire, and author of the books Stab At Sleep & Juke All Over Your Face. He is the founder and artistic director of Jerk Alert Productions, an independent theatrical revolution responsible for some of the freshest theatricals, books, and parties on the planet. He lives in the Bellevue Mental Hospital in Seattle America 2007.

Smoking Popes Light Up Old Butts In Seattle America

I have sacked plenty of choice ass thanks to Smoking Popes.

The first time I saw the brothers Caterer and crew was 1996 in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. The Illinois boys were casually strutting across the country in support of their lightning strike album Born To Quit, a collection of gooey catchiness that was steadily becoming everyone's new favorite love. Support came from such destination failures as the Clueless & Boys soundtracks & power spins on KROQ in Los Angeles, Q101 in Chicago, and in Morrissey's personal player.

Smoking Popes on that night in Funk Flubberdale, Floriduh 1996, however, played opener for San Francisco tooth smashers Jawbreaker, who were in support of their major label nail in the coffin Dear You.

This was at an early incubation chamber time of the format. Program directors new and restless gave No Doubt, Save Ferris, and Goldfinger the spotlight while ultimately burying these two extremely influential indie rock bands in the alternative radio waste bin. Both bands became underground overdoses. Josh Caterer (Popes) left the band after he found God while Blake Schwarzenbach (Jawbreaker) lost his shit and had a briggity broke ass break down.

After the Jawbreaker/Popes event I was crossing the street and luckily saved the life of a girl named Bonnie who repaid me by laying me. She has two children of her own in Green Bay, Wisconson.

In Chicago, Illinois, back in the year 2000, a girl named Vanessa bagged me like the groceries we sold together at Whole Foods because I resemble singer Josh Caterer. Note: No one sexed me up because I also look like smashing pumpkin Billy Corgan...no one. But this isn't about me as much as it should be more about me.

The very very last time that I saw Smoking Popes was at the CMJ Music Festival in a warm dive called the Continental, located in St. Marks Place in New York City on the island of Manhattan in the shimmering flash of 1997.

The Destination Failure rekkid was in prime position to begin, er, drown at commercial radio and therefore no one was at this gig. I miss St. Mark's Place, I do, I also miss old bag lady who dropped drawers and leaked all over the steps of the forgotten Coney Island High singing God Bless America. I once was so N.Y.

I heard recently that Smoking Popes were getting back together with a promotional tour for their live CD/DVD, Smoking Popes At Metro, distributed by Chicago hardcore label Victory Records. Yes yes, I knew Tony Victory secretly wore sweater vests and coke bottle glasses. Smoking Popes fit perfectly on the hardcore Victory roster. I think I’ll put the Popes right between my dusty Earth Crisis and Hatebreed LPs. But it’s a Chicago thing and the kids have to eat...still, Victory?

Chicago is the same city where I won $10 from Robert English when I bet him that the kid we were staring at one drunken evening at Metro was in fact Popes guitarist Eli Caterer.

“Are you Eli Caterer?”

“Yes”

“Sweet ass. You just won me ten bucks bitch!”

I quickly ran downstairs and found Wesley Willis in the lobby of the cabaret Metro. He was listening to his trademark headphones. He was whooping a llama’s ass with a belt on the highway to come. He was not on his hellbus.

I purchased a disc, which Wesley autographed, and told him that he always will rock it like a masochist better than all the rest. I still have a photo shot of Willis in my scary washroom. Rock over London, rock over toilet!

This evening I walked through the bowels of downtown Seattle America to 2nd and Blanchard, and ended up at the Crocodile Cafe. This year, these ears have been pounded by explosive sets from The Strokes and Arctic Monkeys in this intimate room of powerhouse speakers that make hearing go away, the good way.

I wore my Promise Ring t-shirt (Dan Didier baseball ringer) and rolled my pant leg up to accentuate my Sunny Day Real Estate tattoo. Texas Is The Reason button on my bucket hat proving to the new jackaroos that I am still more emo than motherfucking Phillips.

I drank my PBR bottle and glared at the crowd. Who were these people? How did they know about the Smoking Popes? Did they even realize that today, May 22, is Morrissey’s birthday? Fucking amateurs.

After borrowing the opening band's amp, (who remembers opening band names?) the three Caterer brothers from illy noize came strutting onto the stage with some fatso stick wielding unknown named Ryan Chavez on drums.

They kicked right into ‘Let's Hear It For Love’, which had some nitro to it, extra Chicago habanero peppers, Zest fully clean riffing. ‘Need You Around’, back over to ‘No More Smiles’ and this reporter was sweating to the fucking oldies.

Josh was somehow missing the actual tempo of the song, inserting lyrics off time and somehow still catching the start of the next verse in time, intact.

Brothers and sisters, I was a dancing machine. People were watching me, thinking I was about to fall and break something like your face, my back, someone's spine; everyone speculated that something vital would snap.

But I continued to shuffle slide that dance floor down with these fast moving feets o’ flames. Fancy fast foot action. Sweet Jesus in tap shoes I can scuff up every show room on the planet.

‘Gotta Know Right Now’ flipped into a near perfect drum segue to ‘Midnight Moon’. So far I believe we have touched both the Johann’s Face release Get Fired and Capitol major label burnout Born To Quit. Song six in the dreamboat set was ‘Paul’, taken from the band’s last proper studio release, Destination Failure.

Lots of old tunes were cleaned up and shined bright for the ball tickling reunion type set. One by one, the warm fuzzy fury attacked our welcoming ears.

The new dazzler in the sizzle set was ‘If You Don't Care’, which banged out the poem - flutter like captive birds afraid to fly. Take that Sepultura. That’s fucking metal!

‘I Know You Love Me’ consisted of Josh leading the crowd in a singalong way before Chris Carraba was even born. The sixteen-song smash ended with

‘Writing A Letter’ from the early daze.

Brief obligatory encore then back into action for three more charm balls. ‘On The Shoulder’, ‘Not That Kind Of Girlfriend’, and the ironic show closer, 'You Spoke To Me’, which includes the apropos verse, “You didn’t play my favorite song, But that’s all right, I love the new stuff too, I’m just glad I got to see you.“ Goddamn perfect.

Where will this reignited rampage lead to and did the voyage ever stop? Was their absence from the lo-fi sad song sound scene merely a hiatus? Will this just be some “gimmick last ditch sales effort”?

Will the power pop strumming and gushy charmball vocals continue to serenade the yoof of today the way it did back when we spent all those 1,039 Smoothed Out Slappy Hours working through our 24 Hour Revenge Therapy? We should hope so.

Much like The Ramones, Smoking Popes never got the credit they deserved. These kids play sweet fucking gritty love songs that move the balls in everyone's sack (ladies too.) Their loveable style inspired dozens of bands who can now be heard diluting the radio airwaves (Fallout Boy, Hawthorne Heights, Thrice, shit band name).

We’ll assume that since the new song appeared, a new album will follow, resurrecting one of the greatest little rock bands that ever could.

If Morrissey gives these kiddos the thumbs up, then what better way to celebrate the birth of the Mozzer than to listen to something he and I both agree whole heartedly on - Smoking Popes.

And I'm done. Here is the set list, full set list, so you can see how cool I am since I know all of the songs they played at the show and you fucking don’t.

Smoking Popes

Crocodile Cafe

Seattle America

May 22, 2006

 

‘Let’s Hear It For Love’

‘Need You Around’

‘No More Smiles’

‘Gotta Know Right Now’

‘Midnight Moon’

‘Paul’

‘Can’t Find It’

‘Just Broke Up’

‘Megan’

‘If You Don’t Care’ * new *

‘Rubella’

‘I Know You Love Me’

‘Pretty Pathetic’

‘Off My Mind’

‘Before I’m Gone’

‘Writing A Letter’

ENCORE

‘On The Shoulder’

‘Not That Kind Of Girlfriend’

‘You Spoke To Me’

Friday, May 5, Seattle America. TV On The Radio On Cinco De Mayo. The Showbox Theater is in the pulse of downtown Seattle on First Avenue, adjacent to the legendary Pike Place Market, which is famous for everything from kitsch creating crazies to fish throwing fools. As I checked my gigantor watch, the Sea-Pathfinder (awarded time piece of the year by Oceanography Magazine in 2004), it clearly stated the current time was 8:50 p.m. Sitting on a bench along the waterfront I watched the last cruise ships of the day come back to shore. The Puget Sound was illuminated divine as the sun sank into the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. This was the perfect environment for this astounding New York City music making collective.

I entered the dormant room with skeptical hesitation. I could hear voices speaking loudly. Indie babble about Tapes 'n Tapes, Wes Anderson, & the new line of throwback Converse all-stars resonated around the room full of dead paste people. I made my way to the bar and squeezed into a seat in the back of the hall. The main attraction was not to see action until 11 p.m., two goddamn hours from right now (right then). This lapse of worthless time felt like my freshman year at Palm Beach Gardens High School when Jason Brooks and me went to our first official high school party at 7 p.m. when the bash didn't blow up until past midnight. I'm habitually punctual, always arriving at the scene of the crime before any blood hits the walls.

I placed my instruments for this evening's dissection on the amoeba shaped table. Blue pen (one), sheets of paper (three), Stab At Sleep buttons (handful), and a giant jug of filtered water. Slouched back into the seat for a quick snooze, shut eye for a second, as there was nothing but slow time to kill. This is right about when SHE entered my evening.

"Is someone sitting here or are you alone?" she smiled.
"Yes?" I answered.
"Can I sit here or are you waiting for someone?"
"Yes?"
"Should I look for another table or is this ok?"
"Yes?"

She chuckled a nervous laughter as she parked it in the booth next to my bored bod. Every question her mouth fired off was juxtaposed to the previous one. Like a late night David Lynch film, I couldn't for the life of me understand what the hell was happening.

"Do you like talking or am I just yapping too much?" she continued.
"I'm cool."

Indeed I was. This inquisitive chicky d was sent to rescue me from these two miserable hours of waiting, the most hideous display one can encounter at a rawk n role shoe. Those bastards at the club always pull the same scam to suck more money from the music lover, squeeze more bills from willing bitches who wish to have their ears blown out by the night's best band. Day of show price upgrade, concession tax, and the doors open three hours early so they charge super inflated rates for shit piss beer. Pabst Blue Ribbon at this joint is $4...for a can.

"Do you drink?" "Why aren't you drinking?" "What's your favorite drink?"
"Free," I tell her.

This girl quickly grabs my water tub and puts it between her thighs underneath the table. Reaching into her purse she pulls out a small Tanqueray bottle and asks, "Do you like Jameson?" "Love him," I replied. What the hell kind of drunk puts whiskey in a gin bottle I thought silently. We each took a shot of the sneak sauce and the plot you are sinking into began to thicken like gramma's stew.

Celebration, the opening band, was now on stage and I could care less. Lead singer looked like Polly Jean Harvey in a vicious red dress while our intimate room was now filling with KEXP listeners who wanted to hear some triptastic tunes from TV On The Radio. But they, like me and my ring-a-ding-deaf ears, would have to wait another hour.

"What's the pen for?" she asks, clicking the top like a bewildered animal. I turn and gaze deep into her hazel eyes and reply, "I'm going to draw the stupidest looking person I see."

Blah Blah Yawns: Stalked, Rocked, Knocked

Tuesday April 25, 2006. 7:45 p.m.

Flashback twenty-five minutes ago to when this kid right here was geeking out on free wi-fi at Bauhaus Coffee. The sun was slipping into darkness as I watched Brian Chase, drummer for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, wander in.

I’m the loudest foul mouth drunk at every happy hour bash but I felt it very necessary to grab my goodwill ambassador sash off the rusty nail in my tiny closet and wear it proud. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs were in my sector, mi barrio, performing at the Paramount Theater, which is a mere footstep away from this Bellevue Mental Hospital.

“You dudes looking for something to do?” I asked with a spastic energy. The group jumped and turned with great caution towards my boisterous question and the mouth it flew out of.

“I know who you are.” I winked to seal the deal. They began cautiously stepping backwards in the opposite direction. “Just want to make sure you kiddos know how Seattle America holds it down, clown. All up and down this street is some crazy shit. Bars like The Bus Stop, Kincora Pub and the Blue Bottle art gallery, Spine and Crown books. If you hit the Broadway gutter punks then you’ve gone too far bros.”

Brian Chase and a couple of dudes, possibly from the management or road crew, stood mesmerized by my astounding grasp of Capitol Hill.

When it was time to salute the Big Apple posse goodbye, I firmly slammed my hand on Brian’s shoulder and whispered these words of godlike wisdom: “Have a killer show bra.”

I shot out of the scene like a fucking bulletproof missile; nothing could penetrate my glowing awesomeness. They were very impressed with All Of Me. As I strutted my desirable stuff back to this studio cell, I realized that the YYYs were close to me, just like that demon president Hu Jintao of China was only a few nasty weeks back. You know that I couldn’t just let the kids who create mi favorito musica grande walk away without more of what they came to love…this fucking Jason Anfinsen.

I kicked open door 101 and grabbed three lucky copies of my book Stab At Sleep. There was some real real wild red cellophane wrap that I strapped one of the reads neatly into. The other two were placed in some cosmic silver paper that blinked hallucinatory circles whenever it hit the light right. I made gay little nametags for each ‘Yeah’: Brian Chase, Nick Zinner and Karen-O. It was mildly annoying to have to write O after Karen but then again, Jim Osterburg is dead, Iggy Pop will live forever. Tossed in a couple of buttons & funpack stickers and the complimentary Stab gift packages were complete. Hurray for crazy!

Quickly, sweating horrendously, I slammed this door shut and ran up Pine Street. I was wearing these metallic Sheriff’s glasses that shield the sun like atomic warfare. No one can see what the fuck I’m seeing, not them, not me, no one knows what I see. This olive stocking cap was perched atop of the dome so imperfect that my get up would be considered suspicious by any eye watching my infatuation.

The Jive Time records joint up the block is where I tracked Brian down. I made my move upstairs, twisting my ass up those curvy steps, my scurvy spine all out of alignment. I found him.

“I made you some gifts.”

“Oh how sweet of you, thanks.”

“Its my first book, I want you all to have one.”

Brian grabbed his. I put his on top. His said Brian. For some reason, I’m never going to understand why, he didn’t take the other two books. Um dude…I said I’ve got free bookies for every bodeeeeee!

“Could you give these to the Karen and that Nick?”

“Sure, absolutely. Thank you again that’s very kind.”

Silence. Standing still. No breath. No one moves. Infinite stop sign. No patience. Unsettling. Looking at ground. Looking at other side of room. Nothing to say. I got fed up with being so much of a spazzatroid that I took a deep breath and leaned in close: “Have a killer show bra”. I winked again, this time with the other eye, cuz I can do that.

Inside the Paramount Theater now. Curious mix of squeaky high school girls and middle aged cools all on cellies. Everyone dressed obnoxious. Bright loud gear. Smellies abound. Hand made chop suits. Fluorescent striped baby doll dresses, stockings for gloves, fishnets on faces; it’s a disaster fashion scene.

As the squashed remains of a Led Zepplin ‘Whole Lotta Love’ slaughtering Snoop’s ‘Drop It Like Its Hot’ mashup leaks through the speakers, the highly anticipated showgram begins promptly at 9:30.

My first song prediction did not come true. What else is new? I spouted off around town that the thump

pulsating kick drum start of ‘Cheated Hearts’ would set the night right, but no no, the Brooklyn trio (joined on tour by Imaad Wasif) decided to pick my least favorite track on the Show Your Bones piece, ‘Fancy’.

My ears burst into flames and my brain alarmed my entire being that their pick was a bad sign, an eerie start to the sonic evening that I had long anticipated.

Karen-O sports some thrifty housewife uniform meant for a lady half her size, real snug fitting sleeveless dressy poo, yellow and orange. Even the colorblind see her fine. All right.

Clutching the green glow taped microphone in her right fist, sheathed in sparkly black glove, she punches the left in the air for one of many Karate poses.

 ‘Honeybear’ forced the audience into action but already my miserable tinnitus ears could hear that the audio was soft, totally bland, face flat, nowhere near maximum deafness. Kids dancing, lots of arms, people bumping into my writing hand and the ink made erratic scratch lines on my scrap sheet.

‘Pin’ is the first pick from the Fever To Tell track basket, which straight segued like an ass tight Top 40 disc jockey into the current radio smasharoo, ‘Gold Lion’. By now the crowd, predominantly young petite flowers in this soundgarden, are being hammered home by new nu gnew songs that I don’t think many heads knew. The historic venue was nowhere near filled to fire hazard…another sure sign of trouble.

Big sloth-like intro of gloom lit the fuse for ‘Cheated Hearts’, their fifth song of the set, which worked exactly as I imagined it…as the first. Que Sera Sera.

The restless crowd clapped along to Chase’s pounding kick drum, boom boom boom clap clap clap. After taking a slurp of water from the complimentary bottle, Orzolek decides to spit the geyser into the sky like the fountains of Grant Park in Chicago. The clap attack smacks back over the bridge of ‘Hearts’, which featured a brief striptease by Karen that made just about every crotch in the spot scream for more.

Once again we surrender our souls to a sad start to ‘Dudley’, which is a real somber score. ‘Mysteries’ hit and spit into overdrive with a punk burst of air that breathed fresh life into the sleepy mass of gussied up nobodies.

‘Art Star’ was one of two gooey pimples popped off the Master EP. Highlighted by a hypnotizing display of chord whips and microphone inhalation, O fling flang flung the electrical wire high into the night, quickly snapping it back to spit her next line of venom.

‘Phenomena’ into ‘Miles Away’ then ‘Warrior’, my absolute favorite song trapped on that head scratching new album, which sounded absolutely dead. The entire number lacked, how you say, life. The event finally became a memory with the groovtastic ‘Y Control’.

“Thank you Seattle we’re the Yeah Yeah Yeahs” was the only banter chatter spat by O as the band fled back to their sanctuary dressing room. Lights fade to black with a faint wash illuminating the silver/opal Y flag strewn across the backdrop of the stage.

“Who are you writing a review for?” some teenybopper asked me.

“The United States Government,” I replied.

“I would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Um that’s cool, I think I hear my dad outside.”

By this time my notes remind me that the entire set seemed unrealistically mellow. The performance, and the evening, lacked the murderous blast of viciousness I saw on the DVD ‘Tell Me Which Rockers To Swallow’.

Throughout the hour-long set the guitars faded away like some C-list child star. I thought Public Enemy and Anthrax asked everyone to ‘Bring Tha Noize’, so where in God’s foul name was it?

Sometimes we all bust a bad nut; these things happen.

I have read reports of fighting within the band, the ticket sales for this show were almost non-existent, and maybe the battle between JOB and ART is taking its toll on this beautiful troupe.

Brian’s peculiar drumming technique was extremely fun to watch and Karen’s childlike smile in between roof blasting body bounces definitely made the crush thicken. Nick took pictures of the audience and played it smooth, cool hand Zinner.

There is much love for this ensemble; the energy has dissipated over time and trials which come with aging, growing, and learning in this ever changing planet Earth. I hope the boys and girl can kiss and make up, dress up, and throw back up the same maniacal, raw, dangerous and original art that made me fall in love with them in the first place.

After a long and annoying break the gang returned for a special acoustic version of ‘Maps’. The closing knockout punch on Bones, ‘Turn Into’, was the evening’s fourteenth number; it faded away and beat back to existence for the finale: ‘Black Tongue’.

Wandering amidst the colorfully cute cattle being herded towards the exits, I turned back to the stage to see Brian Chase, my old friend from way back earlier in the day, as he bowed to a smattering of applause from the YYY faithful.

I smiled and remembered just how much I dying heart love this band, their recordings, their art. They are everything. I’m happy that I got to be a part of their creating process and performance history. I was there.

As he walked off stage Chase mouthed something to the crowd that very much looked like, “Thank you for the books Jason Anfinsen”. But I can’t be too sure.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Paramount Theater / Seattle America

April 25, 2006

‘Fancy’

‘Honeybear’

‘Pin’

‘Gold Lion’

‘Cheated Hearts’

‘Dudley’

‘Mysteries’

‘Art Star’

‘Phenomena’

‘Miles Away’

‘Warrior’

 

‘Maps’ (acoustic)

‘Turn Into’

‘Black Tongue’