The Joy Formidable - Black Cat

I'm not exactly sure I'm up for this post....its been a shit day and my eyes are burning from exhaustion. But I also know that if I don't get this down now, I'll probably blow it off and give up.

As recently as yesterday, I was pretty certain that i wouldn't be doing a year-end "Best Shows of 2010" post because I just didn't get off the damned couch to see ten shows worth writing about.

But, at the very minimum, as of midnight this morning I had a very serious contender for the show of the year. Because the Joy Formidable bowled me the fuck over last night.

Now, there was a time about eight or ten years ago or whatever, when I used to see bands all the time that I thought were just poised to break out. (I miss you, the Put-Outs.....and the Hissyfits, too. And Emm Gryner. You, too, Jamie Block!). But I've never been as certain as I was last night.

Playing before a crowded (but not quite packed) back stage of the Black Cat, the Joy Formidable accomplished the astounding feat of not only replicating live, but totally enhancing an already electrically lush-sounding catalog. From the majestic "The Greatest Light is the Greatest Shade" to the rapturous "Last Drop", I was pretty must gobsmacked all night...taken in not only by the music, but also the command of the stage from diminutive Ritzy Brian, who seems to have taken her cues in equal parts from Chrissie Hynde and Bowie-era Mick Ronson.

(In particular, her aggressive, stomp-and-pace style of guitar playing reminded me completely of Ronson's performance in D.A. Pennebaker's "Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars" concert film. Meanwhile, it reminded my pal, Dan, of Joan Jett's infamous "Pussy To The Wood" approach to guitar playing).

And that's as good as its going to get tonight.

Kudos to the Joy formidable, for reminding me why I go out to see live music...

Not Dead Yet

I'm still here...just got a lot on my plate between work and wedding stress. (And an inconvenient situation with the IRS, that should be all tidied up at the exact same time that I've spent every dollar that I have. Guess I'll be sticking at this goddamned job a little longer than expected.)

I haven't given up on this blog, and I'll have a few things to report in coming weeks, including additions to the "Rock Star Encounters" series; some additions to the "Recent Distractions" series (including, I hope, thoughts on the new Keith Richards autobiography and the not-so-new Slash autobiography...as well as impressions of the seemingly-excellent new season of "That Metal Show"); and maybe even a return to the old ticket stub cache.

When I get desperate enough for content, I'll trot out the good old "Ten Songs That Make Me Cry"post, because, well....because they sure served their purpose in recent weeks.

Dokken vs. Chicken

Sometime after my 6th grade fascination with Lionel Richie and before I became obsessed with the Rolling Stones, my very favorite band in the world was Dokken.

I know how that sounds; even hard rock fans from the 80's don't get this. Sure, Dokken was a decent band. Sure they had their hits.

But, come on, no one picks Dokken as their favorite band.

Well, I did.

I was taken in by George Lynch's guitars. I was taken in by those 1980's videos - both excellent and awful. I was taken in by the tension that was a big part of their style and songcraft - most immediately linked to the Sunset Strip scene, but most definitely influenced by early 80's European hard rock and the New Wave of British Heavy Metal.

Plus, Dokken was something of a musician's band. Despite a rhythm section that never really set the world on fire, Lynch was a bona fide guitar virtuoso, and Dokken was an actual vocalist.

They weren't a party band and they weren't a delinquent band: they were musicians.

They just happened to be wearing clown suits. Or pirate costumes. Or possibly something they bought from a bunch of Puerto Rican drag queens.

And, of course, there was the feuding storyline between Don Dokken and George Lynch -- the sort of alpha-male bullshit that always builds a band's mystique that much more.

Still (and I don't retreat on my personal preferences very easily) sometimes I do wonder what I was thinking. A whole lot of those albums that I liked so much -- specifically Under Lock and Key and Back for the Attack -- just didn't age very well. I still struggle to identify the culprit, though my gut says that it had something to do with the occasionally-embarrassing dramatics of Mr. Dokken's vocals and lyrics.

(Fucking hell, "Kiss of Death" is a MOTHERFUCKER of a tune, but thanks to the vocals and lyrics, the verses of that song are a fucking drag. How could I have known, indeed...DON?).

((To some extent that's not fair....but if you've ever found yourself torn over whether or not to love or loathe the Scorpions, Dio, or even the mighty Iron Maiden, then you should know EXACTLY what I'm talking about)).

Anyway, time went on and by 1989 or so my brother had taken me to see the Rolling Stones and I fully plunged into classic rock for the next few years. Goodbye to Dokken, and hello to a bunch of...uh....a bunch of old music that helped prevent me from embracing Jane's Addiction or the Pixies when it might have actually "meant something", as they say.

Oh, well.

Dokken chugged along, but they never really could sound quite right after the 80's. Don brought in new players on top of new players, but they never struck gold again.

Until now.



Congrats, Don. You have finally upstaged George.

Recent Distractions: Heavy Metal Picnic

So, I've been slow on the updates lately, partially because I've been trying to get out of the house and get a little more active.

As part of this effort, last night I trucked on our to Silver Spring, MD to attend the premier of Jeff Krulik's "Heavy Metal Picnic" at the American Film Institute.

For those who don't know, Jeff Krulik is the co-creator of the cult masterpiece, "Heavy Metal Parking Lot". On top of being a pop culture touchstone, Krulik is a guy I've gotten to know fairly well in the past seven or eight years, and someone I consider a heck of a nice person. As such, it was kind of important to me to show up and support him.

Little did I know that much of the metro D.C. area had the same idea; it was a packed house, and easily the best attended (and most enthusiastically-attended) event I've ever seen Jeff participate in). More on that later....

Despite the fact that "Heavy Metal Picnic" follows much the same style as "Heavy Metal Parking Lot" (roaming cameraman captures extremely drunk early 80s redneck kids partying outdoors in an an unsupervised location), "Heavy Metal Picnic" wasn't actually shot by Krulik. In fact, it was shot by one of the partygoers, a big lug names Rudy Childs, who had the forethought to bring his novel-at-the-time camcorder to The Full Moon Jamboree, a massively oversold field party in ultra-posh Potomac, Maryland. In an odd moment of serendipity, Childs just happened to shoot a hell of a lot of the same kinds of kids doing the same kinds of things that Krulik would capture a year later in the parking lot of the Capital Centre before a summertime Judas Priest concert.

Krulik did, however, direct the film. And with the help of editor, Greg DeLiso, he packaged it into a far more complete (though occasionally bumpy) document.

In fact, "Heavy Metal Picnic" is a real extension of its cousin film. Krulik had little trouble tracking down the various partygoers, organizers and bands that played the Full Moon Jamboree, and gave generous amounts of time to many of them. And by incorporating the perspectives of the 40-and50-something versions of the wasted youth captured in the footage from 1985, it sends a message about the circle of friendship...about how important those seemingly fleeting moments of youth are -- especially the ones that you're so quick to dismiss as stuff you used to do when you were a dumb kid.

Part of what impresses me about Krulick's style, is that when interviewing the party-goers as adults he treats them all with a respect for their dignity and a sincere curiosity about their opinions and memories. At no point do you get the sense that he's mocking them - despite the fact that a certain kind of mean-spirited snobbery is exactly what draws so many viewers to Krulik's signature film.

That's not to say that Jeff coddles his subjects. He absolutely recognizes when a subject has drunkenly talked himself into a pile of mud, and he knows that this often means comedy gold.

As I mentioned before, the place was packed. Not only were most of the major subjects of the film in attendance, but so was a large swath of the D.C. independent filmmaker/documentarian community, a handful of musicians, some friends and fans of Krulik's, and damn near every single 1980s redneck who was in attendance at the Full Moon Jamboree -- all of whom provided a steady rotation of Bronx cheers and comments from the peanut gallery throughout the film.

(Among them was this one fucking aging hipster goofball tool that I run into at least once a year, usually with his loudmouthed wife. I have never been introduced to this nutsack, but I seem to run into him at shows, in bars, at Fort Reno, and even once at a Nationals game. Aside from just being kind of annoying and loud, I have no idea why he sets me off to the extent that he does, but I have to tell you, every single time I see this guy I want to kick him in the nuts, then go to church and pray that I don't morph into him at the age of 45).

But that doesn't matter. What matters is that Jeff Krulik has made another film that brings back memories of a forgotten time. As I look around Washington and see it changing faster than ever, I have no doubt in my mind that there may be nothing more important to the preservation of a scene (or a mini- or micro-scene, such as my own moments on 14th street in the mid-to-late-90's), than dedicated archivists......your photographers and zine writers and the like.

In an era of flip cams, digital cameras and blogs, it is now easier than ever to capture these moments in time....and that's seriously important. But it also should serve as a reminder than guys like Jeff Krulik (and Rudy Childs) were doing something equally or even arguably more important back in 85-86, when few others were doing so.

So, take a moment and check out Jeff's site if you get a chance. He's done a hell of a lot more than Heavy Metal Parking Lot and Heavy Metal Picnic, and I think he deserves a lot more credit than he tends to get.

("I Created Lancelot Link" has always been my personal favorite).

Rock Star Encounters - vol I: Dave Mustaine

Among all of the great band feuds over time, Metallica vs. Megadeth will always be my favorite.

During my formative years loving metal (87-91), this was *the* feud. Beatles vs. Stones? Simon vs. Garfunkel? Ike vs. Tina? Forget it - that was for the history books. Oasis vs. Blur was ten years into the future. But Metallica vs. Megadeth was happening in the now, and it was real.

Barrages of episodes of "Behind the Music" and awkward feature documentaries have since shed light of nearly all corners of the vendetta between Metallica and Megadeth, but back in the day, this was very much a cult war, spilled out on the pages of low-brow magazines like Hit Parader, Circus, and the perennial bottom-feeder, Metal Edge.

I never exactly picked a side, though I always knew that I liked Metallica more; at that point in time, their albums were more epic, their songs were smarter, and their entire presentation was always more confident than Megadeth's.

That said, Megadeth spoke to me in their own way. They were angry; Mustaine was emotional to the core, and his lyrics were spiteful in a way that resonated to a 15 year old like myself.

Metallica was Michael Jordan: focused, visionary, intense, intelligent, artistic, and above all else, supremely talented.

Megadeth was Isaiah Thomas: calculating, bitter, hungry, disrespectful, a little bit evil, and above all else, vengeful.

The NBA was better for having both stars, just as metal thrived under each band.

Now, the common thinking is that Metallica won that feud, based on their obvious superstar status growing from the Black Album.

Artistically, however, the question becomes more subjective: Starting in the the mid-to-late-90's, Metallica stumbled repeatedly; some (including myself) don't think they've stopped just yet - though I hope that we can all agree that they should never fall any lower than they did on St. Anger.

Meanwhile, Megadeth "quietly" produced a long list of albums that - aside from a relatively engaging foray into pop-rooted song structures - held much more true to the core tenants of thrash and metal. The result seems to be a career that has been less successful, but more principled.

Another difference between the two bands? I met one of them.

Sort of.

Back in the late 80's, the music retail gods smiled upon my hometown of Rockville, MD, and delivered upon us our very own Tower Records. The significance of this should not be understated: Tower was a West Coast chain, known at that time for being highly selective of what East Coast towns they would expand to. A flagship store did exist in Washington, D.C., but it was tucked away and somewhat hidden in the Foggy Bottom neighborhood. As for suburban locations, you could forget about it. Tower was way too cool for that.

But this new location was a game changer. Located two miles from home, it promised easy, relatively affordable access to just about anything and everything I could ever want: tapes, CDs, cassingles, music magazines, videos. I actually kind of credit the place for keeping me out of trouble as a teenager: Tower was close enough to home, open late enough, and central to enough fast food joints and movie theatres to make it a relatively obvious alternative to getting drunk in empty parking lots, like most bored teenagers do.

And it also gave me the chance to meet Megadeth.

I do not remember the year, the record they were supporting, or, how, exactly, that I'd learned Megadeth was doing a signing at the Rockville Tower Records. But I remember that I was freaked out that rock stars would be in my hometown, and I made sure that Fran the Man would drive my car-less ass out to the event that Sunday afternoon.

As always, he would, so we trucked on up to Tower to meet Megadeth, arriving ten minutes early, just to be safe.

Much to our chagrin, upon arriving we witnessed a line of at least 100 metalheads out the door of Tower, streaming down the sidewalk, past store front after store front of the Congressional Shopping Center.

This was a bummer. I'd been looking forward to this event for days and days, but it had never occurred to me that I'd actually have to wait in line.

Fran the Man, who didn't even like metal, had a disapproving look on his face. "This'll take hours," he told me. "Let's go."

I looked at him with disappointment. True, Fran the Man was always up for adventure, but he liked his adventures to be at least somewhat practical. It was hard to look at the situation and not see anything more than a gigantic waste of the afternoon, with no guarantee of meeting the band.

But giving up just seemed so half-assed.

"Let's just go in the store," I told him. "We'll watch."

Fran the Man was agreeable to that, so we walked through the front door of the store, to be immediately confronted by the store manager - an older guy with glasses and a golf shirt tucked into khakis. He bore a slight resemblance to a dorkier Stephen King. (Apparently, Tower had called in the regional brass for this event).

"You gotta be here to shop....no loitering," the Manager of the Macabre preemptively told us, his tone mimicking that of a high school vice principal.

"We're just here to shop," Fran the Man and I said (...in wholly unconvincing unison). In an attempt to recover, I put my best quizzical expression on my face and asked, "What's going on here anyway?"

The manager ignored that last part and told us to come on in, and that we'd "better buy something."

There we stood, taking in everything - the sections of the store that had been roped off, the signing table, the merch, the angry metalheads at the front of the line who clearly knew what we were doing. Trying to act natural, we worked the aisles, picking up random Aerosmith and Rolling Stones discs, and eying the doors at all times.

Truth be told, I was always an excitable kid when it came to music, and I was just about out of my skull in anticipation of seeing Megadeth. Would they play a song for us? Would they give a speech? Would girls take their tops off and ask Dave to sign their tits? This was going to be awesome, even if waiting in line for a personal audience had been vetoed.

So, there I was in the back of the store, when the storage room door swiftly opened and a beefy security guy waddled through, followed by none other than Dave Mustaine and the rest of the guys in the band. He was dressed in a black tank top, blue jeans and sneakers, his tangled shock of strawberry blond hair piled high enough to make him look even shorter than his slight frame (I was a little taken aback by how little the guy seemed - I would over time learn that this is a pretty common reaction to meeting celebs...especially when you happen to be 6'3").

It was a strange moment - here was one of the biggest guys in metal, maybe 15 feet from me, and none of the tough, dumb-looking meatheads in the store had even noticed. So, I took it upon myself to be the first one to make noise.

Raising my puny arm and making a fist, I shouted "DAAAAVE!" to him.

Immediately, I regretted it: My voice sounded totally fucking weak. The word "Dave" ended up coming out in two syllables - an over-excited and extremely loud "DAAY", followed by a self-conscious and much quieter "Aaaaavvve", which I had hoped would sound at least a little bit cooler and more familiar.

It sounded neither. I mean, my voice might as well have cracked. I sounded like a tool.

For a moment, I thought the guy was just going to walk on by and ignore me. Shit, upon hearing my own stupid voice, I half wished that he would. By this time, everyone in the whole store had heard me, and they were all yelling for him.

Never breaking his workman's trudge towards the signing table, Mustaine instead turned his head to me, lifted his chin and nodded at me. He did not speak. He did not smile. In fact, he kind of scowled, which is basically the expression Dave wore through much of the 80s.

And then the moment was gone. The store went bananas. People were screaming and yelling for his attention, cameras were going off, and the manager was doing his damnedest to keep order. The band took their place at the signing table, and we looked on for a moment, quickly realizing that a record store signing is not, in fact, a worthwhile spectator event.

"Let's go," Fran the Man said, for the second time that day.

+++++++

Strangely enough, I never did get around to seeing Megadeth live. I have no idea why; by the time I had become a more critical consumer of music, it was very much becoming clear that Megadeth had more integrity as a metal act that Metallica did. Yet, it regrettably never happened.

There's still time to change that: Tower Records may be dead, but Megadeth marches on. In the meantime, I've got YouTube.

My Last Words
if you're tight on time, just FFW to the 4:00 minute mark to truly appreciate all that Metallica gave up in sacking Mr. Mustaine.....

Smashing Pumpkins

Since sometime in early April, I've been trying to get motivated to do a post about the night I saw the Smashing Pumpkins at the Patriot Center. And its increasingly looking like I just can't get it up to give them that much attention.

Now, listen: I'm not an out-an-out hater on the Pumpkins. They have the makings of at least one fantastic greatest hits album. But so do the Eagles. And Journey. And I sure can't get my dick hard for those bands, either.

I should admit that my bad attitude about the Pumpkins comes largely from reading Jim DeRogatis' Milk It! Collected Musings on the Alternative Music Explosion of the '90s (...now THAT guy is a hater!)

His hypothesis generally is that of the top rock acts of the '90s (the Pumpkins, Nine Inch Nails, Pearl Jam and Nirvana, give or take a few other bit players), the Pumpkins were essentially the most expendable.

I tend to agree with him, despite how much I like tracks like 1974, Zero, and especially Jellybelly -- all of which appeared on the terribly pretentiously-titled and difficult-to-listen-to "Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness".

Think about it: Pearl Jam took Fugazi's mission and generally brought it to the masses. Sure, it was diluted by the time it got there, but that's the price. NIN momentarily brought industrial music out of the basement, where it had been simultaneously flourishing and suffocating for more than 20 years. And there's not much I could say about Nirvana that hasn't been said before, but let's keep in mind that their legacy includes the Foo Fighters.

But the Pumpkins? Their legacy increasingly seems to be that as long as you've got a rad sounding guitar, a great drummer, and the ability to write hooks, its perfectly fine to have a shitty voice, a patronizing display of teenage angst and a totally unlikeable attitude about your own level of talent.

Is that fair? Not entirely. Corgan's most whiny and faux-angsty output is on "Mellon Collie", and that's a concept album of sorts, about an isolated teenager - ergo all the 'tude on those songs. Still, Billy has never been shy about showcasing his massive ego or his ridiculous voice, regardless of his other undeniable talents.

+++++++

This show was fine, actually. Nothing to write home about, but it was good enough. Jimmy Chamberlain was back in the band, and the beautiful Mellisa Auf der Maur had replaced D'Arcy - and anything involving Ms. Auf der Maur is a good thing in my book.

(Someday I'll write about that time I locked eyes with her in the Red Room of the old Black Cat).

((Ah, wistful...))

As for the show, the details aren't exactly vivid. I recall an acoustic performance of "1974" at the end, as well as a moment during "Zero", when someone in the crowd inflated a five foot penis and started tossing it around the crowd. Billy and James shared a laugh, and for a moment it appeared that they liked one another.

And with that, I'm totally tapped out on the Smashing Pumpkins. I mean just...whatever. They were a fine band for the 90's, and I'll always respect Billy Corgan for getting an enjoyable album out of Courtney Love (the sometimes-overlooked "Celebrity Skin", which Corgan basically wrote for her).

Then again, every single time I hear a fucking terrible screamo band break into a pussified melodic vocal hook, I can't help but to hear Corgan's influence all over the place. Oh, sure, the chasm in talent between those emo dickbags and Corgan is obvious, but still -- that shit is all over you, Billy. That's the problem with being a "genius". Remember that the next time you tell a reporter about how you basically taught James and D'Arcy how to play their instruments.

+++++++

So, that said, I *do* have a story about the Smashing Pumpkins.

I'm not exactly sure what the year was, but it was probably the Summer of 1990 or 1991. It was Fran the Man's birthday, and because we were so tremendously lame, we decided to make a rare trip into Washington, D.C. to go to the Hard Rock Cafe for dinner (which was at least slightly less uncool back then -- let's not forget that these establishments were all the rage at some point in the late 80's. Cool kids knew better, but we did not).

Anyway, we went out and had dorky fun.

When dinner was over, we proceeded straight to the Metro to go home, like the good little suburban kids that we were. After all, Washington was a little rougher back then, and you didn't want to be screwing around if you didn't know your way around.

As we approached the station, a homeless man hobbled up to us.

"Three bands, three bucks! Three bands, three bucks. 9:30 Club, baby!"

Fran the Man and I looked at one another.

"Where is it," I asked.

"9:30 Club! Right THERE, man!" he responded, excitedly waving his arm down the block.

"How much?"

"Three bands, three bucks!!" he responded, his voice taking on a decidedly exasperated tone.

Its hard for me to believe that I had so little adventure in me. We certainly had $6 between us. And we both knew all about the 9:30 Club, even though neither of us had even been in it: that was a punk rock club, and we were NOT punk rock kids. We were debate team kids.

"Who's playing," I asked, knowing full well that I wouldn't recognize the name.

"Man, its them Smashing Pumpkins! Girls EVERYWHERE! Man, you got three bucks...come ON!!!"

Fran the Man and I exchanged glances once more.

"That sounds gay," I told Fran the Man, and we stepped onto the Metro escalator, missing that opportunity forever.

But, you know, for years afterwords I told people that I went to that show, and that I saw the Pumpkins back when they were on the club circuit. Years later, Fran the Man would admit to me that he had done the same thing.

But, of course, we didn't.

Because I thought it would be "gay".

So there you have it - my life at 17: Dinner at rock and roll-themed chain restaurants + homophobic slurs = bad taste and arena rock.

Hooray for me.

R.I.P. Paul Gray 1972 - 2010

Its easy to write off Slipknot as a bunch of meatheads. I admit that I was down on them for years.

Anyway, the news of Paul Gray's death hopefully rounds out what has been a tragic spring for the metal community.

If you had any doubts or preconceived notions about the guys in Slipknot, I encourage you to take a look at the following video of their press conference this week. You won't be converted to being a fan, but I know it gave me a different perception of the band: Stripped bare - without masks, music or costumes; grief-stricken and fragile -- they represent a portrait of humanity that most people never see in metal.

If you don't have time to watch the whole thing, at least try and just to the 4:40 mark for a beautiful moment.

Be at peace, Paul Gray.