The Year in Shows: 2011

It was an another up and down year for show attendance; Summer and Fall were decent, but the Winter was a complete bust, and I barely even remember the first few months of the year.

(Oh. Right. Wedding....That explains it).

I did actually get to enough shows to do a top ten list, but due to the fact that so many of them were disappointing (and my generally desperate need for editing), I'll keep it to top five this year.

5. Monotonix at Comet Ping Pong

I'd narrowly missed these guys twice before - once walking into a small club shortly after they'd played, only to discover that the place was fully empty and mostly trashed. So, regardless of what I thought of their music, I did want to finally check Monotonix out.

And generally speaking, they delivered: Lots of riffing. Lots of crusty facial hair. Lots of underwear. Lots of beer and trash strewn around the room. Lots of climbing on things and hanging from things and drum set relocation and semi-bombastic Israeli flag waving.

I can't really say that it was *good*, but it sure was fun, and everyone pretty much got what they came for.

4. The Jim Jones Review at the Black Cat

"Little Richard on crack" was how my friend, Chris, described this band to me. But they were so much better than that.

There's so little great rock out there right now. I'm talking about real rhythm section rock. The type with pianos and horns and tastelessly in-your-face vocals.

That's who these guys are. And God bless them, because despite an appearance on Letterman later that week, they played to a sparse crowd in D.C. that night.

I sure hope they hit Baltimore. Because for a UK band, that's exactly what they remind me of: those incredible 90s rock bands like Ironboss and the Reprobates and the Glenmont Popes and the Put-Outs, that just sort of organically grew out of Hampden for so many years in the 90's.

3. Fucked Up at the Black Cat

Fucked Up rarely puts on anything less than a stellar show, and this would be no exception. They opened with the excellent "Queen of Hearts" (my personal vote for song of the year, by the way), featuring surprise guest vocals from Madeline Folin from Cults, who was playing in town the following night.

This set up perhaps the single greatest dis I have heard in all of my concert-going years, courtesy of Damien Abraham:

"That was Madeline Folin from Cults, and she's playing tomorrow night with Foster the People. Take it from me: get there early, leave early."

Ouch.

2. The Body and the Assembly of Light Choir at St. Steven's Church

It's easy to get defense about how little respect metal gets as a music form, much less an art form. It is also totally cliche. The last thing I need is people thinking I'm that crybaby label apologist, Eddie Fucking Trunk.

Nonetheless, it was nice to witness the Body and the Assembly of Light Choir putting on the single most artistic performance I saw all year -- and perhaps in several years.

True, the AOLC doesn't exactly knock you over with the sophistication of their arrangements. (To be honest, they get repetitive quickly). But that's not really the point.

The point is that it takes both balls and vision to perform them in tandem with a two-piece doom metal band that is playing at full tilt.....not only staying toe to toe with them, but complimenting the band with a nearly Wagnerian power at the end of the set. (Special thanks to St. Stephen's acoustics and some outstanding sound work by local stalwart, Marcus Esposito),

A grudging nod to Lars Gotrich at NPR for tipping me off (via Twitter) to this show. I can't say that I have much use for that intellectual, hipster, metal-for-smart-kids music that he seems to love, but he sure knew what he was talking about with this one.

1. Pharaoh Sanders at Bohemian Caverns

Make no mistake: the last of the jazz greats are dying off. And since I routinely botch every single chance I have ever had to see Sonny Rollins, I wasn't going to screw this up.

Sanders is destined to always be compared to his "mentor", John Coltrane. But with his penchant for playing with feedback, experimenting with insane mouthpieces and generally doing things with the saxophone that it was never intended to do, it's just as apt to have him forever bonded to Jimi Hendrix.

And Goddamn it, he's one powerful, aggressive, fearless performer.

That said, I guess its fair to say that Sanders got off to a slow start. He's a little older, a little shorter and a little heavier than I realized. (And a whole lot blacker - like his skin had a nearly blue glow under the stage lights....not that this has anything to do with anything, but the visual was fucking cool).

Once Sanders hit his his stride, however, I completely regretted not buying tickets for the later set. Because if he picked up where he left off (a fun-as-hell romp on "Going Back to Africa"), the people waiting upstairs had an even better night than I did.

Really glad I caught this.

(And - seriously - I can't believe that Lars Gotrich tipped me off to this one, too. Good Lord. You should probably follow him on Twitter.)

Christmas Medley 2011

Happy holidays, all!

Those bastards at work wouldn't allow me to cruise into the holidays with out one more effing business trip (...thanks for the salary and the benefits, but you sure do suck), so here's this year's medley before I hit the road again.

Enjoy, be safe, and Merry Christmas.

Colorado Christmas



Please Daddy Don't Get Drunk This Christmas



Merry Christmas (I Don't Want to Fight Tonight)



The First Noel

R.I.P. Black Cat Bill

UPDATE: Washington City Paper Reports that William Turner (aka Black Cat Bill) is still with us. I'm glad to hear it, (and moderately embarrassed).

Then again, who the hell reads this blog anyway? I was a little skeptical, but I wrote what I felt.

+++++++++++++++++

Sad news, my friends.

DCist is reporting that Black Cat Bill has passed away. Details and official confirmations remain hard to come by, but from what I understand, employees at the Black Cat are the source.

Anyone who ever spent more than a few nights at D.C.'s greatest punk rock club knows Black Cat Bill.

Whether you every actually bothered to learn his name or not, Bill was a fixture on 14th Street for....Jesus, I've been running around down there for about 15 years now, and he was outside the door of the club the very first time I set foot in the place.

Warm, good-natured and friendly, Bill was a homeless man best known for greeting the club's patrons with his infamous baritone cheer, "BLACK CAT, BLACK CAT! A little spare chaaaaaaaange for the homeless?"

Half carnival barker, half goodwill ambassador to 14th street hispters, Bill was always pleasant and charming. And he was always grateful for whatever people were willing to share with him. In the heat of Washington's summers or the dead of its winters, I never knew him to be anything other than a gentleman, even when the elements were far less friendly.

Over the years, I'm happy that I had a number of encounters with Bill. A few stand out on this evening in particular.

One night I stopped on the way into the club to ask how he was doing, and he gave me his standard answer:

"I'm doing ok for an old guy...But as long as I keep watching you young folks, I get a little more energy."

And he smiled that infectious smile of his.

Another night I slipped him a buck and asked him how his night was.

He raised an eyebrow. "It would be a lot better," he shot, "if everyone was as generous as you are."

Quite the charmer, he was.

Once, in late August of 2005, I passed him at his regular spot.

"You doing ok these days?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm doing ok," he responded. "I know I'm doing a lot better than all those poor people down in New Orleans."

I fumbled for something to say, and failed. Here he was, homeless, unkempt, and most certainly struggling with addiction, and counting his blessings nonetheless.

But the one evening I will never forget, was the night he offered a kind word to a drunken, tearful young woman who had stomped out of the club in a huff.

For his efforts, she spat at him that she didn't need his advice, at that, "at least I'M not HOMELESS! I have a JOB!"

There was a silence on the sidewalk for half a beat. I remember being so goddamned angry.

But before I could say or do anything, Bill spoke up for himself, his tone even but most deliberately measured.

"I know you're not homeless," he said. "And I'm happy for you that you're not."

I was speechless. At a moment when the only thing I wanted to do was chase that little brat into the street for all of her ugliness, Bill chose dignity. But he made his point, nonetheless.

I guess I wanted to defend him, which was ridiculous under the circumstances. Bill had bigger problems to worry about than the new wave of spoiled little drunk girls that was soon to take over 14th Street.

The past few years, Bill would disappear for long periods of time. Every time it would happen, I'd get a little nervous....God knows what could happen to an aging homeless guy -- even one that everyone seems to like.

The last time I saw him it was New Years Eve nearly two years ago.

He looked bad. He must have lost 70 pounds....perhaps much more. He looked tired, and for the first time in all of those years of chatting with one another, he seemed sorry for himself.

Heart disease, high blood pressure and gangrene in one of his feet were among the ailments he ran past me. I just couldn't believe how low he sounded.

I squatted down next to him, and gave him a few bucks and some words of encouragement that felt insufficient in every way. He gave my hand a shake, looked me in the eye, then draped his other hand on top of mine. He held on tight.

"God comes first," he told me. "Your family comes second. You come third."

And then he started crying.

"God comes first," he repeated twice, as he gathered himself as best he could.

The moment seemed to last a long time. It was intimate, and it was painful, cruelly juxtaposed against the bars letting out on New Years.

It is not how I will choose to remember Bill.

+++++++

I suppose that it is entirely possible that the reports of Bill's death are false information. And I hope that they are. Perhaps the outpouring of mourning on Facebook and Twitter will serve as a needed reminder that homeless people are, in fact, human beings with names and lives.

But either way, take some time over the holiday season to follow Bill's example and try to be happy for all that you have and all that you've been given. Even when life just sucks.

And if you can, spare a little change for the homeless.

Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween!

To commemorate my favorite non-religious/non-family/non-nationalistic flag-waving holiday, I'm raising this blog from the dead and taking a trip back in time to share some of my favorite Halloween costumes in years past.

Let's start with this year. This year, I was Lemmy. And I was awesome at it. See here:

Actual conversation overheard at the table next to us at Church Key (a totally awesome beer bar that is unfortunately overrun with semi-douchey hipsters who just might have gotten eaten alive at the corner of 14th and Rhode Island Ave less than ten years earlier):

Girl: "Sorry, I can't even concentrate enough to speak because of that guy's warts. That's disgusting."
Guy: "That's Lemmy"
Girl: "Who?"
Guy: "Lemmy from Motorhead"
Girl: "What? "
Guy: "He's a legend"
Girl: "Who is he?"
Guy: "He's in the band Motorhead"
Girl: "Who are they?"
Guy: *sigh* "They're like Brad Paisley, ok?"

This would not be my first rock star homage. In fact, the year I went to New Orleans for Halloween, I went as Alice Cooper.

I was mistaken for the fucking Crow all night long. Oh, well.

The photo above was taken at 6:00 AM after being out all night at the Howlin Wolf and Snake & Jake's. If I look a little dead, its because I am.

In fact, I *felt* a little more like the photo below:



Of course, I didn't always pick a specific rock star. In fact, this one year I totally phoned it in with this generic piece of crap "rocker" outfit that's about as authentic as Mark Whalberg starring an unwatchably terrible Ripper Owens biopic.

Here I am posing with a coworker.

Once again, proof that the Amish simply work harder than the rest of us...

Ooh, speaking of Mark Whalberg, one year I was totally obsessed with Boogie Nights, and I wanted to do some kind of send-up to 70's fashion. Check THIS out:

What I was going for: Disco king/70's porn star.
What I ended up with: Your dad.

Then maybe a year later I saw Basquiat, and became obsessed with Andy Warhol. So.....

Notice my exceptional attention to detail. Because this is pretty much 70 percent made from the shitty "rocker" costume from a few years earlier.
Also, because as we all know, Warhol never went anywhere without 40 oz'er of King Cobra in a brown paper bag.

Then, one year, just like every other five year old in the Maryland suburbs, I went as a cowboy.

What my coworker was going for: Beats me....
What I was going for: bad guy cowboy/man in black.
What I ended up with: If Joe Buck and Woody from Toy Story had BOTH been male prostitutes.

Speaking of prostitutes, I can't quite tell you what was going through my head this one year.

I can, however, tell you that our HR department was probably borderline incompetent to allow me to get away with this.

Jimmy Page & the Black Crowes: A Tale of Two Scotts

Man, I haven't done one of these ticket things in a long time.....StubStory.com done stole my concept! (kidding, kidding...)

Ok, that having been said, welcome, boys and girls!

When I think back on all the dinosaur rock acts I've seen over the years, it seems a bit odd that I'd never seen any of the guys from Led Zeppelin live when I was a teenager.

Plant cranked out a bunch of decent-to-middling solo albums over the years. Must've toured behind all of them, but I don't think I even once considered seeing him in concert.

Meanwhile, Jimmy Page had a litany of collaborative efforts with likes of David Coverdale, Plant (...go figure), and perpetual also-ran, Paul Rogers. None of it held any interest for me.

John Paul Jones was probably always working, but I didn't yet know that he would be the only one making interesting rock into his 60's.

I'm sure if there had been a Led Zeppelin reunion in the 80's, that - just like with the Who and the Stones - I would have been totally into it. Hell, on a nearly weekly basis my friend, Scott, and I traded various reunion rumors we'd heard about (usually through the proverbial "friend of a friend", or on 98 Rock), frequently leading us to debate whether "Rock and Roll" or "Misty Mountain Hop" would make a better opener, and always agreeing that "Battle of Evermore" would have to be on the set list.

But for whatever reason - perhaps because of the uniquely mystical kind of legend that followed Zeppelin around after they broke up -- I always accepted that a Led Zep reunion would not be in the cards, and that seeing any of them solo would be a diminishment of that legend.

That, and I should probably say that I never "got" Jimmy Page the way that other kids did. Eddie Van Halen and Jimi Hendrix always sort of spoke for themselves by being so over the top. Keith Richards did it by totally nailing his way around the rhythm section. Slash did it with a tone that was just about perfect.

But Page is a guitar-player's musician, and I don't play guitar (not really, at least. Perhaps not at all). Alternate tunings were kind of lost on me for a long time. Ditto for insanely layered parts.

I totally accepted that he was the man, basically because the right people told me so. But frankly, he never quite turned me on the way that some of the other legendary axe men did.

This show did help convert me.

And it was through, coincidentally, a different friend named Scott.

A bit about Scott # 2:

Scott plays guitar, and he’s excellent company. In fact, this one time he hosted a Superbowl party where we decided that we’d jam on Freebird together as the halftime entertainment for his guests. The results were somewhat disappointing. (And by “somewhat disappointing” I mean that everyone got the hell out of the room before we even got the guitars plugged in).

Scott is about 6’2”, and his physical build clearly indicates that he spent a whole lot of his younger years swimming and playing defensive end. And drinking beer – more beer, in fact, than you can drink. (This is a fact).

And despite having what one might describe as a foreboding physical presence, Scott is as good-natured as they come. Calm, friendly and accommodating, Scott isn't really one to seek out adventure; adventure just seems to follow him around.

In fact, the one thing I've learned over the years is that an evening with Scott is always a good time, and quite often a legendary time. Because literally anything could happen:

Someone just might throw a falafel at you.

You could end up in a fist fight with strangers in the middle of Connecticut Ave.

You may end up spending St. Patrick's Day in the the Arlington Courthouse, awaiting a friends release upon self recognizance.

Heck, you just might save a kid from alcohol poisoning. (Hey, Frenchie: if you're still out there somewhere, you totally need some new friends).

So, if Scott wanted to go see Jimmy Page and the Black Crowes, who was I to pass on it? (Plus, Scott had this cute new girlfriend that he was really excited about and he wanted me to meet her).

So off we went to the Nissan Pavillion. I had my hang-ups about whether or not this show would be any good, but there we went nonetheless. After all, I'd seen the Crowes at least twice before (maybe more), and despite what seemed to be a total disability to get their songs on the radio after about 1993, they had actually built an excellent reputation for themselves as a touring band.

And, plus, you know....Jimmy Page.

Honest to God, the night was fairly awesome. Despite an unfortunately sparse crowd (the promoter actually opened up the pavilion seats to us lawn stragglers because the sales were so poor), it was a really nicely-performed set made up nearly entirely of deeper Zeppelin cuts. And I have to give the Crowes credit: they rose to the occasion. Never once did they sound like a cover band, or like they were aping Bonzo or Plant. They sounded like the Black Crowes playing Led Zeppelin songs.

Two specific memories worth pointing out:

1. The Robinson brothers nailed the creepy into harmonies on "In The Light", in a way that I never would have thought would be possible live.

2. Page absolutely shredded two or three times during the show. And that's noteworthy primarily because my only gripe with the early Zeppelin albums is how *sloppy* some of the soloing sounds. (The easiest target for this would have to be "Heartbreaker", a fantastic track that I can't help but believe Page totally could have - and perhaps even did - cut cleaner at some point during those sessions).

It's kind of a petty quibble to unleash on a guitar god, but my point is that it was great to see the 50-or-60-something Page performing with a totally different type of precision, sacrificing no degree whatsoever of his trademark recklessness, blusiness or hardscrabble style, yet clearly in greater mastery over his parts.

So, all in all, it was a good night out with Scott. No flying ethnic food. No arrests. No fights or 911 calls.

But a total awakening for me, regarding what all the kids had been telling me about Page since I was in grade school.

(Oh, and I should probably mention: Scott totally married that girl a few year later.)

...Today, at the Reception

I wanted to take a quick second to pour some on the curb for the Govinda Gallery, which I just learned had quietly closed its doors last month.

No parties, no grand farewell. Just a tasteful exit, stage right. Perhaps celebratory beers at the Tombs. Seems fitting.

It appears from the Washington Post article that gallery owner, Chris Murray, decided that it was time to move on, well, because it was time. And, honestly, is there ever a better reason?

“It just seemed like the perfect moment,” he told the Post. “This was the completion of a 35-year cycle.”

Its a refreshingly dignified way to bring things to a close.

The Govinda was a favorite of mine because it specialized in something that was right up my alley: music-themed photography.

And while a lot of the subjects could be grouped into that awfully-named catch-all genre called "classic rock", I think that totally undersells the breadth of work that Murray featured. Because the Govinda's exhibits included just about anything and everything: jazz, punk, glam, reggae, hip-hop, skater, you name it. Entire shows about one photographer, entire shows about on artist or band, entire shows themed around a genre, city or musical movement. If photographers documented it and if it was worth showing, Murray got it on the walls.

Situated just off of Prospect Street in Georgetown, the Govinda was just barely tucked away enough to be considered a hidden gem. The place was usually quiet, the staff was always friendly, and I was consistently happy with whatever I saw when I'd drop in.

I have to admit that I'll miss it.

If you live in a city long enough (especially a transient city like Washington, D.C.), you do learn to accept that your favorite haunts won't last forever. Each and every city, in fact, is host to a never ending parade of ghosts of the memories of good times, of safe times, of happy times that took place in long gone - and not so long gone - bars, clubs, shops, bookstores, and restaurants. (Ask three generations of Reilly boys about their favorite memories on the 3300 block of Connecticut Avenue, and it would be very possible that they'd all point you to the same building, with three different memories of three different establishments.)

People come and go, rents go up, and places turn over. You accept it, but sometimes it stings.

Because when I think back on the old Metro Cafe or Signal 66 or Visions Cinema and Cafe, I really do find myself missing those late, late nights at art parties and Britpop dance nights, spent nearly ten years ago with my new girlfriend at the time (now my new wife).

When I think back on the recently closed Commonwealth Gastropub, I remember a fantastic birthday spent in the company of close friends and many rounds of Belhaven Twisted Thistle Ale.

Springsteen and the Ramones might have played at the old Childe Harold in Dupont Circle back in the 70's, but for me, it will always be the scene of the crime for the single most disastrous date of my life.

The old Black Cat location? Where to even begin... It's quite possible that I had more fun in that one building than anywhere else on Earth.

When I think back on the Govinda Gallery, what will I remember?

I'll remember how they never seemed to mind when I'd browse through their library, often sitting cross legged on the floor of the gallery for the better part of an hour, poring over Dominique Tarle's Exile. Everyone who ever saw me do it knew full well that I couldn't afford to buy the book, but no one ever complained.

I'll remember seeing Bejing punks, PK-14 do one of their very first American shows in the Gallery, to an absolutely packed crowd. And I'll remember chatting with their drummer out on 34th street, telling him how much I wanted to visit China, and listening him to implore me to just skip Shanghai and go straight to Beijing. (I did both cities anyway).

And most of all, I'll remember a fantastic summer afternoon when my girlfriend (wife) and I popped in on a Saturday to check out a new Mick Rock exhibit. There were maybe four people in the gallery besides us, including a tallish, curly-haired and very enthusiastic Brit, who was fully holding court with some very tall tales I was only half listening to.

He caught my attention when he strode up to a gorgeous print of Syd Barrett, posing on the hood of a classic automobile.


"THIS," the Brit announced. "Is my favorite." He went on to describe losing the photo for years and years, and only discovering it relatively recently, under his nose in his flat all of these years.

"Holy shit," I muttered, grabbing my girlfriend's arm. "That's him. That's Mick Rock."

As I puttered around the gallery star-struck, Rock made his way to the door with a friend, announcing to the lovely young woman who always worked the desk that they'd be stepping out for a pint.

"Was that Mick Rock," I asked the lovely attendant.

She smiled. "He pre-signed a bunch of his books over there if you're interested."

+++++++

That'll always be the Govinda to me: cool, connected, friendly, and understated.

And always in excellent taste.

After All, He's Just A Man

I can't imagine its very easy for my wife to be married to a guy who loves metal.

There's no way that she enjoys hearing me deconstruct "Cowboys From Hell" for the eleventh time, or theorize how the Portuguese never would have made it across Copacabana Beach if only the locals had been marching to "Refuse/Resist" 500 years earlier.

She can't possibly like it when I play and replay the bridges from various songs off "Master of Puppets" to cement my argument that it is the greatest metal album of all time (and that nothing was ever the same after Cliff Burton died), or make her watch the crappy iPhone videos I made from last week's The Body/Assembly of Light choir show.

I sure don't think she anticipated my going ape shit and canceling any and all plans last week so that I could watch Lemmy when I randomly found it on TV.

But she's tolerant. I have to give her that. Now that I think about it, one of the first things we did as an engaged couple was to go see Lamb of God. Her first metal show, God bless her. With me.

In fact, there are these moments where I have to suspect that she may be more comfortable with my silly tastes than I am of my own. Witness this recent exchange:

WIFE: What shirt is that you're wearing?

ME: It's just an old concert tee.

WIFE: I've never seen if before. What concert?

ME: It's a Danzig tour shirt.

WIFE: I've never seen you wear it.

ME: That's because it's a Danzig tour shirt.

WIFE: The design is kind of cool.

ME: Yeah, but its a Danzig tour shirt.

Here I am in my Danzig tour shirt,
enjoying a delightful Spanish moscato.*

*Note: I don't believe that I've worn this shirt outside in the past ten years.

So, anyway, there you go. This one goes out to the people who accept us for who we are.