Links:
Jim Carroll
Mercury Records

I devoured BD in no time flat and went on a Jim Carroll rampage, trying to find anything by him. I fell in love with the second set of diaries, Forced Entries, and the collections of poems: Living At The Movies and Fear of Dreaming. At a cut-out bin at a small record store chain in Maryland, I found several copies of Praying Mantis, an out-of-print CD that contains Carroll's spoken word. I bought one for five bucks and then really fell in love with the pathos of Jim Carroll's voice, especially in "Fragment: Little New York Ode," "For Elizabeth" and his humor in the monologue "The Loss of American Innocence" (which serves as the inspiration behind Carroll's character Billy,the neurotic hot shot artist). I ended up going back to the store and buying the remainder to send to friends and fans who I knew would appreciate it.

I have a feeling that Carroll fans got what they wanted at his rare appearance at Seattle's Crocodile Café. Fifty percent spoken word and fifty percent live music, Carroll displayed both of the arenas that he chose to express himself. Talk about cross promotion, Carroll has two new vehicles out: the first a new album of music and spoken word Pools of Mercury (Mercury) and a new collection of poems, Void of Course (Penguin Books). Pools contains six poems from Void and four poems from Fear of Dreaming (Penguin Books, 1993) and nine new songs.

The Croc show served as a perfect primer for the curious admirers who were uncertain about his two new pieces of work. Carroll walked onstage, made some crack about being professorial and needing a lectern. His floppy red hair looked brighter in contrast to his pale luminous skin and the black suit he wore. He started off with the poem "Locked Wing" about a young kid in an asylum during a schizophrenic bout. Carroll joked about being born at New York's infamous Bellevue hospital, joking that his mother was in a straightjacket during his birthing. He read "8 Fragments for Kurt Cobain," the trenchant poem that was in the works when he performed it in Seattle at the 1995 Bumbershoot with Patti Smith. The other side of Jim Carroll, that of the Jim Carroll Band variety (only tonight it was the Seattle substitute with local guitarist Robert Roth) also shone and rocked the Croc. Although Carroll's timing as a poet is more precise than it is as a frontman to a band, one cannot deny that this part of the show was a treat; especially his improv of Del Shannon's "Runaway," the crowd pleasing "People Who Died," and "Catholic Boy."

If the public based their interpretation of Jim Carroll on the Leonardo DiCaprio edition of Basketball Diaries, they would be missing out on the feel of the diarist's voice. Carroll fans appreciate this distinct voice with its New York flavor and its quiver because it lends itself to sound pained, saddened, nervous and sincere. For an artist, Carroll tends to undermine the high brow nature of poetry by maintaining a sense of humor and remaining unpretentious. His desire to express this need to find purity in a world that lacks that very element has a powerful and universal appeal that I'm sure you'd dig.

-Hope Lopez
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Links:
Apocalypse: Tricky
Official Whale site

Don't blame the artist or the club if the equipment fails in the middle of the set. Am I being kind? Maybe. Am I being generous? Yes, but if it's the last gig in a series of long tours, then cut the artist some slack, especially if he/she gave it an honest shot. What am I talking about, you ask? Well, I'm referring to Tricky's most recent performance here in Seattle at the DV-8. Granted, it wasn't the best of shows but it was still pretty damn good. Plus if you're a Tricky fan, you probably met him this evening. Can't knock that now can you?

For an artist who creates ominous, moody songs with insane beats and an aggressive sandpaper voice, Tricky, also known as Adrian Thaws, comes off as warm, earnest and friendly in person. What an odd sight to see Tricky hanging out behind the merchandise counter selling t-shirts for his friends' band (the Swedish band called Whale) and signing and chatting with his fans. Although Tricky has a unique look, somehow he remained almost incognito as he wandered around the club with his tour manager. Kids had to be nudged to inform them that the Tricky kid was standing right in front of them.

Enough of brushing with greatness, Whale (originally The Southern Whale Cult) put on a fun show as openers. Promoting their new release All Disco Dance Must End In Broken Bones and its single "Crying At Airports," this band had the energy level of an early punk band, the edge of a rock (can you say "rawk" and roll) band and energy level to keep people grooving. Singer Cia Soro belted her vocals out, while drummer Jorgen Wall and bassist Heiki kept a manic beat, Jon Jefferson Klingberg tooled around on the keyboards and guitarist Henrik put on the most cliched rock poses. A nice contrast to the moody and dark set to come from Tricky.

Not knocking Tricky's music. I love the fact that audience members can get lost in a crowd by the hypnotic ebb and flow of the somnambulant sounds that the Tricky Kid creates. The crowd was pleased, for the most part, not cognizant of the feedback from the amps at heavy bass moments. "Don't want to be on top of your list, monopoly improperly kissed," sang Martina during "Overcome," the cybertribal sounds of "Ponderosa," and Public Enemy's "Black Steel"(from Maxinquaye, Island 1995) got the ones familiar with this artist's work, pretty hyped because we were getting funked and hearing beats.

Somewhere, about an hour and a half into the hallucinogenic haze, Tricky abruptly quit in the middle of a song, apologized and walked off the stage frustrated, shaking his head with Martina and the band following behind. It wasn't as if Tricky was purposely not giving the audience what we wanted, it wasn't at the quality that he felt we deserved.

-Hope Lopez
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Links:
Watt's page at Columbia
Watt's own homepage

It had been almost a year since I'd last seen Watt live, working the magic of his low-end swing. That time around had been his first week of touring to support Contemplating The Engine Room - a loosely autobiographical rumination of his days in the seminal punk band The Minutemen; his father's life as a career officer in the Navy; and Watt's own meditation on the art of the power troika. He had brought along with him the album's drummer Steve Hodges and close friend Joe Baiza (in lieu of Nels Cline, who did all the guitar work on the album). The Croc was packed and it was magic watching the man enthrall, entrance, and entertain. This time around he had Nels with him, and Hodges was replaced by Bob Lee of Claw Hammer. The year playing his "punk rock opera" on the road had been time well spent; the band was tight, intuitive, and obviously had worked the album long enough that it had found its own groove off the stereo and on the live circuit. It was a night that did not disappoint.

A Hefty bag full of shirts slung over his shoulder, a beard a year in the making, and wearing his "standard Mike Watt issue" jeans and flannel shirt (flying wings pinned above the right pocket), Watt walked into The Crocodile behind me looking like some ragged and worn homeless man. This did not go unnoticed. Someone (in jest or otherwise) quickly shouted out to have "the old bum" kicked out of the club before he caused any trouble. Throwing the shirts down next to his bass cabinet, Watt slung his '68 Thunderbird over his shoulder and immediately launched the band into - and completely through - Contemplating The Engine Room.

Watt, Lee, and Cline strode confidently through the piece, perfectly recreating its dynamics and atmosphere. I was thrilled at finally being able to see Nels Cline reproduce his guitar pyrotechnics from the album. With his usual array of pedal-mania, he also came armed with (among other things) an egg-whisker and a toy raygun. During "Liberty Calls!" he was a man possessed. Eyes closed, raygun pressed against his guitar's pickups and blazing away, Nels' twig-like body violently shook - pulling, pounding, caressing the most indescribably beautiful sounds from his guitar. And as much as Nels shined, by no means did he overshadow Watt or Lee. Watt is a skillful leader who knows when to give room and when to pull the band back to center. Wrestling his own stories through his bass and with his voice, he led the trio through his punk opera without losing direction, and without forgetting that the art of storytelling - and what makes his album so powerful - is the contrast between its nuances and quiet subtleties ("No One Says Old Man To The Old Man," "Shore Duty") against the louder and more driving numbers ("In The Engine Room," "Liberty Calls!").

After finishing the piece the band came out and encored with a wide variety of covers that included versions of Bikini Kill's "Rebel Girl," Roky Ericksons's "I Have Always Been Here Before," "This Is A Prayer" (an original by Nels), a Television cover, and the always-played/well-received "The Red And The Black," by Blue Oyster Cult. My only complaint was the drunk up front who had to be heard between (and at times over) every song; the fact that the Crocodile was only half-full on this blustery weeknight was a bonus in that it allowed me the pleasure of going home without someone else's drink spilled on me.

Watt once again has fed my hunger for good music - proving that punk is not a price tag with attitude attached or a three-chord blitzkrieg, but a statement of conscience; a willingness to challenge even your own assumptions. And with his opera swirling 'round my head I went home tired but content, glad that there are people out there like Watt - fucking things up, making you think while they entertain, breaking the musical chokehold. "A drowning man can pull you under along with him / No thought or reason, emotion seizing every limb / Breaking the chokehold / Breaking the chokehold."

Thanks Watt!

-C. Young
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Links:
Screaming Trees

It was indeed a rare pleasure to be able to see Mark Lanegan live. This was a once-in-a-blue-moon opportunity, and the fact that he was being backed by some of Seattle's most notable musical luminaries (Mike Johnson, Mark Olsen, Ben Shepherd) only heightened my anticipation of the show. With The Showbox sold out, Pete Krebs opened the evening with a solo acoustic set. While his songs were both witty and catchy, his fast strumming and worn voice had difficulty filling the cavernous hall of The Showbox, and I spent most of his set wondering how Lanegan's music would fare in these climes. Mike Johnson followed. The dynamics of his sparse arrangements came across better than Krebs, but by this time the band room was packed with people who were more interested in being rude by talking loudly over his music; no respect for one of the most creative musicians in the city. However, Johnson did an admirable job of keeping focused on his set. As always, his slow-strummed tales of heartbroken loneliness, matched by his consummate musicianship, was something to savor for those of us paying attention.

By the time Johnson had finished, the crowd was tightly wound in anticipation of what was to come. When Mark Lanegan finally took the stage for his set they let out an ecstatic cheer. Lanegan opened up with "Ugly Sunday," from his first album The Winding Sheet, and any apprehension of how the band's sound would come across inside the large band room of The Showbox was quickly dispelled. The guitars of Johnson and Olsen were lifted upon Mark's deep, whiskey-soaked baritone, rising higher to color and wash away the quiet corners of the hall with their sound while the dark underpinnings of the tight rhythm section kept the band anchored and pushing ahead. Continuing on with "Pendulum," and "The River Rise," Lanegan's live sound revealed itself to be much more animated and textured than the quiet brooding of his albums. Interestingly enough, "Because Of This," the song he closed the show with and his most electric track off his latest release Scraps At Midnight, didn't come across nearly as well as the rest of the songs played that evening.

Drawing equally upon all three of his solo releases, the dynamics of the band rose and fell with the tides of Lanegan's forlorn tales of despair and loss. All of this made the show spell-binding and a rare treat that will be much savored for some time. Where Pete Krebs failed to come across, and where Mike Johnson was stopped by a disrespectful crowd, Lanegan showed his unique ability at wrapping the music he plays around the people (and places) he plays for. For being sold-out, it was one of the most intimate shows I'd been to in a long time, and looking around and seeing the rest of the crowd completely mesmerized by Lanegan's set, I knew I was not alone.

-C. Young
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