Chris Knox
@
Tonic
September 24, 2000
New York, NY

Links:
Chris Knox

But don't go cozying up your chair to catch pearls of wisdom from Knox. Onstage, he is also unpredictable enough to make you a little uneasy (something tonight's hip, downtown crowd probably needed). When he spies a friend heading for the exits, he screams violently at him, only to find that he was simply taking his date to a cab. Later, towards the end of the show, with his drum machine going, he chides the crowd to dance: "Give me something. The bald fuck in the second row gave me a beer...the rest of you gave me fuck-all but a few titters. I need more than that." But I guess that's really the point of Chris Knox. You certainly don't come for his musicianship: his primitive guitar ability makes Lou Reed look like Dickey Betts. What you come for is the "Chris Knox experience," which includes one guy, his oddly shaped guitar, Madonna-like headset, drum loops and a whole lot of banter.

In between antics, Chris threw in a lot of tunes from his most recent album, Beat (Thirsty Ear Records), a collection of twisted bubblegum folk and fuzzed-up weirdo pop that, oddly enough, may be one of the smartest "feel-good" albums of the year. Knox never sacrifices irony for sincerity, and conversely his sentimentalism is threaded with the proper amount of venom. This was the second of two shows that night at Tonic, on New York's Lower East Side. Fittingly, Chris cracked a few jokes and then started off with "Pulse Below the Ear," a song about his father dying. It takes a moment to adjust to his low-key sonics--many songs consist of him sort of thrumming a couple of strings, his offbeat vocals dominating the sound. Later, he'll step on the fuzzbox and offer some Black Sabbath-worthy power chords (even casting some as a tribute to Tony Iommi) and his trusty drum beats; but many of tonight's songs live in a minimalist space. Knox doesn't vary his sound much from solo album to solo album, but it's noteworthy (and becomes even more apparent during the show) that his latest album contains some of his best songs ever. The sweet oddball melodies of "It's Love" and "What Do We with Love?" are so perfect that you wonder why they weren't written years ago. The upbeat "Hell of It," with its infectious drum loop, is downright danceable. "Denial Song" and "Everyone's Cool" rock as hard as anything hatched in the basement on a four-track could.

Nevertheless, I almost came away from the performance less than satisfied...that is, "almost." The perfect moment in the show came at the end, when Chris brought an audience member out of the audience to play guitar. After several failed attempts to get some young record company woman onstage, a young, large, studious-looking guy with generous sideburns volunteered. With the kid chugging away like the Velvet Underground's Sterling Morrison and Chris running amok and singing in the audience, a whole new life was breathed into the show. In fact, Knox eventually gave over vocals to an audience member as well. So it seems that zany Professor Knox actually had a lesson prepared today, and he wasn't going to spoon-feed you--if you weren't really thinking about it, you might have missed it. Knox, one of the spiritual fathers of DIY, seemed to simply say (without saying it), "I did it. Now why don't you?" Class dismissed.

-Erik Hage
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Links:
Deadbolt
Cookie
RC5

First up, RC5 (for "Rob Clark 5," formed by Rob from Zipgun) played a promising show of gnarly rock 'n' roll, mixing the Ramones with New York Dolls. RC5 is a band to keep an eye on. We finally had one stool pigeon stand in the bar line to fetch the group a cheap beer. When Cookie came onstage, the crowd seemed to swell to massive proportions for the stunning redhead wearing a very filled black leather vest. She started out by singing cabaret while the bubble machine was spewing forth many tiny bubbles. As her song was ending, the lights dimmed to bring on the upcoming explosions bringing out the rest of the band. These explosions would periodically go off during the show. If the guys thought that the vest swelled to exotic proportions they only needed to wait until she took it off and sported a rather small black leather bra to the raucous catcalls from the drunkards. As for Cookie's music, I was left waiting for it to hit me. It was loud and fast, but did not excite me to any higher forms of wanting more. Fun, entertainment, new punk but...

As Deadbolt were finally making their way to the stage, most of the crowd moved on to better things to do tonight and split pronto. Deadbolt, in their mean-ass looks and shades, proceeded to liven the remaining crowd with insults and requests for drinks and smokes, all of which the crowd was more than willing to help them out with. Deadbolt play simply the scariest garage surf this side of some Southern California fault line. Juicing it up, the killing spree lyrics froth out of Harley's mouth with the gravel of sandpaper to the side of one's face. Deadbolt are thugs not to be reckoned with. With their slowly pounding monotones blackening the scene in front of you, they form the image of a slow, painful death. Having never seen or heard Deadbolt, I was impressed by their performance. I would say that they probably did not play the tightest set ever, but they sure could belt out the groovy tunes.

-Steve Weatherholt
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Links:
Floater
Cartoon Boyfriend

What I did not expect was the brass and showmanship of Cartoon Boyfriend. Three colorful musicians messed with their equipment for 15 minutes, and it seemed as if some poise might be lost from the onset. The set began with Devo-ish choreography, as they sang robot style to an early '80s OMD-like dance track. This idea did not bode well with the metal crowd, who cleared the bar before the end of the first song...before the band were even able to pick up their instruments. Undaunted, the trio slipped into their weapons, and into the imagination of the handful of us still watching. Here was what appeared to be David Bowie on guitar, Ad-Rock on bass and Sid Vicious behind the kit. Without blinking an eye at the exodus, they ripped smiling into a rocker about stealing cop cars, all three of them singing and rapping. The songs to follow ranged from rap to arena rock to pure '80s punk and pop. They even threw in a hip-hop version of Garth Brooks' "Friends in Low Places," with the drummer coming out front to sing lead while the others played along with the dance track. I was amazed at how freely they mixed genres and left the music to their soundman as they took turns as lead singer, and I was even more impressed that they played the show full-throttle to five people. Cartoon Boyfriend proved true entertainers proficient at smart, dynamic pop.

As often is the case, the opener's music proved a strange counter pull to Floater's heavy psychedelia. The band was in good spirits, and met the desirous crowd with warm enthusiasm, playing several aggressive classics such as "American Theatric," "Kill the Girl" and "The Sad Ballad of Danny Boy." A song off of the forthcoming album was also performed: "King Rabbit," a furious punk-infused tune that shows Floater expanding their sound again to a much higher energy than the bulk of their catalog. The dreamy "Medicine Woman" soon followed, where the audience gleefully watched them change the surf rock-influenced riff into a reggae expansion for several minutes, wherein bassist Rob Wynia revealed a curious influence as he covered the Police's "Canary in a Coalmine." The influences continued to bare themselves later as the extended jam on "Settling" contained the oedipal "walked on down the hall" segment from the Doors' "The End." Floater's light effects were particularly good this time around, continually teaming with a steady fog to create spellbinding silhouettes out of Wynia and guitarist Dave Amador's forms. Pete Cornett's frame was mostly indiscernible during these long moments, but his marvelous chops certainly were not. After receiving word that their show would be cut unduly short and that they could play one more song, Floater switched into high gear and played the most aggressive and elaborate version of "Clean Plastic Baby" I've ever heard. It was charged by the injustice of the moment, and the excess of juice Floater still had and wanted to release. Even though the circumstances affecting it stank, it was gratifying to see Floater riled up and inspired to defiantly take a nine-minute song into the 15-minute range. Perhaps a better ending than they could have planned.

-Al Cordray
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Hedningarna
@
Nordic Heritage Museum
September 29, 2000
Seattle, WA

Links:
Hedningarna

Hedningarna don't really fit into a niche; their music is strongly rooted in ancient Swedish and Finnish folk, yet fully modern. Seamlessly combining hurdy-gurdy, fiddle, nyckelharpa and accordion with programmed drum loops and distortion pedals, they create tunes that qualify as traditionally modern and futuristically ancient--and fully their own.

Beginning with a new tune, they gave novice fans--many of whom had heard enough of one or two tunes on NPR to be intrigued--a taste of what was to come as Anders Norudde took an extended solo. The astonishing combination of rapid arpeggios and sustained and bent notes was worthy of comparison to Stevie Ray Vaughan--except he played it on a small Swedish bagpipe instead of a guitar. Such a juxtaposition of folk and rock should be enough to make anyone reconsider the simplistic use of the term "world music" to describe this band. Through two sets and an encore ranging from their earliest recordings to as-yet-unrecorded, they entranced and transported listeners: Björn Tollin's drumming and foot-triggered samples provided the underlying thump while Hållbus Totte Mattsson layered accordion, hurdy-gurdy or mandolin atop, and Magnus Stinnerbum bounced his fiddle playing from rhythm to melody to electronically-lowered bass. Songs ebbed and flowed, energized and relaxed, as they grew from sparsely instrumented to densely layered. Above and throughout, the voices of Anita Lehtola and Lisa Matveinen soared, swooped, intertwined and diverged, holding us spellbound as their vocals provoked the same question as the instruments: "How do they make such amazing sounds?"

It's a distinct possibility that Hedningarna would be even more powerful live if they had more of a club environment to play in. The seated auditorium environment given standard to "folk" acts doesn't allow much energy to reach performers during songs, and with their already high energy level, mutual feedback could lift them to new heights.

-Paul Goracke
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Neil Young/The Pretenders/Tegan and Sara
@
The Gorge Amphitheater
September 9, 2000
Seattle, WA

Links:
Neil Young

First, The Gorge. You can't really do a show review without describing it. Hands down the most beautiful outdoor venue in the States, easily blowing away Red Rocks in Colorado. The stage is located on a cliff that overlooks the Columbia River cutting through the valley below. The sun sets in front of your eyes and, on this somewhat clear, warm summer evening, it set to the opening act of Tegan and Sara, who sounded like a cheap rip-off of Ani DiFranco. By nightfall, The Pretenders were on stage with Chrissie Hynde opening her show with Neil's "The Needle and the Damage Done" and closing it with yet another Young song, "The Loner." Her infatuation and tribute was accentuated with her kissing the stage and repeatedly mentioning the fact that she couldn't believe she was sharing it with Neil Young.

By the time Neil opened up with "Motorcycle Mama," the moon was coming up and the comment "I'm too stoned" was coming out of every 50-year old lawyer's mouth. In fact, I couldn't help notice how many times I heard that, and the phrase "Wow, what a maze this place is!" (which it was not for us non-stoners). They probably were even more lost in their minds when he played an extended, tripped-out version of "Tonight's the Night."

Backed on vocals by his sister, Astrid Young, and wife Pegi Young, Neil was accompanied musically by a full band, and performed a mix of acoustic and electric songs, sometimes struttin' his stuff on the piano. An overall quiet and mellow show, songs like "Buffalo Springfield Again," "Daddy Went Walkin" (which he dedicated to his father) and "Razor Love" from his latest album, Silver and Gold, were (talent-wise) indistinguishable from his 1970s "Old Man," a song he mentioned he wrote about a ranch-hand on his California property, or from the other classic, "Harvest."

The night ended with a rendition of "All Along the Watchtower" (a legend playing a legendary song…wow!) and "Mellow My Mind," without any of the flashy costume changes one would expect from those other 1960s greatest hits tours. Nope, just the signature Neil with his faded jeans, Route 66 t-shirt, Converse high tops, simple guitar and that always comfortably, out of tune, down-home voice…all things that make this man the legend that he still is and always will be.

-Edna Gonzalez
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Richard Buckner
@
Mercury Lounge
September 19, 2000
New York, NY

Links:
Richard Buckner

Enter tropical depression Gordon, bringing hard rains and a general pall over New York City, and you have the perfect atmosphere for Buckner to drag his paradoxical, road-weary self into town. He's at a strange yet compelling point in his career. After the furor over his debut album, Bloomed, he gained a two-album deal with MCA, turned out two critically acclaimed yet poorly selling albums, and then parted ways with the label. So what does he do next? He continues to tour incessantly, driving himself, his guitars and a trunk of his CDs all over North America. (I've seen him four times at the Mercury Lounge in just the past year.) When not on the road, he holes up in his new adopted home--Edmonton, Alberta, a far cry from his old digs in San Francisco. Somewhere in between all of this, he self-records a new album, The Hill, on an eight-track he received in his bitter parting with MCA Records. On this project, the usual suspects are in place: Joey Burns and John Convertino (Giant Sand and Calexico) and producer J.D. Foster. But here's the hook: All of the lyrics are taken from early 20th-century American poet Edgar Lee Masters' Spoon River Anthology. (Ladies and gentlemen, in these post-literate years, with the mainstream saturated by whiny, Ritalin-fueled quasi-metal, you may be witnessing the new punk rock.)

For this Mercury Lounge show, he brought along talented multi-instrumentalist Eric Heywood (Son Volt, Joe Henry, Jayhawks), whose guitar, weeping strains of pedal steel and sprinklings of electric mandolin anchored things perfectly. Sometimes Richard can dig a bit too deep in his belly to gather up that "husk" in his voice, but tonight, seated with his guitar in his lap, he simply seemed to lean over the mic and pour himself in. He started the show with several tracks from the new CD, and darn if the Spoon River stuff doesn't work. In the poems, the dead in an Illinois graveyard recount the details of their lives; and the poetry blends perfectly with Buckner's deep, tragic roots music. In fact, at first I thought the words from "Eliza Childress" were Buckner's own. (They sure sound like him: "Dust of my Dust / And dust with my dust... / It is well my child / For you never traveled.") After the initial shot of new stuff, fans called out for favorites and Richard delivered tracks such as "Blue and Wonder" from (the recently re-released) Bloomed and "Goodbye Rye" from Devotion and Doubt. But the centerpiece of any Richard Buckner show is "Lil Wallet Picture" (from Devotion and Doubt). It elicits the most claps and whoops of gratitude and recognition. It also establishes two things you need to know: 1) Richard Buckner is a great poet, a lyricist in the heady tradition of Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt and Lucinda Williams. 2) In Buckner's songs, memory is never a mild act of reflection, but an actual "re-membering," that is, an attempt to piece back together the dismembered parts of a painful past: "Underspent and too young, too / I stumbled onto a picture of you / You wild bitter tale, all cherry oak and tears... / The ditches are flooded over the back roads / And damn, that stretch of 99 that takes so many lives / One of them was mine / Hand me that lil wallet picture from 1985, one more time."

Another Richard Buckner paradox is his personality: he's a downright upbeat, friendly guy. In his songs, he's possessed by some brooding ancient Appalachian spirit. But before the show, you'll find him milling around the bar chatting with fans and industry people alike, speaking in affable exclamation points. I talked to him before the show about the new album, and asked him if I could take some photos during his set. "Sure!" he said, "Absolutely!" When we parted, him hauling his six-three, bearish frame toward the stage, he said, "It was really great talking to you!" But when hunkering down into his songs, his eyes close and, alternating between a deep, husky whisper and high smooth baritone, he unravels his imagery rooted in figures, flames, the moon and whiskey. The audience remains rapt, eyes shining (or closed, as they try to shut themselves off from everything but the words and music). In those quiet moments during the verses you can hear the slightest cough or scuffle of feet. And then, finally, the spell is broken and Richard and Eric Heywood raise a shot of whiskey to each other and the audience. After the show, as Richard sells CDs from his trunk and laughs and talks with each fan, I thank him for a another great show. "Yeah!" he says, "That was a lot of fun! I had some oysters tonight and they really revved me up!"

-Erik Hage
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Rorschach Test/Bile/Snake River Conspiracy
@
Catwalk Club
September 12, 2000
Seattle, WA

Links:
Rorschach Test
Bile
Snake River Conspiracy

Craig: "Hey, Steve. Who is that sword-wielding dominatrix on television?"

Steve: "Xena, Warrior Princess."

Craig: "Right. Well, that pretty much sums up Snake River Conspiracy for me."

Well, SRC are a nu-metal act that is fronted by a Xena-type gal slithering to metal, melodic bridges and some chunky parts and Jason from Third Eye Blind. Nothing very innovative by my standards. Xena sure had the testosterone-laden male up front pumped up. This shit even got a mosh pit going. Come on, give us a break. This is the style of band that some A.R. rep is pushing to their bosses: "Please sir, I need the money for a large tour bus."

As the fog machine was spewing out its guts, four men in glow-in-the-dark paint proceeded to slowly rip our eyes out with meat hooks. I'm speaking of the NY band Bile, who have the Island's second-best keyboardist playing bass for them. Bile are an industrialmetaltechnosludge pit from the depths of NY's sewage system. Four members coat the back of your cranium with sodium azide. I have listened to this band's records and they seem to be a little flat, but performing a live set is a completely different matter. Bile punishes you dearly, not giving the audience a chance to take their last gasp of breath before plunging them into sonic hell. I would dare to say they would be a match for (or at least split the bill with) Ministry.

Rorschach Test were last up after finding out N17 were not playing. I have not seen them for about six years. The show I saw earlier was a lot of fun. Rorschach Test did not let the crowd down, performing songs from their new album, pumping out their brand of industrial metal, thumping with the whirling mass of bodies at the front. Rhythmically pulsating, their metal power intertwined industrial into a tight few songs and I envision that these guys are on the cusp of becoming big.

-Steve Weatherholt
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Third Grade Teacher/Fireants/The Immortals
@
Sacred Grounds
September 1, 2000
San Pedro, CA

Links:
Third Grade Teacher
The Fireants

Their punk is tight and magnetic. The guitar searches the surf riff along backroads and seedy apartment corridors, as well as down the shimmering waves of nearby beaches. Howe smacks the lyrics across in swift abuse on songs titled "Dang Disturbed," "Satan Rules Rock 'n' Roll" and "Dive Bomber." The chess players hold onto their coffee and forget whose move it was under the battery. The music bodes well in contrast to the laid-back java-joint/art gallery, and 30 furious minutes evaporate as The Immortals leave a thick energy lingering on the short stage.

Eric's seen the Fireants, and he's confused that singer Skie Bender is doubling up on bass. "I don't think this is the same band I saw a few years ago." Their drummer hits hard. You have to appreciate a guy who pounds the skins like this within what opens up as strangely timed art-rock. Bender's countenance and posture are low out of the gate, but she quickly perks up to stare unapologetically into the crowd as she disses false clarity and gravity. She is a tornado of grief and pure expression. As she screams through a megaphone into the mic, Eric leans over: "Yeah, she is definitely the same singer as before." Picked up the bass--you gotta appreciate that, too. Guitarist Kevin Jacobs plays some smart quirky sounds, and has obviously tinkered with the songs for a long time. While watching, I look down to jot a quick note on the cover of a local rag, only to find Bender looking directly at me when my eyes return to the stage. It's as if she's making a public example of my lapse of attention. "Plastic surgery, when it's not reconstructive, is ethnic cleansing of society," she simmers then screams, stabbing it into me several times over. Then, having forgiven me, she turns back to the rest to exclaim, "The future will repeat itself." I'm thoroughly confronted...and impressed.

The buzz about Third Grade Teacher is that frontwoman Sabrina Stevenson is an honest-to-goodness instructor of nine-year olds. She and bassist Laura Smith pop up on stage in Catholic schoolgirl uniforms, while guitarist David Guerrero and drummer Josh Baldwin wander up to the stage shirted and tied. Great, I thought, a gimmick band following the mighty Fireants. They skated through a happy-go-lucky bubblegum song to open, but put it across with such girly pop panache that it served as a subjective omen of what was to come. Two songs into the set, Guerrero was pounding his guitar fiercely and Stevenson was doubled over screaming headlong into an unsuspecting mic...half schizo grade school teacher, half-jaded grade school attendee. Girl pop took a grungy, power rock turn for the worse (for the better), and the Freudian impact churned within the stew on "I double dare you" headbangers like "School Boy." The song structures were intricate, and intelligently geared for Stevenson's arousing lunacy. The show came to an amped crescendo as the band tore the end apart in monstrous fashion, with the 230-pound Guerrero sliding into third base (a monitor) on his knees in thrashing triumph. He remained on his knees, exhausted, through the congratulatory handshakes, slowly packing up his gear while there. It punctuated Third Grade Teacher's performance. Rock on.

Bizarre that this all transpired in a coffee house, but Sacred Grounds is a unique compact venue, and recommended.

-Al Cordray
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