Justin Townes Earle Proves to be “A Hard Dog to Keep Under the Porch” at the Great American Music Hall…

Camera phone cameras rule because that was all I had...photo by HFC

Justin Townes Earle undoubtedly strikes an immediate presence on stage at 6’ 5” tall, lean and boyishly handsome, with an easy charm and a devilish twinkle in his eyes. But what is also clear from seeing him play to a near sell-out crowd at San Francisco’s Great American Music Hall on Tuesday night, is that in addition to all that natural charisma, he is a serious songwriter on par with his more famous namesakes.  The near two-hour set drew from his entire three-album catalog, with a few well-chosen covers.  Performing alongside an electric fiddle player and upright bassist, this stripped-down approach to his songs put the focus on his expressive voice and keen lyrical sensibility. Songs like, “Slipin & Slidin”, “Hard Livin”, “Mama’s Eyes” and “Christchurch Woman” (dedicated to and inspired by the recently earthquake stricken New Zealand city) speak to an honesty and truth deep inside him. Some of these songs can make you feel things you don’t want to feel and might be a little bit afraid to sit with. What was truly remarkable to watch was how engaging and dynamic a performer he can be. Most performers won’t hold your stare or look beyond the crowd gathered before them, but Earle seems to want to make sure you understand what he’s singing about, that you get it. Like his father Steve Earle and godfather Townes Van Zandt (from whom he gets his middle name) he has the ability to distill feelings into the simplest of terms.

JTE tellin' you straight...photo by HFC

At only 29 years old he has lived a hard life few of us can imagine, let alone identify with, a topic he doesn’t shy away from addressing on stage. The intros to his songs often contained biting remarks directed toward his father or explicit detailing of his battles with drugs and alcohol.  However, this was tempered by a sense of humor and humility about those very same things. He seems to have accumulated the wisdom of a man twice his age, a wisdom that is chronicled in his songs but often defied in his personal life. I don’t want to characterize his set as a purely reflectional, soul-searching experience. In fact, the set varied from the shuffle of “Ain’t Waitin” and “Move Over Mama” to the bluegrass trad-country of “They Killed John Henry”, “Wanderin”, and “Boy Keep Movin”. Earle played solo for a few songs, which included a “Houston blues” he relayed Townes Van Zandt deemed essential to any set. This song highlighted how gifted a guitar player he is, as he walked the stage lost in the beauty of the notes emanating from his six string.

Haunted by ghosts...photo by RLC

 The set closed with truly imaginative re-workings of “Midnight at the Movies” and “Harlem River Blues”. These songs were well suited to the more stark arrangements inflecting the former with understated elegance and stripping away the latter to its gospel core. The encore featured a commanding rendition of Bruce Springsteen’s “Racing in the Streets” off Darkness on the Edge of Town. Like Springsteen, Earle writes songs that put you in situations that you aren’t brave enough to put yourself in, but through them you get a glimpse of what it might look like for you if you were. He closed the show with another incisive and enigmatic songwriter Paul Westerberg’s, “Can’t hardly Wait”. Earle had something of a hit with the song a couple years back. There is no doubt that Justin Townes Earle will one day have his songs covered with the same reverence as his father and godfather’s songs have inspired. Already at work writing new album Earle seems to be following the advice his grandmother gave him when she told him to, “Just keep going.”

A Review of More Than Free Energy/The Postelles/A B & the Sea @ The Independent...

This is what RAWK should look like...photo by Mike Manson

I hate writing live reviews because my overwhelming sense is that I come off sounding like some self-appointed, taste-making blowhard.  The band did this and played that and you should have been there, or, it was a a complete waste of electricity, time, pot, alcohol, and pills.  They were transcendent or suffered from buzzy expectations that were impossibly inflated by jerk-offs like me, who prattle on endlessly about each new band as if they were the answer to prayers that never need to be heard by any deity worth his impossibly inflated status in the human imagination.  Just words pixelated on a web page to be agreed with or differed or derided but never truly necessary.

Scott Wells casting his line... by Mike Manson

What was necessary was the feeling all three bands playing San Francisco's Independent on January 27th created and put out into the Rawk n Roll universe.  Headliner Free Energy, from Philadelphia, are on tour doing one last North American victory lap for one of 2010's "FUNEST" records Free Energy, before returning to the studio to record a follow-up.  This band gets what it means to be young, free, and seem to truly value the opportunity to play their songs in front of an audience.  To call them infectious is an understatement and I always love the way they can transport me back to a time I was barely even old enough to feel nostalgic about.  Let me tell you, there is NO app for making a person feel that way.  And, searching YouTube videos with a detached reverence in the service of seeking ironic throughlines to your generation's "Cheap Trick", that won't cut it either.  Free Energy get this and go for it, mustaches and all!!  Their songs have BIG hooks that can reel in the biggest hipster marlin on stage before an AC/DC-worthy riff clubs them over the head.  There should be a photo of the band proudly displaying the day's catch, holding some skinny-jeaned, colored Ray Ban wearing, iPhone-documenting hipster upside down by his ankles.  Free Energy are the great fisherman of our time and I was happy to be gutted and filleted and tossed on ice with the rest of "iGeneration".

The Postelles embrace Motown and haberdashery...photo by Mike Manson

NYC's, The Postelles, played a Motown inspired - which seemed inspired by Elvis Costello's Motown inspired album Get Happy - set that was polished and delivered with a dash of self-awareness.  Their songs are extremely consistent and seem destined to provide a soundtrack for young girls who find waify guys that consciously avoid eye contact and fiddle nervously with hats from another era on the top of their soon to be balding heads attractive.  That is not meant to sound snarky, just a reminder that time marches on quickly and being fairly unoriginal in both thought and actions is a precious waste of youthful indiscretion.  Advice to the males in attendance?  Stop being so precious and SACK UP!  These girls want to dance and get laid, not watch you putzing around with gizmos and texting with the people who aren't there with you.

The A B & the Sea...photo by Mike Manson

They grow up so fast...photo by Robert Celli Jr.

Opener, A B and the Sea from San 

Francisco, were joined on stage by another local band The She's.  The nine people on stage age's barely cracked the century mark but played well beyond their years.  This was both impressive and disappointing.  Impressive in that I don't remember bands having the type of equipment and chops that were on display when I was their age.  Disappointing in that I don't remember bands feeling the need to seem so much older and professional and blase at an age when you should be giving your energy away for FREE- to anyone really, like a shotgun blast of naiveté and not giving a FUCK!  It's hard to complain about the sound, which was dialed in and the songwriting was impressive, but it felt a little soulless.

So there is a kind of review of sorts.

Paul Sprangers knows how to work it...photo by Robert Celli Jr.

   

Alicia Witt at Room 5

When Alicia Witt sings, the heavens themselves stop and listen. On a cold evening in Los Angeles Saturday night, December 12, a rare downpour that washed the city all day took a break from raining as Witt performed her tight 45 minute set at Room 5 on La Brea. A well known movie and TV actress, Witt performs as part of a trio, seated stage right at a piano while accompanied by Alisha Bauer on cello and Kaumyar Delkash on drums. Aside from one shout out to members of the crowd who are also working on her current film, there is no pretense or showiness coming from Witt. Using concise, informative patter between songs and flashing a genuine, radiant smile, Alicia lets her music do the talking instead of her celebrity. And what a voice. It comes from tender, intimate appeals, soaring to roof raising heights, as she all the while works the piano with an ease and command that, in her own words, is like her "weekly cardio workout." She promised to let the audience rock before our holiday parties, and in some tunes, the band takes off and she really lets her inner Pat Benatar out, especially in her self-described "female power song" and her "creepy cover song." But where Witt really excels is in her ballads, personal and universal poems of love, longing, and everyday girl issues. Her lyrics flow with a poetic polish, and her piano playing rivals that of rockers Billy Joel or Elton John. Do yourself the favor and catch her next time she is in LA or in her love/hate town of New York. You can download Alicia Witt's eponymous EP of songs from iTunes.

"ROCK BOTTOM: ROCK'S MOST OVERRATED ACTS" by Elvis Zimmerman Lennon Jr.

Every month I will present the readers of "What Duvet Said..." with my selections for the most overrated musical acts/performers. The rationale is laid out and the case made, as simply and obviously as possible. I challenge you, to challenge me. Make a case for taking somebody off the list. If it is a compelling enough argument-or even amusing-I'll remove them from the list. Arguments can be made by clicking on the "Comment" button below the post.

-Beach Boys- Aside from "Be True To Your School" their lyrics are ridiculous. And in the adding-insult-to-injury column, ripping off Chuck Berry to write a song about surfing is just plain wrong.





-Nine Inch Nails - Nothing screams "Ohio" quite like a 40-year-old Goth. At his age he really shouldn't care how many people think he's cool.






-Dave Matthews (John Mayer, Jack Johnson)- Not a fan of dorm-rock. Hiked up acoustic guitar, funky-ish rhythms, and choked vocals can't make up for a lack of soul.





-Eric Clapton - Being the greatest blues guitarist from England is a dubious distinction at best. Kind of like being the greatest German rapper. Or the greatest Russian disco dancer.






-Red Hot Chili Peppers - The immenseness of any of their grooves is immediately neutralized the moment that dude starts "rapping". Case in point: "I know, I know for sho', ding-dang-dong-dong-ding-dang-dong-dong-ding-dang." What the fuck is that shit?





-Beastie Boys- Y'all. Seriously, can you name one of their rhymes that's really that good? Me neither. Further, I can't shake the creepy feeling that at least one of those dudes is a closet Republican..

-------
Weekly: Dengue Fever - Like a bad karaoke night at my sister's house. 2 parts indie rock, 1 part world music. That even looks bad on paper.

Haikiew (TM)....Titus Andronicus @ The Hemlock Tavern, San Francisco 10/27/08

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Jersey dream, shipwreck.

Carnival swirl fills the air,

fulfilling promise.

This Month's Featured Review: Crystal Antlers EP

Recently signed to seminal indie label Touch and Go; Long Beach’s Crystal Antlers might be poised to break out in ‘09. Their October 7th self-titled EP release is a tightly wound experiment in melding no wave, hardcore, and psychedelia. Producer Ikie Owens (keyboardist for the Mars Volta) gives these songs lots echoey vim by mixing the cacophonous angst of Sonic Youth, the swirling art-rock of Jane’s Addiction, Black Flag’s harrowing intensity and the addled danger of 13th Floor Elevators.

Crystal Antlers is a maelstrom of feedback, strangled vocals and orchestrated chaos. Jonny Bell’s vocals growl and shriek through any number of effects and filters, which dissipate into the overall mix. His delivery is all fire and brimstone, belying a more melodic tone he only hints at occasionally on this record. Opener “Until the Sun Dies: Part 2” showcases some vocal range, allowing for a more dynamic soundscape. The best songs on the EP, like the seven minute “Parting Song For the Torn Sky”, allow the organs to create a sonic expanse. Drummer Kevin Stuart’s artful use of half-time signatures on a couple of the tracks reveals some jazz chops. A nice twist to Crystal Antlers sound is the added percussion delivered by Damian Edwards. His contribution to the mayhem provides some interesting texture to the songs. The EP can best be encapsulated as a frenzied freak out with artistic pretensions. Often the best riffs on the Crystal Antlers EP get cut off right at the point of being established. Andrew King’s guitar work anchors the sound firmly in the psych-rock realm. But unlike other guitar players in this genre he shies away from embracing the riff. This can be frustrating for the listener; it seems reactionary, as if this is what injects the “art” into the compositions. The mosaic created by the Crystal Antlers is a composite of shards of glass sharp enough to cut you, held in place by cement rough enough to scrape you. It will be interesting to watch which, if any, of the rough edges will be smoothed out on an upcoming full-length release.

Crystal Antlers have emerged out of the LA art collective The Smell - a club/art space of renown in Downtown LA - along with contemporaries No Age and Abe Vigoda. All these bands share a similar aesthetic, a kind of disjointed and angular approach to songwriting. These bands seem to suffer from musical ADD. A typical example of this is on the track “Vexation”, a punishing bombardment of pulverizing drums and blaring organs. But in service of what? The song blasts out of the speakers like a shotgun, but like a shotgun it sprays pellets everywhere with little or no accuracy. This is a fine effect maybe but not compelling enough to revisit on song after song. The upside for the Crystal Antlers is that there is no shortage of musical ideas on this EP. The question becomes will they have the patience and restraint to explore some of those ideas at length?

Haikiew (TM)...My Bloody Valentine @ The Concourse Exhibition Center 9/30/08

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Loveless squall returns,

stentorian assault made

stunned silent walk.

Two Ways Out, Indeed…Darker My Love Grab at the Brass Ring.

Down the street from my house there is a breakfast place called Mama's. Everyday I pass the restaurant and the line out front stretching down the block. And everyday, as I pass the line comprised mostly of guidebook-clutching tourists and yuppies (who love waiting in line for things more than anything else in the world), I ask myself the same question, "It's just eggs right?"

What does this have to do with Darker My Love and their record release party at the Independent Tuesday night? Over the last few months there has been a big push by both their label, Dangerbird Records (home to 2006's surprise breakout Silversun Pickups) and local promoting behemoth Another Planet Entertainment, in the run up to their sophomore release "2". After completing a month long "West Coast Residency" of free shows at hipster clubs (the Echo, Popscene, etc.) in both Los Angeles and San Francisco, Darker My Love emerged onto a stage lined with photographers. As I listened to the feedback slowly giving way to a pounding psychedelic riff, I found myself asking, "It's just a rock and roll band, right?"

DML’s sound has always drawn heavily from late sixties psychedelia and early nineties shoegaze. They, along with Wooden Shjips, The Black Angels, the Warlocks, and Brian Jonestown Massacre, are part of decade long revival to bring back that retro drone. DML were formed in 2004 and its members hail from both LA and SF. They have built up strong local followings in both cities, signing with LA based Dangerbird Records in 2006. Tuesday night’s material drew heavily from the new album “2” and their self-titled debut.

In an interesting marketing ploy, a copy of “2” was given out free to those that purchased a ticket to the record release. I see this as an attempt to energize the hardcore base of the band. By giving local scenesters and tastemakers “free” music, the hope is that they in turn will go forth and evangelize on behalf of Darker My Love. The 2/3rds capacity crowd gathered at the Independent were primed.

Darker My Love seems to suffer from a split personality. On one side they are confident purveyors of wah inspired, freak out jams, however; they seem less comfortable negotiating the tighter structure of the pop leanings on the new record “2”. Live, you can get away with less polish on the longer, jam-oriented pieces. Grooves emerge out of the rubble of constructing and deconstructing the three chord patterns laid down by Tim Presley (Guitar/Vocals), Jared Everett (Guitar), and Rob Barbato (Bass/Vocals). But the more tightly written and hooky compositions require a tightness that was not quite there.

That’s not to say there wasn’t moments of trancendence. The band, anchored by Barbato’s rich, round bass parts, hit you in the hips. I’m sure this is one reason why there were so many women in attendence. DML’s songs contain a sexual undercurrent that leaks out of the fuzz. Songs build, then release. On the popier songs, like the single Two Ways Out, airy vocals take over. Presley and Barbato sing very well together, hitting a nice, easy harmony. Two Ways Out has the potential to be a huge hit. It’s simple, infectious, and you can dance to it. It’s the kind of song that will undoubtedly surface in a commercial.

One pet peeve I have with DML in the live setting is how under utilized Will Canzoneri: (organ, clavinet) is, his playing buried in the mix. I’ve seen too many bands that have organ players relegated to atmospheric filler, rather providing another layer of texture to the music. If you’re going to lug a vintage organ onto the stage and mic it, let me hear it!

Visually, the band employed a huge backdrop with images projected onto it. They were severly reminscent of the late sixties. The ink blotter designs replaced by digital images achieving the same effect. The band members themselves, in appearance, embody the split-personality character inherent in their music. Half the band look like they were cast in a mid-sixties mod tribute. The other half sport the bearded visage du jour, the latest trend in indie rock. Which in itself is a wink and nod to the seventies. All these elements work to produce a simulacra of a band out of time.

Time will tell if “2” is the record that will make Darker My Love a household name. I think the band will benefit from the intensive touring breaking an album will entail. The buzz generated by label, publicist, and promoter with the new release will subside and then the hard work of converting those that the press attracts, one town at a time, begins. Maybe one day a line will be stretching down the block outside the Independent for Darker My Love. If you find yourself in it, you might want to ask yourself, what it is your waiting in line for?

Rebirth Brass Band breathe life into North Beach at Mojito on 6/15/08

As I descended down Grant Ave from Telegraph Hill, I could see the nighttime skyline shrouded in fog. The clamor earlier in the day comprised of the odd mingling of muffled music from Washington Square Park and the hollered enthusiasm of twenty-something’s hosting parties in apartments through out North Beach. Gone were the thousands, who just hours before, were weaving their way through the North Beach Fair below. It was Sunday night and save for the walking dead gathered in front of the now tomb-like clubs on Grant Ave, there was a pall in the air. The North Beach Fair was dead, at least for another year. So it was only fitting that the remaining diehards still celebrating should have a proper send off.

New Orleans' Rebirth Brass Band led the second line from inside Mojito. Billed as "secret show" by Sunset Promotions, whose president is owner and booker for Mojito, capped the previous two night's sold out performances at SF's The Independent. The Rebirth Brass Band spelled the death shudder of the North Beach Fair, replacing it with a life-affirming hybrid of jazz, funk, and soul. The nine piece brass and acoustic drum ensemble tore through a 2hr plus show.

Tuba player Philip Frazier founded rebirth in 1982 along with his brother Keith Frazier and others from the New Orleans neighborhood of Treme. That same year they would play the New Orleans Jazz Festival and would emerge as one of the (along with the Dirty Dozen Brass Band) preeminent practitioners of a style of music called "second line". Second line has its origins in New Orleans’s funeral processions, where the dead are celebrated in music and dance as the procession makes it way through the streets. Sunday night's show at Mojito was a perfect venue for a band that still plays a regular Tuesday night gig at a similar size venue in New Orleans, the Maple Leaf Bar.

Rebirth Brass Band's sound can best be described as joyous. The aural bouillabaisse is at once reminiscent of James Brown, Louis Armstrong, Miles Davis,and Nas. There are elements of Hip-Hop in Rebirth's sound but more in a periphery nod. This is "Roots" music that grows deep in Bayou Country. Frazier's tuba playing teamed with Derek "Big Sexy" Tabb's dexterous snare work make it impossible to stand still. The horn section weaves Dixieland melodies and free jazz, coalescing into tight Parliamentesque staccato punctuations. Rebirth Brass Band are clearly adept at throwing a party and do so by example. The end result is an undeniably infectious groove.

Initially, it looked like this "funeral" might be poorly attended. But by the middle of their first song, the audience had filed in off the street, gathering in tight around the band. Judging from some of the "dancing" on display several exorcisms were taking place simultaneously. An inventive re-working of Fats Domino's "I'm Walking" sent the audience into a frenzy. As I waited in line to use the bathroom (where even there, dancing was mandatory), a "relieved" attendee crouch skipped up to me. "This is what New Orleans sounds like!” he shouted, continuing his slouch dance and disappearing in to the crowd. I left Mojito with the trumpet blare now fading in the fog. The neighborhood that seemed to have flat lined on my descent, was now pulsing once again.