Dick Sully

Upended Reason and the Christmas Season: An Evening of Carols with the Dallas Family Band

2010-12-31T10:45:00.001-06:00

Photo by Kelsey Foster

On the Sunday evening preceding Christmas, the Dallas Family Band hosted a carol sing at Murray Street Coffee and, meanwhile, solved a linguistic quandary. The word “folk” has started to irk me. Technically “folk” means “people” and says nothing specific save what its writer assumes readers’ minds will invoke. The possibilities are too numerous. Better to say precisely what kind of folk. The separate members of the creative, musical cooperative Dallas Family Band have, at different times, all been yoked under the genre's title. At Murray Street this past Sunday, their community gave me an armful of descriptors to precede it.

The Dallas Family Band are liberal folk, humored folk. I never tallied the exact number of guitars and strings and drums and noise-boxes. The instruments were numerous and migratory, given and received open-handed among members. Musicians arriving late were handed a guitar and seamlessly assimilated into the musical throng. Mistakes were made, inevitable in such a large group. Certain Christmas carols are fraught with syllabic complications and we, band and singers, found most of them. But all the inconsistently timed verse breaks and verbal flubs were absorbed in a swell of boundless mirth.

The Family Band are loving, hospitable, and loud folk. It was no performance, rather a participatory, band-lead carol sing-a-long. Nothing would grieve a regular Dallas Family Band member more than to refer to the collective in closed terms or to draw hard boundaries. The community exists only in the elusive, transpiring present, eternity’s gracious tangent. The Dallas Family Band consists of all players and any human within earshot who happens to hum a note, tap a worn shoe, clap against their thigh. This spirit of liberality manifests itself too in volume. The musicians emptied their lungs into the vaulted room without reservation, red-faced from the exertion and we, the conscripted choir, followed suit. Sadly, I have never sung in church with quite the abandon that I sang on that Sunday.

Photo by Kelsey Foster

The Dallas Family Band are storytelling folk, believing folk. They are evocative narrators, even with borrowed material from antiquity. You could almost feel the promising wind of Palestine, could picture the Family Band as minstrels, leading a trepid cluster of Magi to the toddler Jesus. You could picture the infant king playing at the breasts of his gracious mother. You could hear the low-caste sheep herders cowering before the time-shattering announcement of an incarnation. You could even imagine the Family Band fronting a march of zealous abolitionists with the hymn O Holy Night, loudly announcing their faith in and reason for the end of oppression. (I was surprised as well, but readers would do well to look up the third verse of the song. The historical link to the abolition movement, buttressed by Christmas themes amplify what is otherwise a too-familiar, seasonal tune.)

The Dallas Family Band took songs that had labored too long under childish sentimentality and recovered them as meaningful narratives. Christmas songs go stale as easily as the season’s baked wares. The weighty words are often lost among the garish advertisements and vapid self-interest that hold the holiday cruel hostage. Even the reaction to remember the season’s meaning is nothing but a clichéd rhyme. In Murray Street Coffee, a truer reclamation occurred. It was perhaps the best manifestation of what happens when musically gifted friends gather as surrogate brothers and sisters, daring and enticing a crowd to prolong their joyous strains.

...

The Beaten Sea have written an original Christmas Carol. The year has already revolved around to another beginning, but lend your support to the band anyway and buy this tune for a mere buck, memorize it, and sing it boldly in 359 days:

The Gathering Gloom in the Stable Room

Radio Moscow - Brain Cycles (2009)

2010-11-17T15:44:00.000-06:00

A congregant once queried the Sixteenth Century Reformer Martin Luther, "Herr Doctor, why is it that week after week all you ever preach to us is the Gospel?" "Well," the bullish reformer calmly replied," because week after week you forget it."

Radio Moscow is a group that’s likely to be saddled with some of the laziest journalistic punts: “throwback” or “stoner rock” or “old-school,” all of them tending to the ultimate end of describing a band like an artifact. It’s deceptive and wrong. Radio Moscow isn’t an Elvis Impersonator. They aren’t a museum diorama. They’re much closer to reformers, like our friend the Bull of Wittenberg. What Radio Moscow does is much more like reminding, resurrecting, reclaiming a craft that should never have been prematurely abandoned, all for the blocky ears of forgetful listeners.

When I first saw Radio Moscow at The Doublewide a couple years ago, there was almost no one there. I had gone to see them based entirely on the fact that they are from Ames, Iowa. Marilynne Robinson’s novel Gilead is set in the same inconspicuous state, written in the voice of its fictional narrator, the affectionately named John Ames, and I was reading the novel at the time. John Ames is a congregational minister and I like to imagine some alternate universe in which he is a big fan of race-geared, deafening rock, so I essentially attended a music performance out of literary curiosity.

There were maybe half a dozen people in the room when the string-haired Parker Griggs clicked on his amplifier. The ensuing shock tore the roof off the sucker (Mr. Clinton, I wish you could have seen it). As I listened, I twisted my head around two or three times to take in the room's vacancy, at once quaking with the awe of a Pentecostal congregant and becoming gloomily annoyed that there were one and a quarter million minus six Dallasites who would never see it.

Embarrassed for my city of alien residence, I offered to buy the band a round of drinks and I think Parker might have asked for a Blue Moon, which I thought was ironically the sissiest thing he could request. They stayed at my place that night for lack of other accommodations save their van. Bassist Zach Anderson actually slept in his headband and I marveled at his commitment to aesthetic.

At the time, they were touring in support of their debut, self-titled album. They’ve since released a second album Brain Cycles, which I bought on their last trip through Dallas a couple months ago. They performed at Nightmare on Elm, every bit as firebrand as two years ago and to a larger crowd.

That album has sat on my shelf ever since, book-ending the chronological rearrangement of my picayune vinyl collection. I made a foolhardy journey from start to finish, beginning several months ago with Jimmie Rodgers. I only today achieved Radio Moscow’s Brain Cycles, which stands as a clear accusation that I have yet to purchase a record made in this year.

In truth, I haven’t even heard all of Brain Cycles yet and I’m telling you it needs to be your next purchase if you have any faith left in rock. I listened to exactly one song, the opening “I Just Don’t Know,” before deciding it was absolutely necessary I write this review. One track was evidence enough that Radio Moscow serves up in megawatts what other bands teaspoon to us. Just don’t imagine that it’s the kind of bombast you get from double-bassed speed metal. It’s more akin to what James Newell Osterberg might have deemed “raw power.” Like Samson with a jawbone or a savage trio of barbarian Irishmen swinging shillelaghs: ferociously spare.

Parker Griggs is a demigod of riffage, a doctor in the study of chop-ology. His furious attack of the instrument, the shrieking, fleet-footed licks are what gives Radio Moscow’s sound so much meat.

There is an overabundance of vegetarian music these days. A while ago, there was a great deal of buzz surrounding Vampire Weekend, particularly when they played SXSW and I just didn’t get it. Sure, Vampire Weekend is great, if you don’t mind panting your way through life with an iron deficiency.

Parker said on his last trip through Dallas that the European audiences are overwhelmingly more responsive to Radio Moscow, to rock in general. This admission fits easily into one of the oldest human habits of shunning hometown prophets. We don’t love our blues our country our rockabilly or our rock and roll with the same conviction as the French; just try to reconcile that.

The Boys Named Sue

2010-10-19T14:05:00.001-05:00

These boys, they are sometimes named sue.

The Boys Named Sue - D Magazine's FrontRow Blog

Ryan Thomas Becker - 27 Sep. 2010 - Opening Bell

2010-09-27T22:10:00.004-05:00

It had been a long day, one of those days you feel embarrassed to be calling long. After all, what right do any of us have to be calling those hours of sitting and typing and pensiveness anything that resembles labor. But it is our ill habit, in this age, to feel the inexplicable, psychic drag of some days.

It was just that sort of day when I walked into Opening Bell at Southside still wearing my interview clothes, feeling odd in tie and dress shoes. And it may seem hackneyed to say so, but I felt my gloomy, urban anxiety go slack when Ryan Thomas Becker hummed his first note.

The curative power of music: an oft-repeated idea to make it nearly insipid. But there it stands like a faithful truth, like restful Sundays or the sleep of deep night, steadfastly routine. A proper tune arrives just as timely, a word said perfectly, a few notes down and up in a particular order to make the nerves smooth again.

A lot of music is just perfect, very on-the-nose. Ryan Thomas Becker is not. His music is beyond conceivability, so much that an idea like "perfect" can't really precede it. Most people, I think, believe in something at the bottom of their living, beyond the obvious, and in their inability to get at it. Everybody wants to crawl between the molecules and pull the universe over themselves like bedcovers. Ryan Thomas Becker helps us prospect in that direction.

One man with a worn voice and an acoustic guitar on an otherwise innocuous, overwrought Monday, and suddenly I'm ok.

Doug Burr – 16 September 2010 – Church of the Holy Cross

2010-09-17T18:19:00.002-05:00

You could hear every foot shuffle resonate last night in the sanctuary of Church of the Holy Cross. An obligatory solemnity managed to overtake the audience and everyone but Doug Burr was wary of breaking the delicate silence. Burr was performing his album The Shawl in its supposed entirety; although, I failed to absolutely confirm this. The Shawl, as I’ve written previously, is the simplest musical collection of Biblical Psalms, unmodified in their meticulous English translation* save for a multiple refrain here and there. Burr has apparently been soliciting area churches for space to perform the album and Father Will Brown, Rector of Church of the Holy Cross, was eager to accommodate.

Church of the Holy Cross is an Episcopalian church; moreover, an "Anglo-Catholic Episcopal Parish" by emphasis, which could explain the accidental quiescence. There are traditions of worship – I am intimately familiar with one – in which clapping is a frightful experience. Anglicanism is frequently one of them and their architecture, along with their cultural heritage of punctiliousness, reinforces propriety, solemnity. The results are often beautifully weighty, as was largely the case last night. Doug Burr was flanked by two accompanying musicians, all three standing just beyond the altar gate. His characteristic white shock of hair stood up, as if he were one peculiarly marked by God. A candle representative of creation’s eternal light, the uninterrupted announcement, flickered behind him.

Burr’s voice is precarious. His song often comes out more a cautious pace than a reckless sprint. The methodical words are not always entirely understood and, if you’re in a crowded din, the experience is frustrating. The case here was different. There are those who are compelled, and I am reasonably sure Burr is similarly compelled, that the words of The Shawl are uniquely efficacious. Christ-haunted, Doug Burr plays something of the ghost himself. Not a note The Shawl is very sharp, but its gravity is already beyond the norm, so all of it is imbued with an ineffable collision. In some ways, The Shawl feels like one long prelude to Burr’s most multiplied and unmistakable refrain: “surely there is a God who judges.” A strange comfort; a bloody grace.

The Psalms are a long tradition, not only in Judaism, but in Christianity too, where they are interpreted in the light of the Christians’ dawn. They’ve gone largely neglected in Christendom, where a troublingly many compose music in the undignified hubris that they have created something sacred. Burr’s approach evokes something, I think, closer to the original. A dusty-footed Palestinian of the first century, standing in the dim light of his or her old synagogue, singing aloud the fifty eighth of an ancient book of songs, bewildered with the newness of every word, strangely and fearfully assured.

*New American Standard

Field Goal Percentage

2010-09-04T10:53:00.002-05:00

This morning found me at Buckner park, watching my over-inflated, composite basketball careen off the rim at a tantalizing variety of angles.

Do you think I could start a rap war between Daniel T. Hall and Dem Southernfolkz? Hall has made some of the more frivolous plagiarism charges I've ever heard, but I'm desperate for material. Plus, Daniel T. seems like the kind of guy who would bring a log-chain to a gunfight, so I'm game to try.

90210 - The Cavern

2010-09-03T08:59:00.002-05:00

My friend was gracious enough to point out yesterday's date: 90210. This assumes, of course, that you're punctilious enough to include the preceding zero of the day, but not the month. Suspect.

I was sloshing back Ziegenbock in a plastic tumbler made to look like a legitimate beer glass wondering if the night held some sort of compensating experience. Xry (pron. "cry), the duo from San Antonio, placated me. A warped bass sound and electro squealch and very short shorts. It is at times like those that I regret my staunch, Baptist upbringing. Some twisted kind of nurture has left me with a level of self-consciousness too severe to ever dance when I feel like it.

Muhammad Ali from Houston spoke that neanderthalic rock language in which I am fluent. It is a tonal, confusing, but austere, nearly brutal language. It is nearly unintelligible and practically incommunicable, but vital to me. It is simplistic rock that defies logical measures of art, but somehow surpasses it.

I have heard a lot about Leg Sweeper in the past couple of months. A drums, guitar, vocals duo that follows closely in the vein of other drums, guitar, vocals duos; thankfully so, if you were to ask me. Everybody crowded around the Cavern stage, which is something I haven't seen for a while: the emptiness existing behind the crowd, in the back of the room. "Energy" is bound to come up in all of their reviews, so I mention it here reluctantly. But there was a sufficient hyperactivity to obviate technical deficiencies.

Cripple Fight!

2010-08-25T13:46:00.004-05:00

I can't really support any article that begins with "I don't normally..." or "I'm not one to..." It's like when my uncles starts a thought with, "Now, I'm no racist...," after which I am guaranteed to hear some truly horrifying racist sentiments. But, Pete defends his point well here in his response to Houston Press's slow-news-day assertion that Dallas music sucks.

"No, you suck!"

A couple of my own thoughts. Although I appreciate Pete's approach to rebuttal, the very argument is worthless. (To be fair, Freedman somewhat acknowledges this.) I am slowly learning to quit thinking of cities as cultural monoliths. Dallas, in particular, frustrates that approach, but even with other cities, it leads to folly and severely undermines more profitable, humanist perspectives.

Second, why all the hate for Steve Miller? Is Steve Miller really the butt of a cultural joke of which I have, heretofore, been ignorant? His output is much less reprehensible than the Eagles. No movie character has ever complained, "I've had a long day and I hate the fucking Steve Miller Band."

The Telefones

2010-08-12T14:38:00.002-05:00

Don't look now, but I think I'm being nostalgic for someone else's life:

The Telefones: Commentary on the resurrection.

lalagray - Devil's Nest Review

2010-08-04T17:58:00.000-05:00

Via the gods:

lalagray: Devil's Nest

New Science Projects

2010-07-21T11:36:00.000-05:00

My first published fiction...sort of.

New Science Projects: Dallas' Elusive Troubadour

Soma: Acronyphobia

2010-07-19T13:59:00.004-05:00

I can't tell you how harshly "doma" hits my ears. Still, the Observer is the standard in organizing local music, however haphazardly. I attended the showcase. Deep Ellum looked very alive. It is what all of us wanted. What we failed to remember is that douchebag ratios remain constant regardless of size. In fact, public spectacles tend to increase the ratio. I don't know why Damaged Goods$ allowed the white tool academy near the stage without giving them their due insult. I only know that it ruined the show.

Spector 45 rocks like a motherfucker, a word whose versatility Frankie fully embraces. He covered "Fulsom Prison Blues" and I've heard him play his own twist on "Deep Ellum Blues." Spector 45 is folk by habit if not by sound.

Fox and the Bird played a packed LaGrange, which is not difficult to pack, but I'm happy for my friends. Walked off the stage and into the crowd for the last number. Most hushed-up and listened and that is like a real miracle.

Comrade and Dry Creek at City Tavern

2010-07-15T12:49:00.004-05:00

A perfectly quality Wednesday night at City Tavern last night. Saw the astute Daniel T. Hall both manning drums for the out-of-retirement Comrade and standing way up front like a matchstick for Dry Creek. Dry Creek happens to be another arrangement of the Dallas Family Band. That thing is like a game of Boggle: shake it up and see where the members land. Jacob Metcalf landed behind the ukulele again, as he was last weekend at the Kessler upper room with Wheeler.

It occurred to me last night that I wish I could have rewritten that D Magazine piece on the Family Band to a more deserving length and titled it "Fearfully and Wonderfully Made."

Romp Almighty

2010-07-07T11:30:00.003-05:00

It seems I'm fading:

Romp Almighty, Spot-lit

The Dallas Family Band

2010-06-17T13:37:00.003-05:00

In retrospect, it could've turned out a lot worse:

The one about The Dallas Family Band

Maleveller

2010-06-02T11:15:00.004-05:00

I swear this will one day become something more than a portal to other places, but...

Maleveller & the Art of Metal

Doug Burr Review

2010-05-19T13:31:00.004-05:00

Review of O Ye Devastator is alive with pleasure.

Doug Burr - O Ye Devastator

D Magazine Links

2010-04-29T13:34:00.004-05:00

Don't know why I haven't done this yet. I'm taking a crack at legitimacy:

Album Review - The Beaten Sea

Interview - Astronautalis

And just because it's redefining rad:

There Goes My Hero: Confession of a Mavs Fan

2010-04-26T12:56:00.004-05:00

1. "When the Knicks lose, they just lose. It's a flat feeling; there's nothing there. Now the Mavericks, now, here, we have a rich history of really fascinating ways to lose a crucial game. You know what I mean? Defeats that just keep you awake at night. They pound in your head like the hammer of fate. Yeah, you can analyze a Mavericks game day and night for a month and still uncover really complex layers of feelings. Feelings you didn't even know you were capable of having. Yeah. That kind of pain has a memory all of its own. "

2. "But there's something more hellish about the Maverick's suffering. The Knicks don't have somebody pinning them down and pulling off their wings with tweezers, unless there is such a thing as self-induced wing-pulling. The Mavericks have the Spurs.

"All Mavericks fans have to do is look at Popovich's severe face for their source of pain. Or they can just look 277 miles south to San Antonio. The Spurs have won 4 NBA Championships since acquiring the franchise from Dallas.

"The Mavericks consistently have had better teams than the Knicks, so the question becomes: What hurts more--sustained mediocrity or falling short over and over to the same team? Again, it doesn't seem to be a contest."

Two very, very apt quotes, made even more intriguing by the fact that neither one was written about the Mavericks, but rather about the Boston Red Sox. The first is from the movie Game 6, set in the midst of the 1986 World Series on the day leading up to Bill Buckner's hope-killing error. The second is from a 2004 article written just after A-Rod arrived in New York. I merely substituted "Knicks" for "Mets," in the first quote, "Cubs" in the second. "Steinbrenner" became "Popovich" and, predictably, the "Yankees" made their easy transformation into the "Spurs." From there, the 210 miles between Boston and New York, the multiple Yankee Series Championships, and the acquisition of Babe Ruth chillingly and accurately morph into our Texas plot.

Why the Knicks? Maybe because they are an established, storied franchise with a still loyal fan base. But you could pick any team currently laboring in sustained mediocrity: Clippers, Grizzlies, Timberwolves, Nets. I don't care which perennially awful team it is; it pails in comparison to the fly-high, crash-and-burn Mavericks.

You've got to be at the top of the Mountain before you break your neck on the fall. A run through the Spurs and Suns to the '06 finals. A 67 win, MVP-making season. These are top of the mountain moments. Only the Mavericks seem to know how to toy with their fans in a truly soul-crushing way.

And the thing is that, even in 1986, even in 2004, being a Red Sox fan was significantly better than being a Mavericks fan now. Five World Series Championships, even if they were 68 years ago lend a legendary status to your team. The Mavericks are nothing now except legendarily disappointing.

One more modified quote from Game 6: "I coulda been happy. I coulda been a Spurs fan." I could've had a brother that moved from Arizona to San Antonio. I could've spent a few summers there. I could've watched my team win four titles. I could've been a Spurs fan. But I wasn''t and I won't. If you don't understand that; you don't understand being a fan. I am a Mavs fan for life. When they fail, it's going to hurt me. When they climb the mountain again, I'm going to get my hopes up. Indifference is no longer an option and disloyalty is definitely not an option. Unlike casual Mavericks fans who are really Cowboys fans, I can't abandon my team. I'm in too deep.

Like a Red Sox fan of 1986, I've come to expect epic failure from the team I love. I don't know if it was just last night, but I think I've become fully jaded. They may win tomorrow night and they might just win three in a row to surprise the Spurs. After all, like it's been for the past ten years, they have the roster to be great. But I'm no longer counting on it. Having won the World Series twice since their 86 year drought, Boston Red Sox fans have no right to be brooding. That disposition now belongs wholesale to Dallas Mavericks Fans. Somebody get me a drink. It's going to be a long several decades.

Music for Vanity's Sake

2010-03-17T16:51:00.001-05:00

From the music-is-like-a-snappy-outfit department:

"Safe as Milk is the album that you give to people who don't know about Captain Beefheart, Trout Mask Replica is the one that you talk about at parties to show you know what is up."-We Shot JR

Raymond Cade, Sean Foster, Arthur Yoria, Happy Bullets, Slow Burners, American Werewolf Academy, RTB2, lalagray, The Republic of Texas, Little Birds,

2010-01-25T22:50:00.007-06:00

and The Beaten Sea

A musical itinerary so broad it wouldn't even fit a Blogspot title field. It is worth noting that I pulled off a pop music trifecta this past weekend. Eleven acts at four venues over three nights and my general constitution is the better for it. Happy reacquaintances with Sean Foster, RTB2, and The Beaten Sea. New discoveries in the Happy Bullets and Little Birds.

Some day I'll talk: how my friends are turning me into a folkie and why Ryan Becker is my rabbi.

Wildcats and Neighborhoof

2010-01-18T17:41:00.004-06:00

Southeast Asia stood me for as long as it could. I'm Lake Highlands Sullie at the moment, where you can roll in the lawn. It is so much its own place that Richardson annexed its school system at some point, I guess so Dallas wouldn't get any ideas about teaching people.

I'm thinking on the nature and activity of a blog, considering the possibility that I can throw little, rolled-up anecdotes your direction instead of attempting short-of-breath essays. It is a blog after all. I could tell you that Friday night I saw Boom Boom Box and The Paperchase at Sons of Hermann and that Saturday I saw Fox & The Bird and Doug Burr at AllGood Cafe. And you can say, "I know those places." And that would be ok for both of us.

Boom Boom Box, by the way, ingratiated themselves to me based only on me remembering the singer to be a Mavericks fan. Strangely, the irrelevant pull to attend the show was vindicated by their music, which was probably something from the mid '90s that time wants me to forget, but I won't. Fox & the Bird and Doug Burr, by the way, had to labor in a noisy restaurant. It is offensive to me that people show up to shows in a disengenuous show of appreciation only to talk through the show while music sails, unappreciated, over their heads. I think Doug Burr sang several really important things, but I couldn't hear, so I'm not sure.

Currently enjoying Ryan Thomas Becker's new unescorted effort Neighborhoof, courtesy of the best friend anyone could have. I'm on track 2, already considering how this album perfectly illustrates the stupidity behind album reviews and their failure to approximate what happens when a good disc is spinning, so I'll leave you with pretty much nothing. If you've seen Ryan ply a six-string in person, you know to expect greatness and greatness is what's hitting my ears--track 3 now.

BUY THIS TO MAKE THINGS BETTER

Upcoming Show: The Beaten Sea - March 27, 2009

2009-03-18T16:56:00.008-05:00

Address: 101 S. Walton St., #105

e-mail richardesullivan@hotmail.com for gate code

Working Man's Reprise

2009-03-18T16:09:00.005-05:00

Someone pointed out to me that the last post made me sound crotchety and perhaps older than I am. I am twenty eight years old. I am not a forty year old Smiths fan with a wife and three kids who's finding it hard to fit live music into my already hectic schedule of coordinating Pump It Up parties. I am single and without responsibilities, save feeding and clothing myself.

Admittedly, I may have lazily adopted a cranky tone. If I'd been more self-aware, I might have been more deliberate about making myself sound cool and young. But is there something about merely suggesting shows start earlier that makes me sound old? Why doesn't it make me sound like someone with a day job who likes sleep, which is actually the case?

One of my abiding examples of peaceful iconoclasm is my friend Matt. I first encountered Matt when we were both college freshman and he lived next door. Matt liked B-horror movies, Arkansas, hardcore music, and having coffee at 7am before heading to the library and retrieving the morning paper. A man of habit, he continues that last practice to this day. He feels no need to behaviorally conform to any subculture. He is the Switzerland of status quo.

I'm not quite there yet. I run on a fuel that's 90% peer-approval, so I'm a little embarrassed to have outed myself as the "old" guy who's wiped-out by midnight. That doesn't change the fact that the ethos by which one becomes known as "old" has more in common with MTV Spring Break than it does with music.

Apology of the Working Hipster

2009-03-13T19:11:00.018-05:00

My upstairs neighbors don't sleep nights. I know this, because from about 11:00pm to 6:00am every night, I endure what sounds like someone obsessively shoving a recliner to alternating corners of their loft, ceaselessly, like a meth-addicted, interior designing Sisyphus. I mention this because it directly contradicts my own schedule. 11:00pm to 6:00am: sleeping. 8:30am to 5:30pm: ceaselessly pushing numbers and text from keyboard to printer to outbox, like a necktied Sisyphus. But still, like a contributing member of productive society, which is more than I can say for my laz-e-boy shoving upstairs neighbors.

Historically, productive members of society ask very little at the end of the hard work day: a cold beer, good conversation, and a little romance if they're lucky. Why is it, then, that the musical community had drifted so far away from the working man's pace? Why do shows scheduled for 9:00 start at 10:00, labor under half-hour sets and hour-long sound checks, and finally end at 2:00? Why do shows so often consist of comatose hipsters and maxed-out sound systems? And why is this all so rigidly now the standard for performed music? Who is this working for?

I read an autobiography of a man who, as a child, lived through the Southie busing riots in Boston in the 70s. The author's mom actually cultivated a sustained Boston-wide reputation during this period by arousing the anti-establishment sentiment of the neighborhood with music, performing sharp, angry folk tones in local bars to the delight of Southie's working class just as they left the day's work behind. The shortsighted outrage of that particular situation shouldn't be envied, but the basic picture still appeals to me: accessible music for the working class on their terms.

It's a question of audience, or maybe even potential audience. If shows start at ten or eleven and drag on till two, then that's a situation where artists are making music for artists or at least for tweekers who move furniture all night. Those people need music too, but on its face, this rigid night owl policy is patently anti-populist and ghettoized. What about the welders, mechanics, maids, or even the accountants, pharmacists, engineers, etc.?

One would wonder what it might be like if shows started at, say, eight. If there were never more than three acts. If the sound person would switch the EQ dial from "party" to "music." If the music ended at ten, the lights went up, and everyone still had about an hour to converse, discuss the music, dialogue thought.

Maybe this is all impractical. Maybe I should capitulate to the sophomoric machismo that dictates coolness: insomnia, vomit, self-involved oblivion. Whatever I do, I'm not going to turn folk just so I can go to bed at a proper hour. So c'mon, Rock and Roll, we can figure this out.

Ponytail vs. Permanent Press

2009-02-05T12:06:00.003-06:00

This is nothing but a re-post. Apparently, I don't take my own contributions to this one in six trillion piece of web real estate seriously, so why not fill it with someone else's hard work?

This band is neither from DFW nor coming to DFW, but this Pitchfork-produced clip scratches me right where I itch. I have fantasized for a while about bands performing in unorthodox locations: empty and abandoned urban lots, concrete medians of major thoroughfares, BLM land on the Arizona strip, my apartment*. I have a friend who once had a goal to reduce his show-going to bands performing in art galleries, though I don't think he ever followed through.

Baltimore's Ponytail pulls one off that I had not even considered: the laundromat. Of course, this brings to mind our own, now defunct Bar of Soap, but that was a bar AND laundromat and I honestly never saw anyone wash their clothes; although, I'd be interested to hear from you if you did. This appears to be an operating, run-of-the-mill, (Baltimore?) laundromat. I had never heard Ponytail before and was immediately impressed with their dual-guitar spastics, but what is going on with the frontwoman? She seems to be contributing little beyond randomly knifing the music with a disharmonic yelp.

*Pathetic foreshadowing. Expect a long overdue post about this soon.

Annex House - The Beaten Sea w/ RTB2 - 1/23/09

2009-01-24T15:12:00.004-06:00

www.sarakerensphotography.com

The blues scale. The electric guitar. Double-fretting. And now, my new favorite music innovation, the house show. After attending an Annex House show last night, I am convinced that the idea may be the one legitimate remedy for the Dallas music scene.

Deep Ellum is not dead. Deep Ellum is still breathing, but its breathing is a labored, emphysemic heave occuring two days a week. Music is no longer the commodity it was. Have no illusions; when Deep Ellum was at its zenith, the place was not fully populated with genuine music appreciators. A fair portion were trend-zombies who saw Singles in the theater, when live music became the pasttime du jour. The popular draw now seems to be dance clubs, throbbing with disinterested, disembodied music, four times removed from any song writer. Copies of copies of synthesizements.

With the trendies gone, and the music-appreciating populace slashed to a remnant, house shows are perfect for Dallas music fans. Like Christians of first century Rome, driven to the catacombs, worshipping in secret, without the blessing or support of the establishment. At Annex House last night, I imagined we were just that: the last true disciples of music whittled down to our eager corps.

Show intimacy is an oft-overlooked commodity. The virgin power of a house show is immeasurable, the sum of a thousand frequencies of harmonic energy wrought by the collective excitement of being an arm's length away from the the guitars and vocal chords and wooden sticks improbably mingling to create music.

Yes, give me the stamping toes of boots two feet from my knees, the reverberations of the songsmith's heels on a wooden floor, channeled up through my beer bottle. Such was the palpable communion during The Beaten Sea's opening set in the anonymous living room at 1207 Annex Ave., Dallas, TX. The Beaten Sea have a chest-full of tunes ideal for living rooms. It is bonefied porch music; a little country, a little gospel and old spiritual. As instruments were stilled, The Beaten Sea's overwhelming ingenuousness crescendoed to the collective, mellifluous wail of the three members crowded around one microphone. Unembelished. Immaculate. Rough-hewn. Perfect.

If the hopeful swell of the Beaten Sea had come over the room in waves, the next house act, RTB2, made them tidal. "Demonstrative" Jamie Wilson of the Beaten Sea always calls Ryan Thomas Becker (RTB). It is as good as anyone could do with a one-word attempt, but even a word as ample as "demonstrative" fails to encompass Becker's presence. His gesticulating, the frightening ease with which he plays, both wreckless and precise, his Screamin' Jay Hawkins-cum-verbose librarian. No one term can encompass all that. Becker's indefinable oeuvre rests solidly on Grady Sandlin's (2) unflagging backbeat. This one-two attack was, as usual, fully displayed last night. Bluesy and wild, impassioned and raw. Being in a living room with RTB2 is like being in a living room with a cyclone.

House shows may not be the ideal setting for every musical experience. The Flaming Lips might find it difficult to execute their full stage production under an eight foot ceiling. But for Dallas, for a musical culture that is strongest when its bands play with the least pomp, a house show is like a sanctuary. For last night, at least, music was given its due sanctity.

How did we let Springsteen leapfrog Nirvana?

2008-08-29T13:49:00.005-05:00

Two things have happened in the past week. First, I renewed my affection for music made between 1990 and 1996. Second, the democrats have been holding their election year convention in Denver. I was watching Joe Biden's speech, and the overeager applause, when it occurred to me how funny it is that the new generation is listening to the generation before last. Old, dried-up hippies are the new heroes for people in their twenties.

It's safe to say Nirvana wouldn't have shared the same enthusiasm. The band mocked The Youngbloods' call to "try and love one another right now" at the opening of the Nevermind song "Territorial Pissings." Mocked it, because, as children of divorce, they didn't much want to believe people who talked about love. They rightly called into question a generation who spent so much energy trying to let everyone know they cared for people when, in fact, they were so self-absorbed that they ended marriages for the sake of their own happiness.

In the 1994 film SFW, the cynical catch-phrase of "so fucking what," at one point a valid response to a shitty situation, becomes comodified to the point of meaninglessness. At the end of the film, the phrase is replaced in popularity by "everything matters," which becomes equally commercialized. Life has officially imitated art, so now we sing Springsteen again and talk about the change that's just around the corner, about the dignity of work, about the importance of self-sacrifice. All of these are virtues. But how confident can we be that the next generation won't be mocking our hypocrisy?

Weekend Roundup Pt: 2 - The Toadies @ The Palladium - 8/22/08

2008-08-27T12:46:00.009-05:00

My (over?)-analysis of the appropriateness of venues continues with my take on what I'm calling the biggest homecoming of the year. Biggest, because I might as well apply a superlative to a show I got to attend, and because I don't think Sam the Sham has planned any forthcoming reunions.

Dallas is not well-suited to homecomings. The city's combination of a transient populace and me-first ethic make loyalty a bygone virtue in North Texas. But alterna-rock memories are still burned into the consciousness of Big D show-goers from the early 90s. A good lot of them have spouses, houses, and kids in suburban school districts now, but, as I saw Friday night, a Toadies reunion can still draw them back to the Dallas epicenter.

Let's be honest, once the early 90s buzz wore off, Dallas was not overly kind to The Toadies. A period of seven years separated their much-lauded Rubberneck (1994) from their unfairly derided Hell Below/Stars Above (2001) and people lost interest. The local radio didn't help. When I spent my first summer in Dallas in 1997, there was still a Q102, and plenty of Toadies on the airwaves. Four years later, Q102 had been replaced by a Clearchannel sinkhole and the Toadies could not buy local radio support. The low point of summer '01 had to be the 97.1 sponsored "Big Freakin' Deal," a festival name that was no doubt brainstormed by two middle-schoolers with a bag of whippits. The festival offered a foul lineup of butt-rock bands--Staind, Saliva, Cold--all of which received ample pre-festival promotion, and the Toadies. At a hometown show that should have been The Toadies' prodigal triumph, the band was relegated to opening for Rammstein. Despicable.

When The Toadies released Hell Below/Stars Above, They were still trying to build on the success of Rubberneck and establish themselves as an important, current band. As I said, interest and loyalty waned and the band imploded. The band is more grown up in 2008 and have fewer illusions about themselves. Lisa Umbarger has been replaced by Doni Blair of Hagfish, another longsuffering Dallas musician, and band members still have other ongoing musical projects. They do have a new album, but The Toadies know that they exist in people's minds primarily as the group from 1994, evident by the Rubberneck-heavy setlist from Friday night. The band is reformed undoubtedly for making cash, but I believe they are also back for that synergy they once had with fans, something that time, corporate radio, real-estate developers, and disloyal fans have eroded. Something that came back to life again at the Palladium last Friday.

The Palladium is the wrong place for any band with a soul and especially for a band like The Toadies. The place has a dozen flat-screen TVs piping images from the stage, $6.00 beers, and bartenders dressed in uniforms. Rock and roll shouldn't be allowed in the same building as a uniform. But even the Palladium with all its plastic luster couldn't diminish the effect The Toadies had on the place. It was a case of "My musical chaos can beat up your grabby capitalism." And it did. The unsavoriness of the place vanished as soon as the band opened with "Mister Love."

I still don't have an official setlist, but I counted in my head nine songs from Rubberneck, four from Hell Below/Stars Above, four from the new album No Surrender, and a show-closing standard from the unreleased Feeler. What I do know is that the energy never subsided. They ripped through all the classics with aplomb and won us over with all the new material. Dallas, a city with a normally fractured music scene, exhibited a heartening solidarity, shouting back every word of "I Come From the Water."*

Drenched in sweat, the crowd left The Palladium in a renewed euphoria. Members of Deep Ellum's old guard--easily noticeable by their sun-faded tattoos, camouflage shorts, and beer bellies--were reveling in the nostalgia of the moment, in the way it used to, and should be. Younger fans were dumbstruck at having witnessed a moment they had theretofore only experienced on their ipods. It would be hyperbolism to say The Toadies embody what everyone remembers and misses about the music scene we used to know in Dallas and took for granted. Some of Dallas' snarkier inhabitants even have the gumption to call them "overrated."** But one has to assume that there at the Palladium, something was revived in the audience at having seen a band that everybody rightly wrote off as dead. It was the memory of all the reckless fun Dallas used to have and a renewed hope that it can still have it.

*I was so personally overcome with excitement at one point, that I, like many others that night, made an attempt at crowd surfing during the song "Hell Below/Stars Above." I often forget how light I am. I was thrown forward with much violence and little effort, making the stage in what must have been world record time. I apologize for all the people I unintentionally kicked in the head.

**Send Jesse much hate mail.

Weekend Roundup Pt: 1 - Sarah Jaffe @ The Cavern - 8/21/08

2008-08-25T16:55:00.006-05:00

I cannot imagine a venue more appropriate for Sarah Jaffe than the Cavern. The venue's brutally understated stage lighting has a single point of failure: one solitary lightbulb. The walls seem to crowd in on audience and artist alike. The Cavern is built and lit as a virtual confessional booth for musicians. No other site is better suited for Sarah Jaffe's tuneful vulnerability, a woman for whom, perhaps obsessively, nothing may be kept secret.

Sarah Jaffe's tendency toward dark honesty is well-known by now in local music circles. Jaffe has even achieved national levels of recognition, having been selected as NPR's Song of the Day on 8/21. Sarah is known for her Dostoevskyish brand of self-consciousness, persistent as she is in exploring her more ignoble motivations. Her threadbare compositions provide the perfect backdrop. Assembled from small bits of guitar and cello, you can almost seem them bend under the gravity of her penitential voice.

Jaffe's fragility in verse is held in tension by her abilities as a performer. Her voice is as insistent and flawless as her guitar work. Meekly resting behind her large-framed glasses, her downcast gaze is somehow as arresting as a direct stare. Sarah can command even those segments of the audience that hadn't planned on listening, the ones who willingly hush their conversations when Jaffe pulls back the sound to a whisper. The effect at The Cavern felt like you were dropped into film noir or a T.S. Eliot Poem, like you were having a cigarette with Tom Waits. I have enough confidence in Sarah to believe someone like him would have been there last Thursday if he had the time and requisite anonymity. With any justice, that's just the sort of recognition Sarah Jaffe will one day receive.

http://www.myspace.com/sjaffe

Hump Day Vinyl: Alice Cooper

2008-07-23T17:09:00.005-05:00

This is me back in form following a week that included a 12 hour workday, so I completely understand the significance of my own hump day institution. I would love to add some more local music commentary, maybe even garner an extra reader or two, but this is about the only silly writing habit for which I have the time now. Still, this week is a fun one.

I first heard "Clones (We're All)" on the Smashing Pumpkins box set The Aeroplane Flies High. Its anthemic, boot-stopping gait made the song instantly appealing. I knew it was a cover and its feel had so much in common with the glitter of someone like Slade or T-Rex that I never would have guessed it to be first committed to tape by someone like Alice Cooper. That's right, Alice Cooper had a new wave phase and it was called Flush the Fashion, though this track was written by someone other than Alice. My friend Mr. Perkins did a little research on the songwriter and even dug up two additional covers for me, by Bile and Penal Colony. The one below is the Alice Cooper original. Enjoy.

Alice Cooper - Clones (We're All)

Hump Day Vinyl: Dion

2008-07-09T22:56:00.002-05:00

Finally, I'm uploading a hump day vinyl on the appropriate day. This week's edition comes from the same spiral-patterned box of 45s given to me by a friend. Dion was one of my childhood favorites. Before I was buying my own tapes and CDs, I mostly listened to my Mom's copy of "Oldies but Goodies." I distinctly remember a lip-synched performance of "Runaround Sue" in our living room with my mom as audience. The version of Dion on this Jimi Hendrix cover is much more subdued than his early hits: a lackadaisical half flower child, half crooner backed by a flute riff. Surprisingly, Dion's cover feels much more like an acid trip than Hendrix's original. Enjoy, you're work week is 3/5ths over and we only have three more months of summer in Dallas.

Dion - Purple Haze (Jimi Hendrix cover)

Man Factory: Prepare to Street Fight!

2008-06-20T18:00:00.007-05:00

I made the most wonderful discovery last weekend at the Cavern: Man Factory. The Arlington quintet has composed a six-song rock opera about Street Fighter II. This is an apt addition to the late-Gen-X -and-slightly-after encyclopedia: an ad hoc generation whose most telling artifacts are popularly consumed media. Given that the songs themselves are well-written, with a perfect mix of levity and sincerity, I highly recommend you get yourself a copy, particularly since you can download the six tracks free here.

p.s. Red Monroe capped off their slot with a relaxed, country-fied take on the long forgotten "She Waits on a Tidal Wave" that was...just...perfect.

Wednesday (ish) Vinyl

2008-05-22T12:12:00.002-05:00

This is the first attempt at Wednesday vinyl, made on a Thursday. Initially, I wanted this to be a blog about DFW music. In particular, I wanted it to be about my subjective experience of that music. I still do, but I think that category can be expanded beyond just the local gigs I happen to catch. In addition to scouring Deep Ellum, lower Greenville, and Denton for the best local sound bytes, I'm also very often pent up in my too trendy loft, sitting cross-legged in front of my new turntable, digesting bits of my own vinyl collection I still have never heard.

I started buying vinyl in the last five years. The majority of my 12" collection comes from lazy afternoons at Half Price Books and is not very large. I may have 30 full albums in total. But I also came into owning several dozen 45s very quickly. The biggest portion of that cache I got from a friend named Gary who gave them to me in a vintage 45 carrying case. The rest I found in a secondhand shop in Kanab, UT on a trip to the Grand Canyon. It was like the depleted copper-rich veins of Arizona metamorphosed into vinyl deposits to the north. I dug through it like a greedy prospector: Tears for Fears, The Go-Gos, Falco, R.E.M., most of them scratched to hell, but quite a few were salvageable. Whoever dropped all that stuff off was the coolest girl in her high school.

Still, the best stuff comes from that vintage mystery box, because I have no idea what's in it. I pulled this little number out just a few days ago and rocked out in my boxers. The real tragic thing about Elton John is that people my age know him as the paunchy sell-out who gave us the Lion King soundtrack. That's an object lesson for any current pop singer: don't sell your rock n' rollin' soul to Disney. Phil Collins did it to, though the prior existence of his soul is debatable. But anybody under the age of 45 is liable to forget that Elton John was capable of smacking you in the face with stuff like "Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting." Elton does all the stuff here that the Arctic Monkeys, et al wish they could do. It's riff, Elton's growl, the hyperactive hi-hatting, everything about it is iconic rock and roll. Use the link below to download the track, strip to your undies, punch a Chelsea fan in the face, and enjoy "Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting." The crackle and pop is mine, the rest is Elton's.

Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting

Another Mulligan for the Despot

2008-05-21T20:08:00.003-05:00

The absence was shorter this time around. I'm attempting to teach myself that this is a blog and that sprawling essays need not be the order of every day. Today was supposed to be the day that I began something new. My best intentions were to post a ripped vinyl track to reward all you laborers who successfully scaled the week's hump. Alas, the necessary technical measures have not yet been taken. But look for this early next morning, or perhaps the next week.

And only one addendum for now. It turns out my mother's childhood was not nearly as music-deprived as I supposed. The truth turned out to be much more interesting. First, my mom availed herself of the latest pop hits whenever she could: at the houses of friends or in the back seat of a boyfriend's car. Yes, I was unaware that my mom had such boyfriends. The music wasn't explicitly prohibited by her folks either, though certainly not encouraged. Whatever their stance, my mom found it necessary to listen to the hot 100 through her pillow, the portable radio murmuring beneath it, just loud enough to hear in the dark. Unfortunately, my mom left the radio on one day and went to school. 1960s electronics being what they were, the insides melted from the lack of ventilation beneath the pillow and my mother's late-night music appreciation sessions were canceled thereafter.

A Noise, A Scandal

2008-04-25T09:47:00.008-05:00

A brief mea culpa: I have not written a word here in over two months. Despite my readership of one, that contradicts my previous commitment of aggressively covering the DFW music scene. It also undermines the fact that I have absorbed ample amounts of great music in that span, and most of it locally. All that is to explain why today I will be elaborating on a show I saw almost a month ago and why, as I try to ramp up to full speed over the next couple of weeks, this blog will sound more like reminiscing and less like relevant coverage. But now...

Shiny Around the Edges

My mom and I have an on-going argument about accessibility that we revisit at least twice a year. My mom has great taste in music. She grew up musically sheltered and so was only allowed to listen to rigid white-bred gospel or whatever mono-chromatically robed family band happened to visit their church. She was well into adulthood before she discovered the music that she had every right to in her teenage years. And when I was young, she weened me on this music. She was born in '49, so this meant Peter & Gordon, Herb Alpert, Frankie Avalon, Buddy Holly, The Righteous Brothers. It was all "safe" stuff, but it was all good. That said, my mom also enjoys Alan Jackson and really loves her some Toby Keith.

The argument we have starts with my diatribe on pop country, but ends up being a philosophical consideration on the merits of forcing yourself beyond your musical comfort zone. What's so wrong with "I wanna talk about meee-iii-eee" if that's what you enjoy? What is the use of making yourself move beyond what you already know you like? My mom is firmly in the "if it ain't broke" camp. And while that loyalty leads to an appreciation of the timeless - Dion, Marty Robbins, Bobby Darin - I think it also leads to atrophying the ability to discover.

This really is coming back around to Shiny Around the Edges, pictured above. My mom would hate Shiny Around the Edges. That's not a revelation. Most people's mothers would hate Shiny Around the Edges. But my mom would hate them for the same reason I saw a few people screw up their faces at the show they played almost two months ago at Rubber Gloves in Denton.

Shiny Around the Edges aims to subvert everything you know and enjoy about music. Sometims their sound is like an ominous whisper from that Poltergeist kid. The rest of the time, their sound is like a pillow-case full of bricks to the jaw. And not in any kind of cliche', metal-head way. They don't use bombast to shock as much as they use minimalism. They use single floor toms instead of a whole drum set. They shout at one pitch instead of sing a melody. They don't play their guitars at AC/DC volume levels, but with the bare minimum of distortion, abusing them with what looked like screwdrivers. I was standing. All the simplicity makes for an impression that's very personal. It's like being in the same room with the apocalypse.

The people who came to the show with me were not enjoying the ruckus that is Shiny Around the Edges. And I really don't judge or blame them. There's no really good or obvious reason to like Shiny Around the Edges. I'll admit to being similarly perplexed when I saw them weeks before at Sons of Hermann. But this time I felt like I was starting to understand, in my own way at least.

Shiny Around the Edges' music is scandalous. It's affront to things we think we know. And I think it's important to have things upset our sensibilities. It reminded me a little of Jesus, in the way that it illustrates scandal. We want a messiah, but not one who born in straw... Ok, but don't let him be from somewhere as lame as Nazareth... Fine, but let him be a priest or politician, not a carpenter... So be it, but let him lead a glorious revolution, not sit around and talk with prostitutes or lepers... A cross, a violent and bloody, ignominious death? Are you fucking kidding me? This? No matter what you perceive as "this," Shiny Around the Edges seem to shout from stage, "Yes, this."

Scandals are good for your health, for exercising those intellectual muscles you didn't think you had. Shiny Around the Edges gives you a puzzle and dares you to solve it. There will always be a place for head-nodding music, but listeners, and especially DFW listeners, would do well to also make a place for Shiny Around the Edges, a band that's shocking, disturbing, and very likely has something important to say.

Interview: Record Hop

2008-02-19T20:44:00.007-06:00

Denton’s Record Hop is one of the most ingenuous bands I have met, a people’s band in the most unobtrusive way. They appeared most in their element when I saw them playing at Space Studio, where there is no stage. Their vehemence and volume seem to hearken back to a day when bands were quite literally at audience level, an architectural declaration meant to convey honesty and candidness. And like most unspoiled bands of tremendous ability, they are as courteous as they are loud. This humility is no doubt influenced by six years of laboring almost strictly in the Denton and DFW area, cultivating their ferocious post-punk sound. Guitarist Scott Porter spent some of that time managing a venue – the now closed Secret Headquarters – and the Denton-based record label TXMF Records. The rest of the band, too, exerted energy in other Denton bands and local musical ventures. It is this body of evidence that attests to Record Hop’s affection for Denton and music for music’s sake.

I had the distinct pleasure of meeting with the band at a coffee house in Deep Ellum with all four in attendance: Scott Porter (guitar), Tony Wann (drums), Ashley Cromeens (vocals/guitar), and Cory Ward (bass). The Band talked a lot about Denton’s music scene and Porter of his desire to move beyond presiding over it. Record Hop also discussed their ambitious 2008 agenda. Having appeared twice in unofficial SXSW showcases, Record Hop is part of the official 2008 festival itinerary. This appearance coincides very nearly with the projected release of their as-yet untitled second album, produced by alternative rock godfather Steve Albini. All these things point to a favorable year for Record Hop where the band will likely reach ears beyond Texas. In the immediate future, Record Hop will be playing on Feb. 21 with Dallas’ Red Monroe at Lola’s before playing a Friday slot at the Amsterdam Bar in Exposition Park’s, three-day Melodica Festival running Feb. 22 thru 24.

DES: Are you all originally from the DFW area?

Scott: Fort Worth

Cory: I’m from Fort Worth, but I’ve been in Denton since ’95, so I’m pretty much from Denton

Ashley: I’m from Dallas, but I’ve lived in Denton for 10 years.

Tony: I’m from Bedford and Fort Worth

DES: and you (Scott) moved to Denton in…

Scott: in ’99.

Tony: Are we just bypassing all the God-worshipping stuff?

Scott: Oh yeah. Tony and I met fifteen years ago in Christian rock bands in the suburbs of Fort Worth.

Tony: Yeah. Represent.

Scott: This was in the early ‘90s. And then that all stopped.

DES: And when did that all stop?

Scott: Oh, mid ‘90s. We had a momentary lapse of reason. We were just out of high school and shit and, you know, kinda still going by the how you were raised kind of thinkin’.

Tony: That Baptist bullshit.

DES: But at this point, you’ve all been part of Denton for quite a few years.

Scott: Yeah, everybody except [Tony], he still lives here in Dallas. But, yeah, I’ve been there since ’99 and I was the last one to get there out of [Ashley, Cory, and myself].

DES: It struck me that you’re very tied to Denton and its music scene and kind of dedicated to it, having had the venue there and the record label.

Scott: That’s lapsing on my part, just because it’s gotten to the point now, where I’ve been so involved, that it’s too much now. It’s just too much bullshit.

DES: What do you mean by “bullshit?

Scott: Too much bullshit means it’s such a small town that, if you end up getting involved in some way with everybody, then suddenly everybody’s involved with you. Thursday night going down to get a beer with friends turns into talking about: “Yeah, I know, we could…save…Denton!” or some shit. I’m not trying to sound Cynical about it. It’s just that I’m at a point now where I’ve gotten old enough and [Record Hop] is doing well enough and we (Scott and Ashley) are getting married and I’ve got a good job. Now it’s more like, I’m going to focus on just the Scott thing instead of “God, we have to book a giant festival this year. Why? Because there are seventy bands here, so we have to.” It was kick-ass; it was a lot of fun. I made a lot of good friends. I’m just kind of ready for the vacation. We’re still booking shows for everybody and the record label is still doing what it’s doing on its own. And we love the fucking town, but I’m just sort of done with the boosting for a while.

DES: How do you feel about the health of the Denton scene?

Scott: It’s good. Everybody’s real anxious. In any church, school, group of people anywhere, there’s always a little snippiness bubbling somewhere, but for the most part everybody’s so used to everybody being in bands that it becomes regular life. So it’s healthy, the scene’s healthy just because everybody’s trying to play. I mean, there’ll be six shows tonight and they’re all within a couple of blocks of each other.

DES: It seemed to me you have a lot of Fugazi similarities, even apart from the music, having been involved a local venue and record label.

Scott: I wish we could have had all these things ten years ago. I just wish we’d done all this when we were twenty or twenty-one. Like those guys in Douche and at Paper Stain [Records]. They’re real super-motivated and they’re all just over twenty one, so they’re just starting to do basically the young-guy equivalent of what we’re doing and they seem a little more focused and they have a lot more energy. And they’re putting out quality shit. Shiny Around the Edges is associated with it and Douche, Drink to Victory, Notes from Underground… (Responding to his laughing band mates) They’re called Douche, I don’t know what you want me to do about it.

As far as the Fugazi thing, I think that comes from being raised up on that after finding good music in the early ‘90s. There’s definitely an influence, but I’m still coming from the era where the biggest underground band in the world was Nirvana and ended up being the biggest band on the planet. So you still feel like a cool band can go all the way. But as you get older, you think, “Oh, wait. Nobody goes all the way anymore.” But that’s what’s good about the guys at Paper Stain. Being young, they never came up in an era where there’s still that hangover of thinking something huge could happen here. With some of the other drummers we had, there was always that thirty-year-old hangover of, like, “Man, we’ve got to mail this CD to this big fucking record label. I know a guy that knows a guy that knows a guy.” It’s like you’re speaking a different language.

DES: And the internet has changed a lot of that.

Scott: Exactly. You don’t have to be from anywhere anymore. That was the thing about the Denton-centric thing. You can be from the middle of nowhere and still get as big as anybody.

DES: I noticed you guys played well over 200 shows in your five and half years together. Do feel like you’ve been able to develop and polish your live show pretty well?

Ashley: Yeah. It’s taken a while. Things just get easier as you do it.

Scott: When we first started off, we were playing three or four gigs a week. Thursday night in Dallas, Friday night in Denton, and Saturday night on the other side of Denton, just because it’s fun to play. You don’t make any money off of it and you’re lucky to get the free beer. There’s just nothing more fun to do than just be loud.

DES: Do you feel like your live show is your strong suit, having played all these shows and developed your live performance, but having only released one record [Pareidolia]?

Scott: When we made the new record in June, that’s one of the reasons we made the decisions about where we did it and who we did it with. That first album we made is a good record, but it sort of doesn’t sound like us. We are a live band and it’s more of a loud, raw kind of thing. That didn’t translate on the first record, but I think this new one that’s coming out in March pretty much nails the live sound.

Tony: On this new album, we were trying to not create that artificial separation, so everything was tracked live. We were playing live and we just found the person we found that we wanted to record.

DES: In two days, I understand.

Tony: Yes.

Scott: Two solid days of recording and one day of mixing.

DES: That’s break-neck.

Scott: We were ready for it, because we practiced more in the two or three months preceding the recording than we had practiced in the past two years. Seriously. We’d go a month without practicing and knew we could nail the set down just being a decent band. When Tony joined up, that’s why we were able to do it in two days. We knew that shit forwards and backwards.

DES: Are any of the tracks on the new record a first take?

Scott: I think “American Weed” is. I imagine several of them.

DES: No producer probably lets you get away with just one take.

Scott: No, there are a couple where we only did one. And I don’t think any of them are more than three or four [takes]. Sometimes there would be a couple of false starts, but it was pretty clear when you’d get done, you’d just know. I think if we hadn’t taken the time to go upstairs and listen to them after every take, it would have taken us one day.

Tony: You were talking about no producer letting you get away with that. That was one of the things that Steve [Albini] was really good about. He doesn’t sweat the details. If you fuck up a little thing here and there, he’ll point it out, but he doesn’t care if you fix it or not. It was like he could assess how good we were and what we were capable of. He knew if we got a take and we weren’t capable of doing any better than that, he’d pretty clearly say, “That sounds good. Let’s stick with that.”

DES: Speaking of the record, John Congleton [of the Paper Chase] was involved with the post-production stuff, how did that come around?

Tony: We had two days to record and one to mix. As it turned out, that third mix day went too fast and nobody had the right ears at the time. Steve did everything he could and worked as fast as he could and we still ended up with two songs that weren’t mixed. So we knew were going to have to get some mixing done when we got back to Dallas. I pretty quickly called up John and he said he’d love to get in on it. At the same time, J.C. [Justin Collins] decided he wanted a second crack at it. So they concurrently worked on the mixes. Then it was great, because we had two different options.

Scott: Yeah, they approached it differently.

Tony: Which is really good, because that’s what we wanted, to hear the mixes of two people with really good ears, and we can just choose what sound we wanted to lean towards. So then we had to decide and that was a drag, but in the end, I think J.C. [Justin Collins] knew the sound of the band better.

Scott: It was his idea for us to even go to Chicago.

Tony: And we ended up favoring his mixes because they were a little more guitar heavy whereas Congleton has this insanely awesome drum and bass thing going. To me, that’s what sounds so great about his mixes is that the drums sound like cannons. So we ended up using one of John’s mixes on the album and another little piece, the end of another song. So we actually have three mixes of the album: the Albini mix, the Congleton mix, and the JC mix.

DES: Any hope of a triple release?

Scott: Well, one thing we talked about…the Paper Stain guys have a cassette release line, so when we start selling the record, as a little keepsake for the record release shows, we’re going to probably put some of the Albini mixes on cassette tape for the first fifty people or something.

DES: You’ve got SXSW coming up and you’ve played showcases in ’05 and ’06 – didn’t make ’07 – but this time you’re actually playing the festival?

Scott: Yeah, we’re actually in the conference this time. We just found out we’re playing Saturday at a place called Buffalo Billiards. I just want to find out who we’re playing with. I’m pretty sure we’re not playing with Dolly Parton.

Upcoming Shows

2008-01-31T09:24:00.000-06:00

Saturday's loaded. Obscenely Unseen 2 is taking place over at Space Studio from 2pm - 1am, beginning, I believe, with Record Hop. You also have an opportunity to see Boys Named Sue twice and see local bands take over the Loft. Don't forget Mom at And/Or, because there's no hipper place to catch music than an art gallery.

Thursday, January 31

Pleasant Grove @
Doublewide - Dallas - 3510 Commerce St.
$5

Friday, February 1

Boys Named Sue @
Allgood Cafe - Dallas - 2934 Main
Free

Saturday, February 2

Record Hop @
Space Studio - Dallas - 2814 Main, Ste. 201
9pm, Cost $5

Red Monroe w/ The Demigs and Black Tie Dynasty @
The Loft - Dallas - 1135 S. Lamar
$12

Boys Named Sue @
Club Dada - Dallas - 2720 Elm
Cost N/A

The Sword @ Lola's - Jan. 25, 2008

2008-01-28T14:13:00.000-06:00

It took a recent Rolling Stone article sympathetic to the Aqua-Net era of metal to remind me just how much I hate hair bands. The article, an analysis of the Rocklahoma festival, was trying to explore the nuances of pop-metal cock rock in the mid to late 80s, playing up the philosophical potential for the whiskey and tits hedonism of bands like Motley Crue, Poison, and Ratt. But the fact is that the whole genre was exactly as shallow as Brett Michaels’ eye shadow and deserved its abrupt ending and its embarrassing comeback attempts. The trend was annoying in its day and hilarious now, but perhaps more seriously, hair metal was an abomination to real metal.

Real metal is made by unpopular kids, the kids with patchy mustaches and skinny arms. The kids who got picked on, who developed morbid tastes in movies and t-shirt art. Basically me. I was, as a teenager, enamored with metal of the Black Sabbath and Cliff Burton Metallica variety, a disciple of the minor scale, a worshipper of twin guitar solos. Real heavy metal was darker and more aggressive than its glitzier counterpart. I felt like it made up for my lack of aggression and power in daily life. The experience was too morose to be called escapism and a little more grounded than fantasy, but there was certainly a cathartic element at work. I could agree with and participate in the power expressed in large, chunky notes even if it didn’t manifest itself in any practical way. It’s the same odd metaphysic that draws any kind of fan to any kind of music. Likewise, real metal was made for people who needed a cathartic. Hair metal was made for preppies. Some people might think Austin’s The Sword are something like a monument to that darker era of metal, a newly dusted album of yellowed photos from the past, but I believe in The Sword‘s present utilization, even if it is augmented by nostalgia.

The Sword are, in every respect, old time metal. Tag-teaming on Friday night with fellow Austinians, The High Cost of Living, The Sword turned Ft. Worth venue Lola’s into a big riff paradise. Like their musical predecessors, there was no pretense with The Sword. With barely a murmur of introduction, the quartet pitched themselves into the popular “Freya,” stopping only for an occasional word of gratitude for the rest of the set. The sight was bewitching: undulating mops of hair, rhythmically agreeing with the heavy footfalls of the music. Occasionally, things would halt and either of the guitars would cleave the noise with a nimble arpeggio. I jumped and threw myself around like a true moron, clutching my newly-purchased t-shirt in my left hand, throwing up devil horns while whooping my praise. The abandon was glorious. I left the venue with a headache and hoarse of voice, beaming with childish renewal.

The next day my neck hurt and still does. It’s been nearly a decade since my neck hurt the day after a show. But the question remains: are The Sword a legitimate band making art people can use or are they just good ol’ throwback fun? It’s a circular question, because nostalgia is useful all by itself. It’s a matter whether or not a band like The Sword makes music that affects you in any way beyond helping you recall Dukes of Hazzard or your high score on pinball. The better way to phrase the question would be: are there still pimply malcontented teenagers with no fashion sense who can’t bench press their own weight? I think there are, and I hope they discover The Sword.

For some videos of the show, featuring The Sword, The High Cost of Living, and Record Hop, visit Parade of Flesh. This site, by the way, always seems to get great video of local shows. If I get fired in the near future, it will likely be their fault.

Weekend Engagements Worth Considering

2008-01-25T09:12:00.000-06:00

Big weekend of music in DFW. Make sure you go to at least one of these, but you should really think about doubling up on your show-going this weekend.

Friday, January 25th

Record Hop w/ the Sword @
Lola's - Fort Worth - 2736 W. 6th St.
$10

Loop 12 @
And/Or Gallery - Dallas - 4221 Bryan St. Ste B
Free

Mundo & Lifted MC @
Green Elephant - Dallas - 5627 Dyer St
$7

The Red Herring's @
Lakewood Bar & Grill - Dallas - 6340 Gaston
$5

Free to Kill Again @
Bar of Soap - Dallas - Exposition & Parry

Saturday, Januray 26th

Bleach Boys @
Xtream Dudes Manor - Denton - 1119 Frame St.
$5

Tree Wave w/ Koji Kondo @
Rubber Gloves - Denton - 411 E. Sycamore
$5

Space Cadet w/ Wonderfool and The Future Cast @
Doublewide - Dallas - 3510 Commerce
$5

Zanzibar @
FG Gallery - Arlington - 2800 W. Division
Price Unknown

The Alchemy of Texas: Reverend Horton Heat with Nashville Pussy

2008-01-21T11:46:00.000-06:00

The first understanding I had of Texas was as an arrangement of irreducibles. I was in Adairs for the first time when that happened and the Boys Named Sue had just begun a set that would stretch well into the night. The room was packed with rockabillies and Texas geezers. The rest of the space was taken up by Shiner and country music. It was then, as a disillusionment that left one with only alcohol, rage, and humor, that I started to see the modern nation of Texas. Admittedly, that's looking at a place through bizarrely colored glasses, but it's an aspect of the region that I see pop up now and again like I did at the Reverend Horton Heat show on Saturday night.

Nashville Pussy's personnel is an amalgamation of geography that stretches to Canada, but the spirit of the band is the bourbon-stained South. Blain Cartwright is the voice of the band and self-proclaimed redneck from a Kentucky trailer park. Cartwright, himself a disciple of the philosophy of irreducibles, sums up his ethos with two elements: "hate and whiskey." Add to that truncated list a guitar-shredding heroine who makes men lick her boots before giving them a guitar solo, and you would have a fair description of Nashville Pussy. Only a band fueled by hate and whiskey could be responsible for the musical explosion at the Granada Theater last Saturday. The aforementioned guitarist, pictured above, capped off the evening by allowing an audience member to pour liquor in her mouth before she spewed it back at the audience, climbed the light rigging, and began tearing the strings from her guitar and throwing them to the crowd.

The Reverend Horton Heat would have been upstaged by that exhibition if they hadn't followed it up with a set that exceeded two hours. The exceptional thing about the Reverend is the bareness of his guitar. Ever since Billy Corgan's big muff guitar effect antics from the Smashing Pumpkins, the general public has been spoiled with rock and roll doused in angsty fuzz. It's not a bad thing. Practically my whole CD collection is angsty fuzz. It's an expressionistic liberty, to distort instruments, and I like it. But I also appreciate how the Reverend is still, for the most part, rattling our teeth with accelerated swing guitar. That double-time approach, combined with the Rev's polished vocal caterwaul, accelerates into what we know as psychobilly. The end result is a sound as brash and racy as all the flaming dice tattoos and pompadours in the crowd. And it hinges entirely on the band's technique. The Reverend proved as much by racing through tunes from Bill Haley, Elvis, Cash, and Black Sabbath with aplomb. I've seen the Reverend Horton Heat one other time, in Boston, but he had nowhere near the command over the crowd as he did on this evening. Dallas seems to be struggling to apprehend its own musical identity. Most of the area's bands have disintegrated or moved somewhere else. As a front-runner of Dallas' old guard, I think Pastor Heath is the city's best shot at a musical patriarch.

Weekend Engagements Worth Considering

2008-01-18T17:02:00.000-06:00

Jan 18 (tonight) - Les Savy Fav w/ Mom @ The Loft - Dallas - $14

Jan 19 (Saturday) - The Reverend Horton Heat @ Granada - $23

Jan 19 (Saturday) - 9 acts beginning at 3:30pm including RTB2, The Backsliders, and The Red Herrings @ Bar of Soap - Dallas - $5

Jan 19 (Saturday) - Matthew and the Arrogant Sea @ The Prophet Bar - Dallas - $7

Album Review

2008-01-18T10:13:00.000-06:00

A week ago, I had ambitions of reviewing Policia! Policia!. Late as it would be, I wanted to see if I had the chops to write a decent music review after authoring paragraphs of drivel for Dallas Music Guide. But after three straight posts about the same album’s remix, I figured a review would be overkill and was ready to abandon the idea. Truthfully, Policia! Policia! hadn’t made much of an impact on me anyway, until yesterday during a trip to Wichita Falls. I wanted to hear the album again before I listened to the remix, so I brought it along. Maybe it was my rented Four Runner’s superior audio system, but the album finally crossed that blessed line between listenable and infectious.

What happened is I finally started listening to the words. As a music-listener, I’m very much an infant with letter blocks. I’ll build forts or castles or factories with them, but very rarely do I actually notice the alphabet in front of me. The first time I heard Policia! Policia!, I related to the music spatially, noticing the couple of times the songs would drop into a higher gear and the gravity of the riff took them over. The musical result was jarring, surprising, pleasant. Relating to the music literarily, though, adds a new dimension.

Anyone who heard Red Monroe’s debut, Meeting on a Train, or even their self-titled EP, noticed the band made a drastic swerve with Polica! Policia!. The previous sound was one of finesse, favoring sounds that surrounded the listener, to the point of eschewing a catchier take of the song “Althea” for a simpler one awash with distant background noise. I thought Red Monroe’s music would get spacier, floatier, more ambient with each album. By stark contrast, Polica! Policia! finds the band sharper nearer-at-hand. The lyrics have gone from ominous reverie to naked palpability. The approach now resembles Flannery O’Conner’s terrifying Southern gothic. “She waits on a tidal wave” becomes “taking you from your parent’s basement is like trying to peel flesh from a stone.” The former, from Meeting on a Train is dreamier, but makes more sense. The latter, from Policia! Policia!, is much more tangible, but cryptic.

Personally, I think Dallas finally got to Red Monroe. DFW’s attractive real-estate prices and sunny weather is supposed to make it play nice. But Dallas is mean. It railroads over the poor and chases off the homeless. In the words of Deep Ellum graffiti, Dallas hearts cash and little else. Red Monroe says as much: “The difference is Southern businesses will kill you then call your kids to collect.” Policia! Policia! hits closer to the bone with all its flesh and factories and knee high boots. The album’s characters are realer too: fickle, indecisive, with minds full of sex and murder. If the lyrical narrative is befuddling, it’s also near. It’s funny how the stuff of the day-to-day that rubs up against your arms, hits you in the chest, and gets in your eyes can be the most confusing, most frightening, most imposing.

The value of Policia! Policia! is that it fairly evokes this abutment of Dallas and myself. State fairs, corrupt government, the desperately impoverished, the unimaginably rich, they all exist side-by-side in this surreal trailhead called Dallas. Red Monroe is confronting the joy and the junk of the place at eye level. That’s the quality that makes me feel a new solidarity with the material and that, to me, is the chief aim of experiencing music.

Policia! Policia! remix now available

2008-01-16T13:19:00.000-06:00

The blog has been a little choppy with one sprawling existential discourse on Chris Whitley and three hiccups about a Red Monroe remix. Not really what I intended when I started this thing nearly two weeks ago. But I'm nothing if not honest and I told you I'd point you to the actual remix once it was available. The downloadable file is hosted by We Shot JR and you can get it here.

Policia! Policia! remix release moved to Jan. 13th...

2008-01-08T12:19:00.000-06:00

...or at least that's the good word from Architects and Heroes.

Almost everything escapes my attention

2008-01-08T11:40:00.000-06:00

I barely caught onto this one. Apparently, Dallas' own Red Monroe is releasing a remix of Policia!Policia! by various and, I think, mostly local artists and it comes out today. No word yet on how to obtain it--the purchase link on Red Monroe's Myspace sends you nowhere--but get a load of this lineup.

DJ Stephen R
Treewave
Mom
Picnic/PPT
Smile Smile
Wanz Dover
The Hourly Radio
Jasinski
Jay Wadley

I'll let you know when and where to get it. For now, you can munch on one of the transmogrifications that didn't make the cut. I got this one from the guys over at Stereo on Strike and its ripe for aural mastication. A word of warning: what you'll be downloading is a zipped up .wav file weighing in at a whopping 47 MB. But if I can do it, so can you. If you're really so strapped for space, give it at least one good listen and delete it.

Sundown Shade (The Frenz Bumpin the Bonham Mix)