The Flatliners - 'Cavalcade'

“Live through, live strong / Carry on and on and on / No more false-start life at traffic lights.” The Flatliners – “Carry the Banner”

On their third full-length, Cavalcade, the Flatliners deliver more energetic punk rock in the vein of Smoke or Fire, Dead to Me and Lost City Angels. The vocals are gruff, the tempos are quick and the tunes are all about drinkin’ and failin’. The difference lies in the tone, though. Flatliners never wallow in pity, making Cavalcade an awfully hopeful record, even if it deals with topics like economic disparity and familial strife.

Like 2007’s The Great Awake, the group’s ska influences are severely turned down, with only “He Was a Jazzman” and one section in “Shithawks” showing any semblance of reggae rhythms. Nowadays, the group’s punk is a little more pure. Drunk Midwestern punks are gonna love this stuff, as they should. These songs are rapid fire rabble-rousers.

The opening two-hit combo of “The Calming Collection” and “Carry the Banner” is so effective that the band would be wise to maintain that order live. The two songs combine to form five minutes of really awesome, “up with people” punk. “Bleed” keeps the good vibes going, while “Here Comes Treble” pauses to apologize to alienated relatives. Chris Cresswell’s gravelly vocals sell every line.

Admittedly, Cavalcade drops off a little in its second half. There’s nothing wrong with more Lawrence Arms-ish rockin’, but with tunes as fine as “The Calming Collection” and “Here Comes Treble” waiting in the front, it’s tempting to skip back to the beginning over and over. Maybe it’s the record’s running time. Forty minutes is slightly too long for this style, but the 12 tracks presented here are all so fine that any editing would just start fights among listeners (Although I would’ve cut “Sleep Your Life Away.” Discuss). Cavalcade should make fans want to choose life, make love to the moon and kiss a grizzly right in front of his mama. Or at least drive slightly faster than normal. It’s that kind of a feel-good album.

The Mountain Goats and Final Fantasy at the Theater of Living Arts

John Darnielle of indie/folk masters the Mountain Goats seems to have a fondness for Philadelphia. He writes for metal mag Decibel, which is printed in Philly. Goats drummer Jon Wurster is from the area. He commands a fanatic cult, but isn’t afraid to play smaller venues like the North Star Bar or local college campuses. And when he does falter live, as any human is bound to eventually do, he makes up for it tenfold. So, obviously, the guy was gonna put on a great show for fans when he hit the TLA Sat., Nov. 28 with Final Fantasy. That’s pretty much a given. But the exact way he would do it – mixing crowd pleasers and deep cuts, playing some songs astonishingly softly for such a medium-sized venue while also going louder than he ever has before – could never be predicted.

See, the Goats have a lot of songs. Fansite Themountaingoats.net counts 525. The band has such a wealth of tunes that Darnielle is able to pull out obscure songs whenever he wants, much to superfans’ delight. That alone ensures that most Goats shows are unique. Throw in the band’s tendency to perform songs with their tourmates, as well the Goats’ recent swelling to a four-piece with the addition of guitarist Perry Wright (The Prayers & Tears of Arthur Digby Sellers; check out The Mother of Love Emulates the Shapes of Cynthia sometime), and the uniqueness of each performance is that much more assured. Nov. 28 was no exception.

The night began with Final Fantasy, a.k.a. violinist/vocalist Owen Pallett. Accompanied by a guitarist/percussionist, Pallett crafted polyphonic wonders using his violin, a keyboard, and enough loop pedals to fight whatever apocalyptic future awaits us. Calling his music orchestral pop doesn’t sound quite right since A) we’re talking about a one-man orchestra, B) Pallett’s tunes have a lot of dance and pop elements, and C) dude is too funny to be pigeonholed. The guy’s classical background shows – he’s clearly talented – but he didn’t come off as pompous while discussing his music at all. Ditto for when he called out some obnoxious, talkative non-listeners, wryly saying, “Were you guys talking this whole time? I didn’t notice because I was so into the music.” Overall, Pallett put on an entertaining show. I anticipate his upcoming 2010 record, Heartland.

By Pallett’s own admission, opening for the Mountain Goats is intimidating given his fervent fanbase (of which I consider myself a member). Pallett’s set wrapped up by 9:50 p.m., and by 10:10 I was losing my patience. I needed a Goats fix. When the houselights dimmed at 10:15, the crowd, and me, collectively lost its shit. The Goats hit the stage and tore into…

Wait, I don’t know this song. How do I not know this song? I just listened to 18 hours of TMG tunes. I should know this song. Think, think. This song is so awesome, with its boisterous arrangement. Wurster looks like he’s having such a great time. They’re singing about handball. How many Goats songs are about that?

That’s right, the Mountain Goats opened with “Hand Ball,” originally from the compilation Our Salvation is in Hand, later compiled on the rarities collection Protein Source of the Future...Now!. They did it with a full band too, which shows how much Wurster has integrated into Darnielle and bassist Peter Hughes’ dynamic. Darnielle has always had a knack for loud acoustic ditties – have you heard “Cubs in Five?” – but Wurster and Wright pushed that aspect harder on songs like “Palmcorder Yajna,” “This Year,” and “See America Right.” “Romans 10:9,” one of the poppier songs from new album Life of the World to Come, turned out surprisingly, wonderfully heavy. It was perhaps my favorite performance of the night. Of the five times I’ve seen the Mountain Goats, this was their most rocking set.

Of course, an ebb and flow can do plenty for a live show. The Goats added softer songs like “Deuteronomy 2:10” and Life outtake “Enoch 18:14,” after which Darnielle went solo for a bit, knocking out obscurities like a so-far-unreleased cover of the Chiffons’ “One Fine Day,” “From TG&Y,” and “Song for Dana Plato,” all of which went over well with the crowd. After that, Darnielle went even deeper with “Going to Michigan” by the Extra Glenns, a band he was in with Nothing Painted Blue frontman Franklin Bruno. Pallett came out to play the guitar part from “Going to Bristol” on his violin, and it was good. Damn good. There was a bit of respect and nerd love between the two performers, as Pallett would come back for performances of “Hebrews 11:40,” “This Year,” and “No Children.”

The rest of the band came out to wrap up the regular set, concluding with rabblerousers “See America Right” and “This Year.” “This Year” gets a little bit louder and faster every time I see it live, which, given that it’s one of the most beloved, best TMG songs, is always welcome.

After a two-song encore of “Ezekiel 7 and the Permanent Efficacy of Grace,” which featured Hughes’ bass at its heaviest, and “No Children,” I felt ever so slightly disappointed. See, I interviewed Darnielle a little while ago via e-mail. He dodged a few of my questions, one of which was a show request for his cover of “Dirty Old Town,” as my girlfriend and I have a lot of memories attached to that song. Since Darnielle didn’t outright shoot me down, I wondered, nay hoped, that maybe he really would play the song. He didn’t. But then the band came out for a second encore and played a full band version of “The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton,” which is, scientifically speaking, the greatest Mountain Goats song of all time. Some people might say “Going to Georgia” (which I’ve heard live, suckaz) or “Going to Maine,” but those people are wrong, and perhaps even insane. The show opened to strains of Dio and closed with raised fists and shouts of “Hail Satan!” Decibel, and a lot of Philly’s Mountain Goats fans, would’ve been proud.

Set list

Hand Ball
Old College Try
Cotton
Palmcorder Yajna
Romans 10:9
Deuteronomy 2:10
Enoch 18:14
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One Fine Day (Chiffons cover, went solo)
From TG&Y
Song for Dana Plato
Going to Michigan (Extra Glenns cover)
Going to Bristol (with Owen Pallett)

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Hebrews 11:40 (back to full band with OP)
Psalms 40:2
Song for Dennis Brown
See America Right
This Year (with OP)
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Ezekiel 7 and the Permanent Efficacy of Grace
No Children (with OP)
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The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton

Friends of Friends - 'Deep Search'

Me: RIYL Man! What are you doing here?!

RIYL Man: Zounds abounds, I’m here to recommend things, based on the assumption that you like other things! For example, if you like saving the environment, preharps you would enjoy composting your own feces!

Me: That’s gross! You’re gross!

RIYL Man: Not gross; just actual and factual, my young ward. Hey, do you enjoy Hot Water Music, O Pioneers!!!, and the late, lamented sounds of Latterman?

Me: Boy Augustus do I! I love those bands more than certain family members! More than Dubliner cheese even!

RIYL Man: Well then strap in, my darling faced boy, because I recommend to you here and now a band that comprises the qualities of all three bands. They’re punk, they take their name from Flight of the Conchords… they are… Friends of Friends!

Me: Hold on, you’re telling me that if I act now, I’ll get the tote bag, the giraffe grater, a lifetime supply of raw milk, and a band that blend’s Latterman’s energy with Hot Water Music’s power? Why, that’s a deal in stereo! But surely it must cost like a bajillion dollars, right?

RIYL Man: First off, I never promised a giraffe grater. Second of all, no! No, no, no, foolish lad! Everybody knows friends share things! That’s why Friends of Friends are giving away their album Deep Search for free, through the Internets! They just love you so got-damned much, you ungrateful little shit.

Me: You’re scaring me, uh, RIYL Man.

RIYL Man: I’ll tell ya what’s scary, how great this album sounds. Hell, even if it sucked, you’d still get yer money’s worth. Deep Search boasts 10 tracks of guitar-laden, No Idea-esque, Florida punk. Play it for your cool older brother because it’ll remind him of his skater days, play it for your folks because it’s relatively profanity free, play it for that girl you like because she will think you are a smart man for recognizing the beauty of Friends of Friends. When she hears the heart-rending intensity of “Enough Was Enough” and the nihilistic, religious tones of “Stillness Illness,” she will realize that you listen to good music, and that you must therefore be awesome. It’s the transitive property in action, my juvenile Jelone.

And hey, maybe you’ll dig the band for their use of funny samples in between songs. But surely you’ll be entranced (ENTRANCED!) by the gruff vocals, pounding drums, and copious amounts of rock. Some of it will make you want to dance (“Desert Bed”) and some of it will make you want to jump up and down with your fist raised like you are at a rally, a rally for fun (“Land of Left Behind,” “Some Kind of Fake”). Also at this rally there will be funnel cake.

Me: Neat-o skeet-o, Big Bombino! I’m gonna do something with my life and download Deep Search today!

RIYL Man: Kiss me.

Me: Yes sir.

forgetters at the Barbary

“When the measure of your work is the measure of your worth / Then you better make it work,” Jets to Brazil – “The Frequency”

forgetters, the majuscule-challenging new band from vocalist/guitarist Blake Schwarzenbach (ex-Jawbreaker/Jets to Brazil, in case you forgot), drummer Kevin Mahon (ex-Against Me!) and bassist Caroline Paquita (ex-Bitchin’), played their fourth show ever Fri., Sept. 25, at Philadelphia’s the Barbary, with support from Onion Flavored Rings and Amateur Party. It was amazing.

Amateur Party opened the night quite well. Frontman Mike McKee (Armalite/ex-Kill the Man Who Questions) spouted leftist anthems like “Let Youth Be Your Drug,” “Public Utility Complaint,” and “Gun Fever.” The music was similar to McKee’s other bands – socially conscious punk with a D.C. hardcore bent, yet so catchy that this guy could be truly dangerous if he ever got his hands on the infernal youths of America – with a healthy injection of folk a la Ted Leo. Drummer Steve Roche and bassist Scott Mercer formed a tight trio with McKee, although the band still provided loose, fun, angry tunes about got-damn corporations and gun violence in Philly. Lyrics tend to get buried at punk shows, so it was cool of McKee to explain the meanings behind his songs (i.e. – “Public Utility Complaint” is about legislation Pennsylvania energy companies pushed through to make it easier to shut off peoples’ heat during the winter). The band has a seven-inch out now; go buy it.

Onion Flavored Rings, by contrast, seemed a little outclassed. The band went for a straighter bubblegum pop-punk sound – think Ramones mixed with Dead Milkmen. These guys had a bit of legacy on their side too, as bassist Paul Curran did time in Crimpshrine. But given how sloppily the band played in between fits of awkward stage banter (or lack thereof), it’s probably best not to think about that. While OFR weren’t exactly bad, they were easily the weak link in an otherwise stellar evening.

But you didn’t click this review to read about OFR. forgetters were the main draw. While the Barbary was a little empty during the first two bands (I blame the early start time. 6:30 p.m. on a Friday in a city whose streets seem to be perpetually under construction probably wasn’t convenient for a lot of people), the place was packed by the time forgetters went on. Which is good, because they are a very good band. They play very good songs. They say very funny things in between the very good songs. And they just generally make me abuse words like “very” and “good.” And this isn’t just the superfan in me talking (Although, can we pause to reflect that is a Jawbreaker/Against Me! supergroup? Is that OK?). At least one new fan remarked that forgetters might be the best Schwarzen-band yet.

Aw, but describing the band’s sound is tricky. Well, OK, it’s easy: Rock and/or roll. But there are so many mines to avoid. Schwarzenbach’s guitar tone definitely recalls Jawbreaker circa Dear You – dark, ominous, raw. But this ain’t 24 Hour Retread Therapy. In a way – and I might be making it worse for all the post-Revenge haters out there – the group seems more like a logical extension of Jets to Brazil. Swan song Perfecting Loneliness had moments of danceable indie rock, like “You’re the One I Want” and “William Tell Override,” which plays a role in forgetters, though obviously without piano or strings or country inflections or pretty vocals. That’s right; Blake’s back to screaming, and it is glorious. Throw in a pinch of Siamese Dream’s guitar pyrotechnics and Pornography’s romanticism/depression too.

Being the first time I’ve heard Mahon drum since, uh, AM!’s 2001 EP Crime, it was a thorough revelation just how comfortable the guy seems going from rock to 16-note dance beats. The group joked about going goth (“Do you wanna get down?” asked Schwarzenbach, to which Mahon chimed in, “Like sober-down?”), though that self-deprecation bears a hint of truth. Obviously, I’m just going off of surface glances, but the band’s got a song called “Vampire Lessons.” At least one of the tunes is about trying to believe in love. But then, “Not Funny” is about an Afghani girl torn between her love for a soldier and her father, so I’m pretty sure Blake’s lyrics overall are going to seem more political once I actually get to read them.

There were some missteps. Blake flubbed “Not Funny,” but he played it off well, and the band pulled together to finish the song. Some kid whose parents didn’t acknowledge him enough kept shouting “Holla,” and his attention-seeking behavior killed the mood every time. But these are insignificant bumps on an otherwise perfect show. For the record, I hope forgetters stick around for a while. Each member is essential, both in terms of songwriting and live performance. Schwarzenbach is the charmer, Mahon is the wiseacre and Paquita is the quiet, awkward genius. They’re all funny, they all rock and they form a strong contender for “New Favorite Band.”

I have a set list for you, though I should mention that A) It probably means nothing to you since none of these songs have been recorded and B) At least one of the songs listed (“1982”), which I got from reading Paquita’s list upside down in the dark, is not the full title. There’s already at least one video from the night online, but honestly the quality is so bad that you’re better off waiting for a studio recording. Still, get stoked:

Set list:

1. Black Art
2. Helicopter vs. Rabbit
3. Deadly Death
4. Not Funny
5. Vampire Lessons
6. Not Immune
7. 1982
8. Too Small

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9. Track Bike Speed

Closing tidbits: Schwarzenbach recited most of Thomas Hardy’s “Drummer Hodge” for his mic check. I talked to him after the show, and it took every ounce of will power to hold my shit together. I shook the hand of the guy that wrote “Accident Prone.” During our brief conversation, he told me that studio time had been booked and that I could expect a seven-inch eventually. Also, I’ve been holding this pun in for the entire article: Schwarzenbach is Schwarzen-back. Good night!

Fight Fair - 'Settle the Score'

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck no.

San Diego, Calif. crew Fight Fair dishes out autotuned easycore with a dash of dancefloor electronics sprinkled around. Think New Found Glory mashed up with Hellogoodbye. Not bad enough? OK, fine, dick, pretend they sound like 3OH!3. On their Triple Crown debut, Settle the Score, Fight Fair serves up eight such indistinguishable craptastic tunes.

The group’s formula is simple: Start with overproduced pop-punk, add breakdowns, and throw in some studio vocal tricks. Oh, cute, that sounds like a vocoder. Oh wow, “Pop Rocks” opens with a Kool-Aid reference for no particular reason. The result: an unholy abomination! Kill it before it breeds!

Here’s the part where I try to say something nice in the interest of being fair and/or balanced, and I suppose I owe a band named Fight Fair as much. Fight Fair… they uh… hrm. Wait, OK, I got it. They definitely seem to understand their sound. The songs take on all the adolescent talking points: chicks, posers, and this thing called vinyl? I hear all albums sound better on it, even if they were digitally recorded. And the group shows some flashes of brilliance with their hooks, especially with the title track and “Beachfront Ave.” You might hate this band, but those choruses are still going to be stuck in your brain.

But being catchy and being good are two different things. Just look at ad jingles. And while Fair Fight does a decent job at synthesizing pop-punk and hardcore, it’s still laughable whenever the group tries leaning towards breakdowns and anything gruffer than nasally vocals. Based on their lyrics and the “Pop Rocks” music video, Fight Fair seems to like movie references. So here’s one: “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

Fire on the Plains - 'Burning All Bridges'

Botch-style technical hardcore assault? Check. Funny song titles? Triple-check, thanks to “Mia Wallace Foot Massage,” “Lisa Turtle Bukakee,” and the simply titled “Burt Reynolds.” Movie samples? Let’s just say Marsellus Wallace stops by, and he’s “pretty fucking far from OK.” California four-piece Fire on the Plains’ Burning All Bridges is a perfectly conceived EP, delivering five pummeling assaults (plus a rockin’ bonus track) one after another. Running 17 minutes, it cuts out before the formula gets stale.

“Mia Wallace Foot Massage” kicks off the EP, and from the end of its Pulp Fiction sample to the end of the CD, shit gets kicked around. The M.O. is pretty clear: The guitars go from crushing to squealing while the vocals are consistently screamed. The style isn’t necessarily anything innovative, but it’ll still get metalheads where they need to go.

Not that it matters much when the songs are playing, but the band does show a brief glimmer of depth lyrically. “Navaho Joe’s Last Dance” discusses white oppression of minorities in America, specifically Native Americans circa New World colonialism and Japanese-Americans circa World War II. It’s a random political thought on an EP that otherwise traffics in hardcore clichés. Line after line condemns the listener for being a jerk. “How can you stand to look at yourself, the subtleties you thought that nobody pick up on,” asks “Burt Reynolds,” while “Mia Wallace” is angry about “you dictating what’s best for me.” “Lisa Turtle Bukakke” might get a laugh for its title, but the lyrics take a hateful turn when a love interest torments the protagonist like “a walrus trapped in the clutches of the polar bear.” It’s not exactly hateful towards women, but it does come off a little emotionally stunted, and that’s coming from a guy who spins Nothing Gold Can Stay for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

But the topics are easy to ignore, because, hey, I have no idea what the fuck the band is saying without a cheat sheet. In the moment, Burning All Bridges is a promising thrasher.

regarding Fabulous Stains covers.

YACHT, whom I have never heard of until just now, is putting out a 7" of Fabulous Stains covers entitled Don't Put Out June 16. HECK YES. It'll feature "Waste of Time" and "Professionals" from the '80s cult film, Ladies and Gentleman, The Fabulous Stains. "Waste of Time" is streaming via the link above. The band gives it a great tweaking, keeping the apathetic vocals but blending in a poppy disco groove. Given how sparse the original was with just rudimentary guitar, this cover is both faithful yet original. If I had money, I'd try to score one of the 1,000 copies pressed, but I'll prolly have to settle for the digital option.

Speaking of da Stains, check out Ladies and Gentleman, The Fabulous Stains. It's a surprisingly smart punk flick (featuring a very young Diane Lane and Laura Dern) that predicts the riot grrl movement. It chronicles the rise and fall of Lane 'n' Dern's band, The Fabulous Stains, and the impact their violent feminist music has on America's lady-youth. At 87 minutes, it's not a perfect film - the rise/fall dynamic is forced and naive and there are some really stupid movie cliches - but the soundtrack, which blends glam rock, punk, and reggae is spot-on, perhaps helped by a bevy of icons, including but not limited to Paul Simonon from The Clash and Steve Jones and Paul Cook from the Sex Pistols. Lane is affecting in one of her first film roles, playing fucked-up teenage orphan Corinne Burns with a mix of anger and fragility, determination and nihilism.

Basically, if you like punk rock and hate sexist pigs, check out the flick, then hit up YACHT's covers.

Fake Problems - 'It's Great to Be Alive'

Released in 2007, Fake Problems' full-length debut How Far Our Bodies Go was an infectious folk-punk/Southern rock hybrid jam-packed with witty asides and howling passion. Bodies’ 2009 follow-up, It’s Great to Be Alive, asks the question, “What if we just did the same thing, but bigger? Like Jerry Bruckheimer bigger?” The result is questionable.

It’s Great to Be Alive follows How Far Our Bodies Go’s playbook by opening with a quick mission statement, with “1 2 3 4” replacing “How Far Our Bodies Go.” Instead of singing about scraping by and fucking up (my favorite punk rock topics besides, like, unity and stuff), Alive seems set on detailing raunchy raunchiness and bewitching women. Oh, and cramming as many instruments in as possible. Here’s a list: guitar, banjo, organ, piano, synth, dobro, mandolin, glockenspiel, vibraslap, bass, violin, drums, marching snare (cause a kit’s snare just won’t do!), trombone, flute, baritone saxophone, alto saxophone, tenor saxophone, cello, mellotron, trumpet, and of course trumpets. The result: It’s Great to Be Alive feels fucking cramped.

Another hindrance is the core songwriting. Frontman Chris Farren has flirted with bar band cock rock before (Check the kitschy ode to Evel Knievel “How Do You Spell Hero (E-V-E-L)?”), but he goes too deep here. There’s so much clumsy sex/religion imagery (and glockenspiel) it’s like a younger Meatloaf. When Farren runs out of hackneyed things to say, he settles for that old rock ‘n’ roll staple, the non-word. Such Little Richard-esque non-words presented here include “doo doot doot doo doo” and “a-doot doot doot doot doo-doo.” It’s no "womp-bomp-a-loom-op-a-womp-bam-boom," but whatever.

Beneath its superfluous layers, It’s Great to Be Alive’s biggest fault is its homogeny. Sure, the band explores disco punk on songs like “Diamond Rings” and “You’re a Serpent, You’re a She-Snake” and gets their most thrillingly epic (and even romantic) on closer “Heart BPM.” And “The Dream Team” is an incredible Ramones-y cut. But for the most part, It’s Great to Be Alive sounds like overproduced versions of Fake Problems songs I like. And there’s little point in playing approximations when I can just put on the real thing. Which is funny, since Farren straight up says “I hate repeating myself release after release” on “Level With the Devil.” I guess hating it doesn’t stop him from doing it. Fake Problems is a fantastic live band, one of my current favorites, so maybe this new material will win me over once it sheds its strings. For the time being, though, I’ll have to settle for hoping this is a mere sophomore slump and that LP #3 will be better.

Fake Problems - 'How Far Our Bodies Go'

[I just realized I never finished putting up my old reviews for Wonka Vision, City Paper, and such. So uh... here's some more oldies.]

If nothing else, Florida folk-punk band Fake Problems deserves credit for the quickest turnaround (in possibly) ever. You see, the first 23 seconds or so of the group’s full-length debut, How Far Our Bodies Go, suck. Hard. Frontman Chris Farren is not the strongest vocalist out there and, as he sings a call and response with a chorus over some strummed guitar on the album’s eponymous opener, he sounds like he’s trying to break free from the strangulated shackles of pre-pubescence (which is a dickhead way of saying he’s sort of out of his range). But after this false start, rest assured, How Far Our Bodies Go shifts up from “suck” to “dangerously awesome” for the remainder of its 36-minute running time.

From the second track (”Born & Raised”) to the closing thirteenth one (”Para Tur”), How Far Our Bodies Go serves up the best punk rock hoedown of 2007. Existing somewhere between Against Me! and Social Distortion, Fake Problems pick up and drop instruments like organ, fiddle, glockenspiel and horns on a whim, allowing the band to experiment with its songs without being restricted to any given instrumental style.

“Born & Raised,” in which main problem child Farren weighs joining the army versus going back to college, is furious and quick, but it still finds time to slip in some organ and background “boo-booo”s to sweeten the song. “Maestro of This Rebellious Symphony” switches out the organ for some fiddle and horn mix, and it’s just as delicious.

One of the beautiful things about what punk is (supposed to be), is that it is a genre open to experimentation and free association. Fake Problems do just that. You wanna hear a 30-second song about astronauts written for a strumstick? Check out “Astronaut.” You wanna hear a lovelorn, frenetic folk-punk tune segue into a “preprise” of another song that’s two tracks away for no reason? Put on the romper-stomper “Crest on the Chest.” In the mood for an epic album centerpiece? The triumphant tones of the five-minute “To Repel Ghosts” should more than suffice.

Basically, Fake Problems need to be popular; stat. How Far Our Bodies Go is one of the strongest releases, punk or otherwise, of 2007. It’s the kind of album that draws the listener in and demands he and/or she scream out every got-damned line. Be sure to come out for the band’s gig at Siren Records in Doylestown, PA on June 13th. Extra points if ya sing along.

Smoke or Fire/Far From Finished/Static Radio NJ live October 3, 2008

Smoke or Fire at the Fire. Smoke or Fire at the Fire. Smoke or Fire at the Fire. Oh man, it never stops being fun to say. A good crowd found themselves set up for a deeeee-lightful small venue show from the Fat Wreck band Friday, October 3, with some help from Far From Finished, Static Radio NJ, 9:18, and Stay Sharp. Sure, things may have started off awkwardly for early concertgoers, with The Fire’s bartender insisting just a little too hard that he’d give a free shot to whoever danced to Tone Loc’s “Funky Cold Medina” and Michael Jackson’s “Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough,” but in his defense, it was totally “Freaky Friday.” Either way, once Stay Sharp starting playing in the adjoining showroom, everything was A-OK.

Philadelphia’s Stay Sharp dabbles in the catchy hardcore perfected by Kid Dynamite, although the vocals have a forcefulness more reminiscent of early Propagandhi or Good Clean Fun. Regardless of how you break down their style, though, Stay Sharp is pretty dang awesome. Plus, they have a song called “Hatfield of Dreams,” a joke that only makes sense to Southeastern Pennsylvanians and ham enthusiasts. These guys seem to open for every half-decent punk show to come through Philadelphia. I’ve seen them open for Crime in Stereo, Fake Problems, Paint It Black, The Menzingers, and Smoke or Fire before, and I like them a little more each time. Either they’re getting better or I’m getting more and more addicted to this style. Either way, Stay Sharp’s brief set was an excellent opener, although the sound guy seemed to pile on the reverb for no particular reason. The echo effect was distracting at first, but as the show went on it began to strangely enhance certain performances.

The second opening act, 9:18, consisted of four fresh-faced, ’90s punk-loving New Jersians. Boasting the kind of ramshackle quality in fellow Garden Staters The Ergs! and early Bouncing Souls, 9:18 took some time to get into their set. The group’s first few songs were sloppy in a rushed, nervous way, as if the band was spooked to be opening for Smoke or Fire. 9:18 gradually found a nice groove, however, and even threw in a Souls cover. I’m pretty sure it was “Say Anything” from The Bouncing Souls, but I’m not going to lie. I was kind of buzzed at this point.

While Stay Sharp and 9:18 were workmanlike with their sets, the onstage mood became much more relaxed once Static Radio NJ started their set. “Here’s the deal: Buy something, or we die,” the band offered, earning a few chuckles. Splitting their set between the recently released An Evening of Bad Decisions… and last year’s One for the Good Guys, more than a few folks wound up at the merch table. The Org’s already made the case for Static Radio NJ blending the ever so subtle differences between Lifetime and Kid Dynamite, so I won’t bother trying to find a new way of mentioning that. What does need to be said, though, is that Static Radio NJ is one of the most jovial up-and-coming punk/hardcore acts I’ve seen in a while. The genre sometimes gets too bogged down in spin kicks and chest thumping; it’s refreshing to see dudes have fun by actually making music. The reverb got more prevalent during the group’s set, which the band joked about several times. In a way, though, it actually enhanced the band’s set, making the aggressive parts more intense (Quote: “It’s like I’m on a mountain”). In addition, the longing in a direct line like “When will I see you all again?”, from “Green Hoody,” became much more touching and profound when drenched in all those audio layers.

The Fire started to fill up during Static Radio NJ’s set, but it wasn’t until Far From Finished went on that the crowd became energized. These Boston bashers turned the audience into a churning mass of sweaty flesh and slurred New Jersey accents with their streamlined take on The Clash, Social Distortion, and Dropkick Murphys. Not as reggae- or Celtic-tinged, Far From Finished is still perfectly suited for a bar show, as evidenced by the massive reaction they got. Frontman Steve Neary constantly fed off of that energy, at various points running into the crowd, even traversing tables to get to people. While I must admit to being a novice to the group’s catalog, Far From Finished won me over with their trusty chords, charming smiles, and kickass tunes. Dudes had a great set, except during the part where I got knocked through a doorway into a dark alley. That sucked.

As for Smoke or Fire, they at least deserve props for soldiering on. The band got screwed for time, singer/guitarist Joe McMahon’s voice was a bit more shredded than usual from a cold, and bassist Gwomper (of Avail! Swoon!) was thoroughly drunk because it was his birthday. That the band’s set ended up being pretty dang fun was a nice addition. To compensate for time, the group kept the chatter to a minimum, ripping through as much of This Sinking Ship as possible, starting with “Melatonin.” McMahon skimped on the shoutier moments of his songs to save his voice, which meant no commands that, hey, maybe you should burn a state down during “California’s Burning.” As for Gwomper, well… it was his birthday. Plus, McMahon kept him in line with the promise of the occasional homoerotic boob grab.

In spite of these hindrances, Smoke or Fire had perhaps the most fun set of the night. The Sinking Ship material sounded great live, with highlights including “Irish Handcuffs,” “The Patty Hearst Syndrome,” “I’ll Be Gone,” and “What Separates Us All.” Hearing McMahon’s socio-political analysis in “What Separates Us All” (“The upper class, the middle class, the lower / We’re all one of the three / It’s true there is a color divide / It’s not black or white it’s green” goes one memorable line) is even better when he can look you in the eye. While it would’ve been nice to hear more Above the City material (No “Point Break?” Denied!), the band was wise to include the fine drinking song “Cryin’ Shame.” Concertgoers were flopping every which way throughout, so I assume I’m not the only one who had a blast.

Adam Franklin - 'Bolts of Melody'

Swervedriver may have burned out back ’99, but the band’s former frontman Adam Franklin has continued on. In between starting new bands like Toshack Highway and Setting Suns (with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino. Righteous!), the duder somehow managed to also crank out a solo album. But it may be perhaps because of all these divergent ventures that said disc, Bolts of Melody, comes off a tad flat and uninspired.

Franklin walks a weird line between country rock and psychedelia, though, and when he’s on, he’s pretty on. Album opener “Seize the Day” is a quick-shot distillation of Franklin’s songwriting style – twangy, slurred, and ever so slightly eerie. Unfortunately, it’s also kind of a clunker, which is extra depressing given that it’s one of the peppiest tunes on Bolts of Melody. None of the songs manages to remain as concise as “Seize the Day,” save for a reprise of the song “Morning Rain,” but that doesn’t really count. Rather, the record just kind of meanders along pointlessly.

But there are some moments of glory to be found as well. Tracks three, four, and five, “Morning Rain,” “Song of Solomon,” and “Theme from LSD,” respectively, are tripped out slow burners. Swervedriver was always misclassified as shoegazer; but on these tunes, Franklin captures the ethereal mood of the genre without sounding derivative of it (r.e. – you can make out what few lyrics surface! Wowzers!). “Theme from LSD” drops vocals in favor of a five minute drugged out jam session, building on simple guitar-monies to provide a sexy musical romp.

The album begins to decline come track six, “Shining Somewhere,” though. From this marker, Franklin sounds like a lot of great acts, but that’s not the same thing as being a great act. The guitar work gets a little more atmospheric on “Shining Somewhere,” but in comparison to more recent rock acts like Autolux and The Raconteurs, Franklin is outclassed. “Birdsong (Moonshiner Version)” channels Nick Drake, but the lyrics are too inept to elicit the same emotional reaction something like Pink Moon would warrant.

On Bolts of Melody, Franklin is a jack of all trades, and a master of dull songwriting. He’s a fairly redundant lyricist, often repeating meaningless phrases (e.g. - “You said you’d find a way” on “Morning Rain,” “Shining somewhere” on, that’s right, “Shining Somewhere”) in lieu of conveying a fully fleshed out message. At least the album proves that Franklin can jam on occasion. However, the musical restraint he brings to Bolts of Melody keeps this release from being worth much.

Flogging Molly - 'Float'

Hype is a bastard (the jerk kind, not the born-outside-of-wedlock kind). It almost instantly sets up an artist and his or her work for a fall by stoking unreasonably high expectations. Such was almost the case when I read the sticker attached to Float, the new record from Flogging Molly.

“Float is one of the most important records of this year, if not the decade,” it read. The source was Alternative Press, a music magazine with terrible cover stories (Hawthorne Heights? Paramore? You guys don’t even like those bands!) but generally right-on taste. Apprehensive, I popped in the disc after purchasing it from an independent record store (Yes, I love supporting artists, local businesses and parenthetical statements). To my elation, AP wasn’t bluffing about Float being awesome.

It dawned on me a few sentences ago, however, that by loving Float so gosh dang much, like it-will-probably-be-one-of-my-favorite-records-of-the-year much, that I will be adding to the hype machine.

So it goes.

Formed in California in 1997, Flogging Molly has been touring the world with Celtic rock tunes for over a decade. The group’s tunes are aggressive yet tuneful, folksy yet rocking. Think Irish pub music cranked up a few extra RPMs and decibels. The group’s energy was best captured on its first studio full-length, the Steve Albini-mixed Swagger. Not that follow-up efforts Drunken Lullabies and Within a Mile of Home were bad, mind you; they’re just as fun. They merely lack the raw output of that first shot.

The group’s fourth full-length, Float, still can’t top Swagger’s swagger, but it does up the tuneage. Rather than go for more abrasive punk-ish songs, frontman Dave King and his merry minstrels have concocted 11 ditties with more emphasis on the Celtic side, although there's still a fair bit of rock ‘n’ roll here.

The choruses are still strong throughout. “Requiem For a Dying Song” is a hell of a lot of fun to shout out. The pre-chorus of “Talk, don’t talk if you’ve nothing to say/Walk, don’t walk if your feet don’t know the way” is even catchier than the real chorus. Guitarist Dennis Casey adds some teeth to the tune, although it’s Bridget Regan’s fiddle and tin whistle that make it soar.

Indeed, Float is filled with pub-tastic songs like “Requiem For a Dying Song,” “(No More) Paddy’s Lament” and “You Won’t Make a Fool Out of Me.” Each one is great. Of course, having so many stompers in a row would get old, so Flogging Molly pepper Float with some slower Irish folk. The title track boasts another great fiddle line from Regan on the chorus, although the banjo buried in the mix is neat as well. Also interesting are the folksy “Us of Lesser Gods” and “Between a Man and a Woman.”

Float marks a rise in political awareness from Flogging Molly. While the social commentary is more often than not vague, the fervor with which King attacks his lyrics will hopefully inspire listeners to get active in their societies. At the very least, those of legal age can raise a pint with pride when exclaiming lines like “Hey now, stay proud,” from “Punch Drunk Grinning Soul.”

Despite a middling ending—closing cut “The Story So Far” redeems itself with a slurred sing-along but takes some time getting to where it needs to be—Float is a quality album from Flogging Molly. The record isn’t too surprising of a release from these Celtic rockers, but damn if it isn’t a lively one. Cohesive and thrilling, it might not be the most important record of the last 10 years, but it’s certainly one of the most fun.