What’s that, punk rock seven-inch from No Idea Records? You’re totally awesome? The Florida label continues to roll out top notch tunes, this time courtesy of Gainesville’s The Jammy Dodgers’ Fish ‘n’ Chips. Get passed the, heh, dodgy artwork – seriously, did your kid draw this? – and there’s plenty of peppy punk to be had.
While co-vocalist Izzy Alacratraz’s helium-high pipes skew towards cute, it just makes her indignation towards modern America that much more biting. The Jammy Dodgers specialize in literate, angry punk and/or food references (Jammie Dodgers are a popular British biscuit line). The sound is loose and raw – think Ergs!, Shorebirds, The Measure [SA], or even Black Flag’s My War sped up to 45 RPMs – but still catchy, especially on “Laundry Day,” the last of the vinyl’s seven tracks.
The hooks are just dressing though. The real substance is in the subject matter. “Descendents” hits on American guilt over benefiting from the oppression of Native Americans (or First Nation if you're Canadian). “We are soldiers of on foreign soil that we got no right to claim,” the band says. The resolution? “We’ve got to try and set things right / And we’ve got to tell the truth / We’ve got to admit just what we are / It’s the least that we can do / Don’t pledge / Don’t salute / Scream fuck you!” “No Gods No Masters” takes materialism to task, but with enough humor – “Your mustache does not give you authority over me!” – to avoid sounding preachy.
Galvanizing in word and sound, perhaps The Jammy Dodgers’ M.O. is best summed up by this line from “Get It On”: “Listen to what people say / And give them a fair chance / But remember that talk is cheap / And action’s where it’s at.”
Drummer Warren Oakes played his last show with Against Me! last night. He either quit or was kicked out; take your pick. On the plus side, he's opening a Mexican restaurant in Florida called Boca Fiesta. Road trip, prehaps?
I've said before that Against Me! was my generation's Clash, and apparently they're going through their post-Combat Rock phase. I guess guitarist James Bowman better watch out before he gets Mick Jones-ed. And I guess I can look forward to frontman Tom Gabel acting like a damn fool for a wee bit (Is Heart Burns his Earthquake Weather? Will the next AM! record be his Cut the Crap?).
“I wonder what PJ Harvey’s internal monologue is like,” my girlfriend said as we drove home from the Trocadero Sunday, June 7. Given the frenetic, free-spirited dancing, toothy grins, and incredibly disturbed discussions we’d just witnessed courtesy of the British alt-rock icon, it was a fair question. After several years away from the City of Brotherly Shove, Harvey made her glorious return to Philadelphia with John Parish, her partner behind this year’s excellent A Woman A Man Walked By. Accordingly, the duo stuck mostly to their two co-billed albums – 1996’s Dance Hall at Louse Point being the other release.
Not that the night started out too hot. Acoustic opening act Pop Parker took to the stage an hour after doors opened and sucked for 29 minutes. Ostensibly a tongue-in-cheek acoustic troubadour, his profanity-laden tales of ribaldry, underscored by soothing acoustic guitar, stopped being funny after his sound check. Gustave Flaubert, he is not. Stand-out lyrics included “She smokes cigars / and knows things about cars” and “He has a mustache / whoa-oh-whoa-oh-whoa.”
Once the headliner began, though, the crowd erupted in joyous applause. Parish and his three-man backing band emerged in stylish suits and fedora hats. His partner in six-strings, Giovanni Ferrario (best name ever?), even rocked the same sunburst-colored Fender guitar. Barefoot and bearing a black dress, Harvey looked like she had just stepped out of the “Black Hearted Love” video before launching into that very song. It was loud and discordant and spirited, and those first and last adjectives also describe the second song of the set, “Sixteen, Fifteen, Fourteen.”
It quickly became clear that the group could not fail. Though Harvey is arguably more well-known for her non-Parish material- “Rid of Me,” “This is Love,” and so on – the pretty dang positive crowd lapped up every song played. Personal highlights included raucous renditions of “Urn With Dead Flowers in a Pool” and “Taut” from Dance Hall. The latter, a provocative anti-Christian dirge, was revelatory. While Harvey sounds possessed and/or crazed on the song’s recorded version, she opted for a more earnest, natural-sounding approach live, with the slightest knowing undercurrent of show(wo)manship. It made the contrast between lyrics like “And he used to make me pray / wearing a mask like a death’s head / when he put me there in the back seat” and the chorus “Jesus save me / Jesus save me” both more entertaining but also darker and more believable. Same goes for A Woman A Man’s “A Woman A Man Walked By/The Crow Knows Where All The Little Children Go” and set-ender “Pig Will Not.” Harvey was a blur of limbs as she danced around and vamped for the mic and audience.
The group successfully worked in more quiet tunes as well. “Passionless, Pointless,” about a failing relationship, was just as heart-rending live as on record. “Leaving California” was pretty good too, although encore-ender “April” was jarring and enervating after so much rocking. “The Soldier,” however, was perfect. Quiet songs are always a gamble at rock shows – people are incapable of shutting up, ever, you see, which becomes most apparent during this sort of songs. But the band had the audience entranced, making the chorus of “Send me home restless / Send me home damaged / And wanting” all the more haunting. You couldn’t hear anything from the fans, not even breathing, it was so silent.
But when “The Soldier” ended, there was plenty of applause to go around. Speaking of the audience, those gathered were polite yet excited, scoring beaming yet reserved smiles from Harvey and Parish (They are British after all). There was no too-cool posturing here; everyone clearly wanted a piece of the PJ. One particular silver-haired fan wearing a light blue golf shirt stood out among the crowd; I like to think that his loud voice, clear through all the cheers after the regular set, is what galvanized the band into an encore. This guy got some applause of his own, so great were his pipes. I don’t know what that man does for a living, but he deserves a raise.
I try to avoid shit-talking concertgoers – it’s too personal and specific to really sum up the show overall – but it’s worth pointing out a balding, portly fellow in a yellow golf shirt and sandals who seemed to bother just about everyone at the front of the Troc’s stage. Seemingly alone for the night, he cut through to the front with little regard for those around him. And while being the big guy who blocks people’s view is merely annoying, this asshole earned his d-bag award when he left, then came back five or 10 minutes later to fight the short woman who took his “spot,” as if he had claim over the standing room space in front of the stage. Her boyfriend showed up later to keep this guy in line. In the unlikely event that he’s reading this review, hey baldy, fuck you. To that woman: You’re an American hero and deserve a raise as well.
One jerk out of hundreds of good natured folk makes for good odds, though. These pleasant people made Harvey and Parish’s anthems about trannies, Jesus freaks, PTSD, failed relationships, and such that much better, as communal settings at their best always do. I can only hope the Harvey and Parish come back soon.
Two years after she broke out from under the Polyphonic Spree and Sufjan Stevens' collective thumb with Marry Me, Annie Clark, a.k.a. St. Vincent, is back with her stunning sophomore solo effort, Actor. Arguably superior in every way, the record takes Marry Me’s promises and expands on them. It’s at times grinding and lilting, but always beautiful and otherworldly. If it’s possible to craft a record that simultaneously recalls Nine Inch Nails, Feist, shoegaze, and Disney movies, Actor is that record.
Like Marry Me, Actor’s first half is easily the better part. It takes the ominous sound of “Your Lips are Red” from the first record and plays with it more. Album opener “The Strangers” kicks off with a steady 4/4 beat dance beat, Clark’s pristine voice, and some strings. It’s dreamy and classy, but dirty guitar fuzz starts to peak through during the second verse. Storm clouds erupt as the song takes on a second stirring, darker life. “Save Me From What I Want” goes the same route, with Clark’s ethereal voice entreating the listener to save her from thoughts “17 cold showers couldn’t wash away.” It’s erotic without being dirty, suggestive without suggesting specifics. Ditto for “The Neighbors,” which combines guitar tricks and vocals to make the ultimate “oh no” sound while Clark wonders “What would your mother say / What your father do / What would the neighbors think / if they only knew?”
The hits keep coming with lead single “Actor Out of Work,” with its propulsive, thundering floor tom and electro synth bits. “Black Rainbow” takes an awkward shift, killing the record’s momentum by rehashing Marry Me’s more plaintive/hopeful dichotomy – think of that record’s title track for the sort of pretty orchestral moments I’m talking about. The slow-building song has payoff similar to “The Strangers,” and is a well-placed left turn overall.
Actor’s second half is generally less immediate, but no less pleasing given time. “Marrow” is the standout, encapsulating every the record tries to do over 39 minutes in three-and-a-half. Orchestral opening, haunting vocals, electro-bluster stomp, pulsing guitar work, and pretty pop moments are all here. “The Bed” tries a different form of dissonance – squealing string instruments, in a controlled John Cage experiment. The final three tracks gradually, gently close the record out.
Clark’s progression from Marry Me, admittedly a solid indie pop record, to Actor is astounding. It’s her first real classic. It’s also a shining example of what can happen when a musician marries her pop sensibilities with fearless experimentation – to the numerous folksy Starbucks chanteuses of the world, the Bat for Lasheseseses and such, here’s the real innovator, a Bjork for my generation, if only in aesthetic.
X's Exene Cervenka might have multiple sclerosis. She's one of my favorite singers/lyricists from one of my favorite punk bands and, at 53, still puts on a kick-ass show. She's gonna keep touring/recording - X is playing World Cafe Live right here in Philadelphia Thursday, June 4 - but this is definitely gonna put on a damper on her days.
On a more personal note, my girlfriend promised to watch Road House (featuring X's John Doe!) if she can show me three movies I've never seen before. Sucker...
If you name your band Pregnant, you’d better be good. Luckily, this dirge-spewing Brooklyn trio shows a ton of promise on Wanna See My Gun?, their debut seven-inch for Don Giovanni Records (The Measure [SA], The Ergs!). Over the course of four songs/11 minutes, Pregnant more than compensate for their dubious name.
The record’s cover features a photo of the band sitting in front of a New York Dolls poster, which might be a hint of the thrashing threesome’s proto-punk to come. Other reference points worth tossing in are The Stooges, Seattle grunge, Cloak/Dagger, and The (International) Noise Conspiracy. Point is, these tunes are alive and/or kicking.
“Falling Over,” “You Give It To Me,” and “God is Nein” make up for the first side of this clear-colored beauty. “Falling Over” slinks compared to the other tracks, which are infectious, furious, and fast. “God is Nein” might be the catchiest of the bunch, with all sorts of “ba ba dadada”s crammed in over a rapid fire beat.
“Wanna See My Gun?”, at four-and-a-half minutes long, takes up the entire B side. It feels like two tracks jammed together, with the first portion going back to the more midtempo grunge feel of “Falling Over,” but a guitar interlude 90 seconds in transitions it into the fiercest rocker of the bunch. Frontman Kevin Manion howls his way through the finale, recalling the passion and power of Nation of Ulysses’ Ian Svenonius along the way.
Wanna See My Gun? was recorded back in May 2008, but it wasn’t released until February 2009. This makes the seven-inch that much more promising; as is, it’s a great record. Throw in the possibility of a year of artistic growth, and Pregnant’s 2009 full-length debut might just be one of the best records of the year. But what will the community think when its children start running around in Pregnant tees?
[I got a stack of promos in the mail today. Here's the first one. It's fun reacting to ignorance!]
Formed in 1998, the Gay-Straight Alliance Network helps link young activists looking to fight homo- and transphobia. I was involved with the group on and off during my college years. I was also the LGBTQ listings intern for City Paper in Philadelphiafor a semester. I mention these things so that you, the reader, will be able to figure out how I handle pop-punkers The Bugs’ casual gay-bashing on their self-titled full-length.
Ironically featuring Queers bassist Dangerous Dave, the band churns out anti-gay sentiments at a breakneck pace (The album totals 13.5 minutes). “Never Went Gay” is a 42-second repetition of its title over Ramones-y pop-punk playing that’s too lazily written to feel like legitimate hate speech, but there’s something about the tone that gives it a bitter sound. The contradictory “I’m Turning Gay” is a joke song about gently loving dudes because ol’ Dave “can’t keep a girlfriend and I don’t know why / I think I just might do it / See a dude’s ass and screw it / and be gay.” “Email From a She-Male” worries about people learning that the protagonist knows at least one trans person. “Dave Navarro’s Goatee Fucking Sucks,” while boasting a scientifically accurate title, trips itself up by equating homosexuality with sucking. Oddly enough, the genre criticisms of “No More Emo Haircuts” never skew towards hateful ignorance. Dave just hates those kids for “writing lots of poems.” Because if there’s one thing The Bugs don’t do, it’s express feelings with words at any great length.
Admittedly, not every tune The Bugs write is homophobic – a good chunk of the album is about drugs. In a way, these tracks are worse, because while “Lesbo! Lesbo” is offensive, it’s at least more memorable than “Meth On My Mind” or “Back on the Weed.” “I Wish I Was a Mexican” would be racist if it weren’t for the fact that folks ’round here can “drink a Bud” and “get a mustache and some shades” regardless of ethnicity. This is America, dammit. It’s tempting to pull back a bit and let The Bugs lack o’ topics or depth slide. It’s just pop-punk, after all. But even on those grounds, the trio still fails. Folks would be better off with The Ramones or Screeching Weasel. And if you like your pop-punk homophobic, there’s always Descendents’ “I’m Not a Loser.”
