story by mitch phillips
Club Bart, Ferndale Saturday, October 6, 2000
review by mitch phillips
Broadzilla at Club Bart? Seems like an unlikely spot to catch a band hyped as the punk/metal monsters or Grrrrl Rock, but a cozy opportunity for me to catch this act for the first time.
Club Bart, if you haven't been there, is more of a Woodward dinner bar that lets it's hair down once the gallery tourists have SUV'd back to the burbs. And it's sma..., er, I mean "intimate." I'd trucked down here a couple of time's before to catch an open mike night for a mixed bag of poetry, the acapella lounge stylings of Taria and at least one appearance by Bob the Singing Bass Player. But Broadzilla? I had to show up just to see if they'd shoot chunks of plate glass across the Woodward median.
Napoleon K and I chew a couple Vikes for mood and arrive early as The Bomb Pops are setting up. The stage has all the atmosphere of a storefront display at Wal-Mart. It's tucked behind the bar where you'd normally find a Budweiser mirror or placards that display such snappy slogans as, "If you want credit, you don't need another beer - you need a job!"
We're fortunate enough to get front row (i.e. we sit at the bar) and I wonder if I should start folding dollar bills lengthwise. After seeing the gratuitous glamor shots of front girl Rachel May on Ann Carlini's glitter-rich website Ann Carlini.com, I'm ready to indulge my Betty Page/Elvira fantasies in the flesh.
K and I decide to divy up the coverage; he'll cover the music and I'll cover the atmosphere, such as it is. But he's already hunched over, carefully crafting geometrically proportional letters in his meticulously kept Steno pad before so much as a note has escaped the speakers. I can see were gonna do a two-fer tonight. Not to be outdone, I start chicken-scratchin in my usual "write what'cha see" approach but only manage to come up with the following fascinating Club Bart Facts:
1. There are exactly 38 people in this room, including the help, at 11:38 pm.
2. There are 13 tables and six barstools with possibly room for eight.
3. Prime Rib is on special, regular or extra cut, at $11.95 and $14.95 respectively.
4. The Red Wings are up by one. ......and finally and most importantly...
5. The Chivas Regal is within arms length from where I'm sitting and the bartender has her back turned to me.
I'm not sure I like this "dual coverage" business. Napoleon K. confidently etches evenly-spaced words in his pad and ignores me. He does, however, pause for a moment to share with me his delusion that he could very well end up another Cameron Crowe, what with his writing reviews now (his second) and his background in video. I wish I had his optimism - instead I'm tempted to mention Crowe's twenty-five year head start on him. But I don't. Instead I recite a quote recently attributed to James Dean:
"Dream as if you'll live forever and live as if you'll die today."
Rachel and Co. arrive with entourage in tow (sic) bumping the capacity crowd to a whopping forty-three people. At this point, late arrivals are looking for garbage cans to squat on. (I told you it was...uh...intimate) I reintroduce myself to Rachel and purchase some T-shirts and CD's - before I ever hear a lick of their music. There's something to be said for image when it comes to merchandising.
The Bomb Pops
The Bomb Pops detonate with a 32nd note snare battery that jars my attention. By the time I look up they're full bore into a power punk frenzy that lasts maybe a minute and the song is over. But I'm curiously satisfied. The song had everything I needed and not a note more.
"How's it sound?" Singer Bob Lezotte queries the audience for lack of a sound check. I'm getting stage levels where I sit, but it's not bad and the audience seems satisfied.
An attractive woman steals K's barstool while he's off to the john and asks me what I'm writing. I tell her I write reviews then ask her where she's from. "Lincoln Park, " she says then does a double-take. "Did I say that out loud?" she says feigning embarrassment. I laugh out loud. Turns out she's Lazotte's sister-in-law, Shannon.
"Bob used to sing in a heavy metal band and he sucked at it, " she explains. "But he's really good with these guys, so whattya know?." Seems every dog has a niche and Lazotte has found his. He has a capable voice, well suited for the power-punk genre.
The members of The Bomb Pops look like a random sampling of gas station attendants and convenience store clerks. But what they lack in style they make up in songwriting.
Their songs are short, punchy, hook-laden and get right to the point without fucking around with a lot of pointless repeats and solos that don't go anywhere. The music is approachable with good crossover appeal for those who like to take their punk with a little sugar. And it has that fast-food on ephedrine tempo that makes your head bob like a dashboard dog on a dirty back road. I like this band.
The Bomb Pops manage to slip in a couple of covers, including an intentionally atonal version of the medley "Tainted Love / Baby, Baby, Where did our love go?" but just as they're gettin' warmed up it's time to surrender the stage to the monsters of estrogen.
Broadzilla
As I watch the members of Broadzilla set up I'm thinking I'd like to personally thank the creator of latex pants (or paint - not much difference from this point of view). Of course sex-appeal is a big part of Broadzilla's image but it's difficult for a male reviewer to comment on such things without appearing sexist. But I will allow myself that subjective response from a band whose motto is, "Rock out with your cock out and Jam out with your clam out." This slogan and some of their lyrics leave them no room to defend a curtsy. This band slings sexual innuendo more freely than a road crew on Viagra.
Broadzilla fans are already whooping and hollering as the grrls take the stage. They seem to be mostly men - well, what a surprise. But there is one woman at the bar who manages to make more noise than all of the cat-calling studs combined. I'm bracing myself for the impact of the opening power chord.
Broadzilla is much harder than The Bomb Pops and more "metal" than I expected. Yet, more hard rock than metal, but definitely not punk. Let me try to explain this: it's hard as metal, especially Rachel's throaty vocal squelch akin to hair-metal bands and the chunka-chung of the guitar, yet the leads lack the virtuosity and sophistication of a good heavy metal act (better to skip the lead than play the same lick over and over). It's like Hard Rock but lacks the melodic variety and the song dynamics of a good Hard Rock act. But it's way too packaged and slick for punk. Prefabricated attitude with a few expletives thrown in for novelty does not make a punk band in my book. So I don't know what it really is. Grrl Rock?
By the fourth song I'm wondering if something's going to give or does it all rest on, "That's right, ass and titties girls," as Rachel May screamed in response to her latex-gawking audience. Broadzilla just bashes you with one vapid, tuneless song after another until you submit and give them the benefit of the doubt because Rachel has an exceptional voice and the band just plain looks good.
I suppose it's easy to pick a band apart while sitting at the bar with a couple vicadin's in you; so I'll try to be fair: these are very capable showgirls whose live performance is up to par. But unless they're willing to throw in a live porn-show for our trouble I think this band has peaked in the shock-rock genre. The songs just aren't there.
I will say that Broadzilla smoked on "C.G.W." from their latest release "Broadzilla vs.The Tramp O'Lean." The band really opened up and pushed their boundaries on this one. The grrls seem to like it hard and fast.
Broadzilla's reputation, to their credit, proceeds them. Make no mistake, this band is working it. I can't tell you how many times I've heard good things about them until I finally submitted to seeing them for myself. I bought the CD and the shirts based on their image alone. I'm not usually such a sucker and I still like the shirt.
And what the hell do I know? The girl at the bar danced and sang every word to every song Broadzilla played. Of course she was shitfaced but "K" loves 'em too.
But to me Broadzilla-style metal has already been hammered into my head for over a decade by abrasive grrl bands like former bitch-rockers InsideOut. It isn't shocking anymore and really just hints of some thinly guised misandry. I would have like to have left this gig with a little more than the phrase, "Cum Guzzling Whore" running through my noodle, but that's what stuck and I couldn't even hum it for you.
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