Date: Wednesday, March 07, 2001 @ 05:46:18 EST
Topic: Show Reviews
Long working local band takes our reviewer from The New Place in Dearborn to a dance-hall on Telegraph where he proceeds to put Robb Roy's music to the "Booty Test."
Dearborn Michigan
May 20, 2000
review by mitch phillips
Heavy Metal Dues
I first met Graham Strachan on a shipping dock in 1990. He was hauling scrap metal for a salvage company with longtime friend Michael Kudreiko. Despite his being covered from head to foot in rust, grease and metal shavings, I knew instinctively this guy was a bandhead (poor guy with a pony tail - not exactly genius on my part). But like alcoholics, musicians are predetermined to find each other in any crowd.
I told Graham I was gigging the club scene in my off hours and he told me he was the singer for a band called Robb Roy. "Yeah, I've heard of you guys, " I said with vague recollection; their name had already been circulating in the Detroit area for some time but due to my own musical dalliances I rarely made it out to see other acts.
"You should come check us out, bring some friends." Graham mentioned impassively while he rolled a three-hundred pound drum of discarded key blanks onto the back of a flatbed.
"Great, I'll do that," I added politely, knowing it probably would never happen. He nodded, wiped the sweat, grease and brass shavings from his forehead and and drove off with a load of heavy metal few wanted anymore; it would be a musical omen for the decade to come.
Blink Your Eyes, Ten Years Go "Bye"
In April of 2000 I received an e-mail invitation from Gabi Palmer, Robb Roy's webmaster and promotional aide de campe, to review the band live at The New Place Lounge in Dearborn. (http://www.robbroy.com/ )
"They're still at it?" I asked myself reflexively. You have to respect that kind of tenacity and fortitude in a business that has disillusioned more hopeless romantics than marriage itself. With one part morbid curiosity and one part guilt for never having bothered to see their act once in the last decade, I accepted the assignment and requested promo materials to prepare for the show.
Within two days I received a package from Susan Leigh of Select Management which included the usual glossy 8x10 , favorable press clippings from every major local media outlet, a copy of "Heroes and Cocktails" and a sneak peek EP of their latest material.
I only skimmed through the CD's, barely paying attention as I washed the dishes, fed the kid, argued with the wife and cursed my job. "Heroes And Cocktails" lost out to "Bugs and Daffy" that night. The promo package would sit in a pile of unpaid bills on the kitchen table for another two weeks until I could escape the madness called home life.
Escape from Domestic Tranquility
Don't get me wrong, I love my wife and daughter and I can tolerate the things I have to do for money, but there's still a part of me, the ex-bandhead, who has an appetite for peculiar adventures in the mustiest corners of humanity. Writing band reviews is the perfect excuse for doing just that.
Like being a musician, donning the pretext of "writer" allows you to behave in a manner that may not be suitable to your age or station. It allows the ego just enough stretching room to step outside the context of what you'd normally call your "life." Coupled with a healthy dose of your favorite recreational drug (in my case liquor) it gives you just enough rope with which to hang yourself. But if you've lived long enough, made your share of mistakes and survived to tell the tale, you learn not to dance on a three-legged chair with the rope around your neck.
Ouzo, The Poet, The Biker & The Master
Take last week for instance: I'd just finished playing a set of thrashing novelty rock at a local dive when I noticed a tall, tough looking woman sitting at the bar reading poetry. Now, what kind of freak (besides myself) would read poetry in a bar while being assaulted with 100db of guitar, bass and drums? I was intrigued - and just lubricated enough to ask.
As it turned out the poetry collection was checked out of the Redford Public Library. (Red flag). She explained that her mother (who lived with her, her biker husband and newborn child) felt she needed to read it. (Flashing red lights) The neurosis began to congeal before me like cold spread. She was posing. She wasn't interested in poetry; it was a pretext to lure gullible chumps like me into her circle of influence. Now, I think most people would just walk away upon this realization but I couldn't help myself from buzzing right into her swicky web. I had to know where this twisted story was going.
After a half-hour of exchanging niceties the wicked truth finally slipped out between double shots of Ouzo and a poem about Communism by Ebenezer Elliot. She said, "Wouldn't it be great if your wife and my biker husband got together some time?"
Awkward silence.
Uh, yeah, that's just what I was thinking.
And wouldn't ya know it? She just happened to be looking for a new "Master" to set her straight. She was serious about the "Master" business, she looked me dead in the eyes. So I called her bluff and ordered her to, "Fuckin' dance for me!" She called my bluff right back and nearly shoved my six-foot-four frame right through a table of onlookers. The Amazonian Psycho Slave was not to be taken lightly.
Maybe I wasn't cut out to be the "Whip-er." Maybe I'm more of a "Whip-ee." I never really thought about it before. She didn't hold it against me. In fact she was even willing to give me another shot at the title if I felt I could give her some much needed discipline that night. I was intrigued by the prospect, but I could feel the three-legged chair teeter beneath my feet as I pondered that rare opportunity.
Now, I could have made a real mess of my life at that point, but Instead I chose to go straight home and share my little adventure with the wife. We laughed about it, made love and went to sleep. Honesty is the key to longevity in any relationship, whether it be marriage or music. You have to be sincere about your "humanness" and forgiving of eachother's faults, frailties and idiosyncrasies. That kind of understanding only comes with much time together and many mistakes.
Stars Are Made of This
After finally getting a good listen to Robb Roy's "Heroes and Cocktails" on the way to the show I realized that Strachan and Kudreiko have reached a level of maturity in their writing that can only come from the kind of long term relationship before mentioned. Their music left me wanting nothing: The lyrics were interesting without being pretentious; the themes were familiar without being cliche'; the hooks were timely and as varied as the melodies and the production flawless. Robb Roy has found the subtle balance between the Yin and the Yan and they can make it dance for you.
Best of all, "Heroes And Cocktails" sounded great in my truck. It made the Saturday evening haul from Milford to Dearborn go too fast. I found myself sitting in the parking lot of the "New Place Lounge" not wanting to go inside until the disc was over. All of the songs were that good. The sneak EP of the latest material was even better.
So I began to wonder why a major label hadn't yet picked up on Robb Roy. I don't pretend to know why A&R people do what they do but I imagine they're falling all over themselves to find their own versions of Kid Rock and Eminem while ignoring more conventional rock music. Next to those two locals Robb Roy's music is decidedly middle of the road, but that M.O.R. quality gives the music a timelessness that is always a safe bet. If it were common stock, I'd bet my own money that, with the proper promotion, Robb Roy could easily find itself in the hands of millions of consumers who are tired of "Fad Rock" and just want some good, solid songs to fill the empty spaces in their lives.
What's Old is New Again
Turns out the "New Place Lounge" aint so new. The Michigan Avenue bar has actually been around for almost twenty years. Before that it was called "The Place" and when the new owners bought it they changed the name to - well, you get the idea. It was a favorite watering hole to my brother-in-law and my boss, both of whom developed their taste for "a beer" right here in Dearborn. Now the lounge serves as the sometimes Michigan showcase for Robb Roy thanks to bassist John Cottos, whose family are friendly with the owners.
I doubled up on the Ouzo (in reverence to the Amazonian psycho slave who introduced me to the poison) and found myself a small table in the darkest corner of the dance floor. It didn't take Gabi Palmer long to spot me (who else but a self-important "reviewer" would sit alone in a bar with a Steno pad and two shots of Ouzo? Should have brought a book of poetry.)
No Scab Papers
Palmer introduced me to manager Susan Leigh, Kudreiko, bassist John Cottos and drummer Duane Huff who gave me a sideways glance that seemed to say, "and what gives you the right to publish your opinion about me?" Huff's been around the block, with P-Funk master George Clinton no less. I couldn't blame him for being suspicious of my presence after the flogging Robb Roy took from some Freep Scab who thought he understood the Detroit Music Scene better than those who actually participate in it. Seems the union-buster didn't think Robb Roy deserved to win Best Rock Act at the 2000 Detroit Music Awards. You can bet he wouldn't be showing his face in this working class neighborhood if he knew what was good for him. I knew at least one irate Scott who'd like to poke a chanter up his arse (that's a bag-pipe pole up the wazoo for you clan-less fops).
Heroes of Serendip
Strachan arrived fashionably late but wasted no time. Before I imbibed the second shot of oily Greek liquor he was center stage and comfortably in command. Kudreiko, Huff and Cottos followed his lead with the all the finesse and controlled dynamic of a world-class act.
I got the distinct impression I was a privileged witness in this lazy little lounge. It reminded me of stories I've heard from friends over seas who regularly see bands like The Rolling Stones and The Moody Blues in local pubs. Pity to stuff them into such a small room but a serendipitous spectacle for those who just happen to be there.
When Robb Roy let loose on "Anyway" and "Magic Lotion" an unexpected shiver of recognition straightened me in my chair. I'd already internalized the hooks in two listenings and was singing along to the chorus' like a Teen Beat junkie at a karaoke pajama party. By the time they finished "Crawl" and "Shine" I'd crossed the threshold - from music reviewer feigning professional disinterest to bonafide Robb Roy fan.
Jump Back: a closer look
I had to kick back and re-set. It really wasn't like me to get this giddy over a local band. After all, Robb Roy was still playing the suburban Detroit scene - just like everybody else. There were the vaguest hints of Rythm Corps in their songs but not enough to jinx Ôem. There had to be some flaw worthy of mention to balance my review of their music and their show. Still, it wouldn't come. I couldn't see it.
So I decide to switch from Ouzo back to Jagermeister. The Ouzo just didn't give me that same "steaming towel of opiate mush on the brain" feeling I so enjoy. Besides, Ouzo wasn't true to my clan; I come from sturdy German stock of the "Lindemeyer" vein. A real "KrŒuter-Liqueur" man. Perhaps that shift in geo-alcoholic perspective would free up my musical intuition and expose the little willy under the kilt.
As the warm fuzz of West German buck piss took it's hold of me I began to inspect the band one member at a time:
Kudreiko: Where did he find that great fuckin' shirt? Almost motionless, but his understated guitar style is refreshing. He's got such a goddamn interesting face. Long, sloping lines. He looks like Pete Townsend wished he still did or some kind of lonely character in a Chagal painting. He has more timbres up his sleeve than Paul Bunyan (Ow! Forgive me that one).
Strachan: This is not the same pony-tailed scrap-metal hauler I met ten years ago. It doesn't even look like the guy on the inner sleeve of "Heroes and Cocktails." Got some weird chameleonic thing goin on there - somebody else now with a bit of facial hair. I can see the Scot. But there's years in his face that comes only from seeing, knowing, or experiencing too much -and a cleft chin that could pop the cap off a Coke bottle. Good looking, charismatic front-man with a strong, assured voice. He's always present in his songs. Never wavers.
Cottos: Wait a minute, this isn't the guy on the cover of the CD. This guy still has his hair. Able and comfy in Huff's deep pocket. Why are bass players so bouncy? We're a strange, unpredictable bunch.
Huff: This guy really doesn't like me. Stone cold pro with an attitude and a snap to his snare that could cut brick. Locked in and driving the machine but anticipating a funky groove that wouldn't reveal itself often enough in this genre.
Robb Roy: I really don't know what more you could ask for in a live band. The musicianship was pro-class. The delivery went like clockwork; seamless segues from one song to the next, never letting the energy slip from their control. That's not to say there weren't moments of improvisation and solo but the subtle dynamics of each song and both sets were appropriately deliberate. Perfect, really. If I had to bitch, if only for balance, I'd have to say too clean, too controlled, too good for rock Ôn roll. Robb Roy is a competent, viable, commercially marketable musical product just waiting to be exploited.
The Crowd: Oh yeah, them. I'd been so seduced by the performance, the crowd had pretty much disappeared in the periphery of my Jager-induced hypnosis. It was a good crowd, mostly locals playing pool, sitting, drinking, doing nothing out of the ordinary. I ambushed one girl with a Courtney Cox hairdo while she danced - she didn't put up a tizz or ignore me. A redhead with spikey hair who looked like Joan Cusack teased me while I sat on the edge of the dance floor. Later she danced a jig to "Into the Light." It was all very nice and above board.
The Unsanitary Test
In fact, everything seemed a bit too nice at that point. It was getting late and I was jones'n for a droogy adventure, sitting there all alone on my journalistic perch like a hungry vulture growing frustrated with an animal that just wouldn't die. This chair had one leg too many for my tastes. Where's that rope?
I wondered if Robb Roy music could survive in less friendly climes. Was it too clean? Too nice? I knew what I had to do. I stood up, folded up the Steno and headed straight for the door, waving goodbye to the band as they neared the end of their set. Ten minutes later I arrived in a strip mall parking lot on Telegraph near I-96. If there was one place in Detroit I could test the balls of Robb Roy's music, this was it. I grabbed the CD "Heroes and Cocktails" and ducked inside a windowless club.
I accosted "D.J. Dennis" while he cued up his next tune, forcing the CD into his hands. "Play track number One or number Five! You won't regret it," I screamed above the din of electronica. "Trust me," I assured him. "It won't embarrass you."
Ten minutes and twenty dollars in folded one dollar bills later "Won't Feel A Thing" by Robb Roy pulsed and throbbed over the P.A. system while three topless beauties dug a groove into that song I won't soon forget. Robb Roy wasn't too clean or too nice. D.J. Dennis genuinely liked the song, and judging from the sway of her cocoa colored ass cheeks, I'd say the lovely "Leena" did too.
- Mitch Phillips
This article comes from Michigan Bands dot Com
http://michiganbands.com
The URL for this story is:
http://michiganbands.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=9