Michigan Indie Review

Weapons Of Mass Percussion by The Process

2008-07-04T07:11:00.000-07:00

The anticipation of hearing new music from The Process came loaded with expectations based entirely on 2002's "Blood & Bones", a great collection of reggae gems that I put among the best local records I've heard in the past ten years. So I couldn't help but hope for a repeat performance on their 2006 follow-up, "Weapons of Mass Percussion". And a repeat performance is pretty much exactly what I got - just not in the way I expected. -Mitch

STATS

Band: The Process
Website: www.theprocessonline.com
Recording: Weapons of Mass Percussion (2006)
Members: David Asher (vocals, guitar, keyboard, programming, FX), Garrick Owen (guitars), Bill Heffelfinger (bass, keys, programming, stick), Gabe Gonzalez (drums)
Produced by: Gee Pierce & The Process
Mixed by: Gee Pierce & David Asher at UBeU Productions, Saginaw (except track 1 mixed by Lavel Jackson, tracks 12 mixed by Albadore Sound Systems, track 13 & 14 mixed by Gabe Gonzalez)
Mastered by: Horst @ Studio Germany

Expectations & Fresh Ears

Instead of a collection of entirely new songs, The Process offer only one, a gem-worthy opener (albeit a poorly mastered one) called "Rasta Soldier" which easily holds up among their best songs and has already been nominated as a Grammy contender (whatever that means). What's left are thirteen tracks of re-mixes, mash-ups, extended cuts, techno flirtations and "dubs" - almost all of which rely heavily on previously released material from "Blood & Bones" and "Craven Dog" (you can read a review of "Blood & Bones" here).

I have to admit being bit confused and disappointed on first spin, but that's because I have no experience with "dub", a sub-genre of reggae that builds on instrumental versions of existing material. According to Wikipedia, dub mixes add percussion and sound effects to 'da riddim' so as to take advantage of bass-heavy sound systems. Singer David Asher says he wanted to do all that and more.

"I wanted to take a chance on this release and try something brave, something unique from plain old remixes, " Asher explained in a recent message. "Thats why I gave some other producers free reign on some tracks."

Those other producers include Albadore Sound System (Flint's own Michael Absher) whose remix of "Run Them Down" reminds me of late-night liquid radio jams and G-Dub's back-to-back Old School and Techno remixes of "Rising Up" which are geared more to the dance-club on Ecstasy crowd.

Techno-Battery Operated Drop Machine

In addition to the various samples and synth patches on nearly every track, electronic drums are featured prominently on this record - as you might expect from the title. That theme reaches its apex on "Weapons of Mass Percussion Pt 2" (track 10) on which drummer Gabe Gonzolas unleashes a battery of synthetic steel, squishy sound-effects and pressure-relieving sighs.

Geek t.v fans will appreciate the sonic americana included on this disc, such as drops from Star Trek's Jean Luc, Battlestar Galactica's vocally-challenged Cylons and even a quip from The Transformers. And where else but a dub mix could you find The Three Stooges sharing time and space with what sounds like an auto-tuned Muslim call to prayer? Probably the most unique sample on the disc (visit www.theprocessonline.com to hear it loop).

Weaponized Planes And Misguided Aims

Perhaps the most memorable moments for casual listeners will be the haunting voices of 9-11 air-traffic controllers whose voices appear on "Osama Forgotten" (track 2) and "Evil Doer's Stamped Out In Dub" (track 8). Both tracks revive the surrealism and confusion of that strange day when our skies went quiet and our future seemed completely up in the air.

But the defining moment of this disc is the title track, "Weapons of Mass Percussion", in which hypocrisy-exposing sound-bytes of George Walker Bush and Donald Henry Rumsfeld are juxtaposed to illustrate their disdain for the truth and the American people. It's a necessary reminder of how scare tactics and outright lies led to the illegal occupation of a foreign country in the name of pre-emption, or regime-change, or liberation, or promoting democracy, or whatever this week's "official" explanation is for that resource-grabbing, treasury-looting, grunt-abusing, civilian-shredding debacle in Iraq. Whatever the reason, you certainly can't pretend it had anything to do with Saudi nationals flying planes into buildings.

Conclusions In Food Metaphors

So if this music were a meal, "Weapons of Mass Percussion" would be a stew of choice ingredients borrowed from leftovers and invigorated with fresh, exotic spices, its many flavors only revealed with time and attention. But like most dishes made from leftovers, it's never quite as satisfying as the original feast (with the exception of "Rapdown" which, if re-mastered, would be a meal in itself.)

Though 'Weapons' may not inspire the private highway sing-a-longs I enjoyed so much with "Blood & Bones", in its proper context, say attending to some repetitive task in the privacy of your own room while enjoying your favorite controlled substance, "Weapons of Mass Percussion" will certainly keep you company and add a rebellious flavor to your buzz.

So unitl The Process whip up their next fresh batch of songs, which I'm told they're already cooking up in their brand new studio, you can certainly chew on this.

Mitch

Track Listing:

1. Rasta Soldier (radio) - great tune but over-driven mix challenges my ear.
2. Osama Forgotten - FAA recordings of Air Traffic Control over Rasta Soldier rhythms and Garrick Owen's shreddings.
3. The Logic Probe - Cylons dub over "Run Them Down" beats.
4. Metatron's Cube - More space-cadet samples over back beats with a promise to challenge ALL terror.
5. Tetragammatron - More Rasta Soldier rhythms under sound effects, synths and samples.
6. Subsonic Temple - Rasta' beat continues while a ghostly call to prayer is bracketed by sci-fi effects and cylons respectively.
7. Vortex 4 - Spread The Money" serves as sound bed for echoes and sound effects. Ghostly call to prayer returns.
8. Evildoers Stamped Out In Dub - Midi-trumpets by Stamp'D climb over rasta beats and various synth stabbings.
9. Weapons of Mass Percussion - Direct confrontation of The Big Lie using hypocrisy, humore & hyer-percussive beats.
10. Weapons of Mass Percussion Pt. 2 - Gabe Gonzalez plugs in and goes bananas on his Pintech Drums.
11. Rapdown - (extended mix) Gets me to dancing every single time - even if I'm sitting.
12. Run Them Down - (Albadore Sound System Mix)
13. Rising Up (G-Dub - Old School) percussive, herky-jerky robot dance mix.
14. Rising Up (G-Dub - Techno) hyper-percussive gallop propels this version along a time-lapsed technicolor freeway. Shouldn't forget to mention Michelle Shaw's amazing back-ups on this track.

-- Mitch

Cowboy Messiah's "American Zen"

2006-11-14T18:17:00.000-08:00

Band: Cowboy Messiah

Title: American Zen

Released:2006

Tracks: 14

Recorded at: The White Room, Detroit Mi

Recorded by: John Smerek

Band Members: Andrew Lindblom (guitars and vocals); Tommy Lee Torgerson (drums, harmonica, percussion); Jason "J" Peters (bass)

Like many first time releases, Cowboy Messiah’s “American Zen” moves in a lot of different directions, the band not quite having settled on any particular sound. There are cow-punk, rockabilly, beer-hall anthems (Little Late For Me, Rhythm Of The Night, Ballad of Bobby Badass), a disco-tinged instrumental jam (Innerphonic), some standard pop-rock fare, (I Want Mine) a quasi-ska number sans the horns (Watch It Burn), and another that just tries to rock your face off (Fight Song).

It’s in that last category that Cowboy Messiah seem to shine, particularly on a hidden extra called “Rock & Roll Band”. The raw energy and thrust of that track leaves little time for pretense, pumping your ears like a bad boy on a good girl for a minute-fifty-four, leaving you breathless and grateful for the pounding.

"The thing about Rock n' Roll Band is it was never supposed to end up on the album at all," bassist Jason Peters wrote in a recent e-mail. "Andy wrote the music to a Shel Silverstien poem we all knew growing up and it's just a lot of fun to play. It's actually the cut that sounds closest to the way we do, but we only recorded it because we were in the studio and it seemed stupid not to. It didn't really cost us anything extra because it literally took about 4 minutes to lay down and mix."

Funny how those last-minute additions can steal the whole show.

Still, at fourteen tracks on a debut record from an unknown band, there’s a few that probably should have been left on the cutting room floor (Ripped Off, Summer Girls, Waking Up Alone, Little Girl, Hey You) or released on an entirely different disc under another name (as other locals bands hedge their bets). With their inclusion, “American Zen” feels a bit incongruous, like two different bands fighting for the same space. One’s unsure and self-conscious, singing sweetheart melodies and strumming a clean guitar, and the other is shooting speedballs and turning the amps up to eleven. In a good rock & roll band, evil almost always wins out.

Recorded in whirlwind five days by John Smerek at renowned White Room Studios, “American Zen” is probably a bit looser than it should be in spots, but you can probably chock that up to the lack of a budget more than any weakness in the production. A few more cuts of a vocal track might have quashed a wobble or two or tightened a lead. But according to bassist Jason Peters, it was the bands intent to capture the trio’s raw sound.

“Andy was very concerned with the purity of the album, and was reluctant to stray too far from what we can do live as a trio,” Peters wrote. “So in mixing the album, we didn't use as much reverb or other window dressings as you are likely to find on most studio albums.”

Cowboy Messiah is just beginning to witness to the masses, so it will be interesting to find out if their message will endure, or if they’ll be crucified by the Detroit music scene like so many false prophets before them.

- Mitch Phillips
Track Listing:

Too Late For Me
I Want Mine
Ripped Off
Waking Up Alone
Mt. Everest
Fight Song
Summer Girls
The Ballad Of Bobby Badass
Innerphonic
Broken Hearted
Rhythm Of The NIght
Little Girl
Hey You
Watch It Burn

Hear Cowboy Messiah on Myspace

Now Hear This!

Be sure to see Cowboy Messiah at their CD Release party at The Belmont Bar in Hamtramck on November 25th, 2006 with The Lincoln UK, band of "American Zen" cover artist Marc Nischan. You can see more of his artwork at MarcNischan.com.

Just for fun, check out www.americanzen.com. I googled it.

South Normal Meets The 3 Headed Evil Genius

2006-06-14T19:12:00.000-07:00

Frog Island Park 5.26.06:

It’s a balmy spring evening at Frog Island Park near Ypsilanti’s historic Depot Town. Despite what you might expect, there’s no island in sight and any of the legendary, fur-covered, flying “smeet” frogs that might be lurking among the moss-covered rocks have yet to make their presence known. But the week’s rains have finally subsided leaving a dense blanket of humidity in their wake and allowing tonight’s big plans to commence after yesterday’s cancellation.

Frog Island Park consists of a large sunken field surrounded by trees and grass-covered banks. According to a local resident, it acts as an emergency flood basin for the nearby Huron River, but it’s mostly used for soccer games, community events and Ypsilanti’s annual Jazz Festival. Tonight it will be ground-zero for a unique performance featuring South Normal, a popular indie-rock band from Chelsea, MI.

A break in an overgrown tree line reveals the park’s street-level entrance. A handwritten sign is taped to a stair railing and simply reads, “South Normal Extras”. Twenty feet below, down a wide flight of iron-framed steps, people fill out release forms at a sign-in table and receive neon yellow glo-sticks and t-shirts bearing the slogan “Burtapalooza”; props intended for tonight’s main event. Lyric sheets are also provided so participants can sing along on demand.

The park is encircled by a paved walking path that connects to nearby Riverside Park. Pedestrians wander in and out, some jogging, some walking dogs, some simply enjoying the evening air on a warm holiday weekend. A dozen or so people sit midfield on a pair of weathered wooden bleachers watching the events unfold. If they’re expecting a concert, they might be a bit disappointed.

The object of their curiosity is a festival-sized stage that’s been erected on the south side of the park. It’s crowded with speakers, amps, monitors, drums as well as the band who are mulling about on stage awaiting direction. Rows of multicolored par lights hang on trusses over their heads and two fifteen-foot scaffolds sit thirty yards to the north, each supporting a crew member and a large spotlight.

Next to the stage, a camera crane on a dolly track is being tested by the production crew. It swoops over the band; up and down, in and out, left and right, like the neck of a black mechanical giraffe searching for some eye candy.

To the east, three production vans and three white tents shelter the crew, their gear and heaps of electronic gadgetry. A tangle of cables spill out of one tent and snake toward the stage.

Judging from the set-up, it’s understandable why passers by might think they were going to be treated to an evening concert in the park. And they’ll get one too, as long as they don’t mind hearing the same song over and over and over again.

What kind of evil !@#$% would plan such a thing?

Evil Genius

Evil Genius insists on its web site (www.thisisevilgenius.com) that it’s not an “advertising agency”. The St. Claire Shores-based company who organized this grand facade thinks the term too restrictive, too inside-the-box to accurately describe what they do for their clients.

According to their “vision” statement, what they really do is ‘scheme and plot to find better, more innovative and effective ways of infiltrating popular culture...or even a niche group’.

For those who pride themselves on holding the intrusiveness of consumer culture at bay, that “vision” is the epitome of corporate evil. But for an advertiser who want to rise above the din of white noise in a media-saturated world, and reach potential customers - say indie fans between the ages of 16 and 35 who might purchase a new or “pre-owned” vehicle in the state of Colorado during July or August- it’s pure genius.

More specifically, it’s an Evil Genius with three heads - namely founding partners Matt Omara, Doug VanAndel and Gary Topolewski who together brought the term “Hockeytown” to Detroit, and in Topolewski’s case, brought Zeppelin’s “Rock & Roll” to Cadillac. These are tried and true veterans of advertising evil, a cunning cabal of viral marketers who, together with MBC Productions (think of them as the Evil Genius’ hired henchmen), have descended on Frog Island Park to practice their dark magic.

Tonight their goal is to create a authentic representation of an outdoor indie music festival for a series of thirty to sixty second spots that will hook potential television viewers and radio listeners with the phrase “It’s Burt”. That’s for the Burt Automotive Network, a group of nine Colorado-based dealerships that sell GM, Ford, Toyota, Subaru, Mazda and Honda products, as well as financing, insurance, service, parts and a multitude of other automotive goods and services your average Coloradan indie music fan might need in order to get to that next gig. And judging from the scope of the production, Burt has what every Evil Genius needs to execute a nefarious plan - a hefty bankroll.

After all, “Burtapalooza”, as the promotion’s been dubbed, isn’t an old-school video shoot at Joe-Bob’s Used Car Lot - this is a big-time creative campaign for a big-time company. According to HispanicBusiness.com, Burt Automotive Network posted 1.48 Billion (with a “B”) in revenue for 2002 and is one of, if not the, largest hispanic-owned businesses in the United States.

But that was 2002 and this is 2006. As anyone who lives in Michigan can tell you, the car business ain’t what it used to be (at least not the domestic car business), so cultivating a loyal customer base among the young and hip will be key to future sales. Unfortunately, you can’t always reach that audience with traditional advertising. You need to grab them on tv, on the radio, on the web and in the real world.

That’s why Evil Genius is negotiating a series of possible appearances by South Normal in Colorado this summer, a real “Burtapalooza” to go with the television and radio commercials, further blurring the line between reality and advertising for a demographic who is growing cynical of both. Authenticity will be key to infiltration.

South Normal +1

Nathan Mackinder is nearly unrecognizable from the promo shot on the South Normal website. His clean-shaven, fully-exposed dome has sprouted a crop of thick dark hair which is mostly covered by a black military patrol cap, making him look much younger. He paces the stage with his guitar until a drum track bursts from the PA. That’s his cue to approach the mic and begin moving his lips along with the familiar voice coming out of the speakers.

His brother Jeremy Mackinder rises from his comfortable spot on the edge of Ken Blaznek’s drum riser and begins picking his bass. He’s growing his hair out too, but the result is more Danny Bonaducci meets Ben Wallace, save for the regulation sideburns befitting a member of Whitey Morgan and the Waycross Georgia Farmboys - his other gig.

Guitarist Jason Schaller is standing stage left, sporting a knit skull-cap and a soul-patch ala The Edge while strumming a white Les Paul with gold hardware. His counterpart, guitarist Ben Vermaylen, is strumming a gold Les Paul with white trim stage right, his face obscured by long bangs as he stares at a point somewhere beyond and below him.

Suzie Ferro is shaking a tambourine and “singing” back-up. It’s a welcome demotion from her usual duties as front-woman for Radiocraft, another popular local indie band. Since her distinctive, raspy voice graces the recording that will be used as tonight’s soundtrack, it’s only right she lip-sync for the show. Besides, her presence tempers the abundance of testosterone on stage and will no doubt help win the attention of male Coloradans. But the thick, dark curls she so carefully primped back stage before the shoot are collapsing under the weight of the oppressive humidity and the heat of the parabolic lights. After five or six takes, the cool fantasy of television surrenders to the sweaty reality of rock & roll. Perfect. Authenticity will be key to infiltration.

The Song:

“It’s Burt” is blaring from the P.A. for the nth time. The single (i.e. song+jingle) was crafted by singer/songwriter Nathan Mackinder and his partner Andy Sacks at the behest of Executive Producer Rob Demilner in the weeks prior to the shoot. Originally, Demilner hired South Normal only as the “talent”, a ‘nationally known music house’ was supposed to write the music. But when Demilner, Evil Genius & the board at Burt Automotive Network heard Mackinder & Sacks’ version, South Normal got the gig.

“When (Nathan) presented the demo it blew everybody away, “ wrote Demilner in an e-mail related to this story. “Musically it was catchy and memorable and the performance had subtleties of pain and angst. It was authentic. He totally got the idea.”

Not surprising. The song is typical of South Normal’s music: infectious MOR rock with a broad appeal - perfect for advertising. Best of all for diehard South Normal fans who like to keep their music and their commercials in separate worlds, they won’t be bastardizing any past favorites to sell cars; “It’s Burt” was created for the commercial.

Gregg Leonard engineered the track at Big Sky Studios in Ann Arbor where he co-produced South Normal’s latest release, “No More Songs About Girls”. His work with the band has already led to licensing deals with two major motion pictures (“Feed”; Becker Entertainment. and “Dimples”; Lions Gate Films) with a deal for a third already in the works. Over the past year, licensing and publishing have become a viable source of revenue for the band.

“We aren't quitting our jobs yet,” said Nathan Mackinder in an e-mail related to this story. “But publishing will be paying out over the next few years. We’re constantly soliciting more and getting more inquiries. The more we get, the more credible we become, and the more we can charge.”

In recent years, advertising agencies, television and film companies have increasingly used independently produced music for their projects, likely because it can be acquired for a fraction of the cost demanded by major-label acts and with less hassle. It’s a win-win proposition: producers get high-quality original music at a decent price and independent artists get much needed exposure and/or income from their music.

Several Michigan bands (Liz Larin, Jocaine, Cobalt Party Revolution, The Bomb Pops among others) have taken advantage of the trend, licensing existing material or creating original music for commercials, movies or television shows such as Dawson’s Creek, a television drama that has created a new revenue stream for itself by selling CD’s of the independent music they use. No longer do world-class indie bands have to rely on meager record sales (due in no small part to a dearth of regular rotation on major-market radio stations - but that’s another story) and small gigs as their only source of revenue.

Business vs. Pleasure

So diversifying your revenue streams is great for the portfolio, but has all the contractual legalese of the modern music business sucked the romance out of being in rock band? What happened to writing and performing great music, getting discovered by a good label’s A&R director, touring, selling a million records and waiting for the royalty checks to come pouring in while you trash hotel rooms?

“Its a very different business than the one I dreamed of as a kid...” wrote Mackinder. “The days of signing bands because of their "talent" are over, but I’m starting to understand it more and more.”

What labels are looking for nowadays, he explains, are "assets", such as publishing deals that pay royalties. The more a band earns, the less risk there is promoting them.

“If an investor, such as a label, sees your group with royalties paying over a period of time, their risk is much lower and recoupment is a bit more definite,” Mackinder added. “It’s a business and how a band earns is most important.”

With an overabundance of musical talent out there, any indie band serious about competing for the brass ring will have to increase their attractiveness to investors. Mackinder recommends local bands learn everything they can about the business themselves. The more they do on their own, the more money they can make. As evidence, Mackinder is not only one-sixth of the hired talent for tonight’s shoot, but he’s also the co-writer, co-producer, arranger and copyright holder of the music being used. As music producer, he hired his own band, South Normal, to record tonight’s theme song.

Nathan’s brother Jeremy is a bit more philosophical about the whole arrangement. At a pause between takes he quips, “It was just nice to leave the studio and get a paycheck for once, ya know what I mean?”

The Crowd:

http://www.michiganbands.com/upload/event-burt-crowd1.jpg" align="left" hspace="10" vspace="5">

Many of tonight's extras showed up via “evite”, an electronic invitation connected to the MySpace.com social networking phenomena. “Friends” in the South Normal network (916 at last count) were able to r.s.v.p online, eliminating the need to search for extras among the general public who might want to be paid for an evenings worth of feigned enthusiasm. MySpace gives the band instant access to authentic South Normal fans who are more than happy to cheer on the band they love - and they won't have to fake it. Authenticity will be key to infiltration.

About four dozen people are standing in front of the stage, enough to create a respectable “front-row” of genuinely enthusiastic festival fans, including two bona fide freaks who are more than ready to cause some rock & roll ruckus. Grant Bollinger, a close friend of the band, has drawn “I (heart) Burt” (see photo) in magic marker across his bare chest and stomach -at no one’s request. Eric Kluiber, former metal hellion of Inner Recipe and current lead guitarist for Overloaded, jumps up on stage during the shoot to dive headfirst into the crowd. Director Ron Castorri seems genuinely surprised and delighted by the spontaneity.

“Somebody get that guy a shot of Jack!” Castorri yells between takes.

Not to be outdone, Bollinger follows with his own stage dive shortly thereafter and repeats the stunt several times for the camera . You couldn’t write a better script for an indie music festival. Where else could you find convincing actors who would be willing to stage-dive for the price of a t-shirt and the chance to be on television? Authenticity will be key to infiltration.

A motley-looking crew member who looks like a veteran roadie holds a clapboard for the camera before each take. Another crew member is standing just outside the crowd, poised to launch beach balls into the air when the tape starts rolling. A cameraman with a hand-held and a still photographer swarm the periphery of the stage, capturing choice moments in the action.

About midway through the shoot, the camera crane & dolly tracks are moved to the back of the crowd to get an entirely different series of shots. It takes a half-dozen crew members doubling as grips to push it onto the relocated tracks. There’s lot of waiting around between takes, but Castorri uses the opportunity to re-energize and re-focus the crowd.

“That’s really, really great everybody. But it’s Burt with a “T”, okay? Bur-Ta. Now let’s try it again.” Moments later, “We need more arms in the air. Lots of cheering and arm-waving okay? Okay, here we go. Lots of arms.” He dashes off-stage and the entire process begins again.

There are dozens of takes; some with music, some without, some just the duration of the chorus, some the entire length of the song, some of individual band-members and some just of the crowd, some with smoke and some without. When you're spending this kind of money, you make sure you cover every possible angle.

By the end of four hours, a few of the extras are becoming irritable and fatigued. They look like they’re ready to ditch and get on with their Friday nights. The Dirty Americans are playing just down the street and a number of extras are talking about catching the show. By 11:30 pm, Evil Genius, MBC Productions and South Normal have soaked up all the energy and enthusiasm that was available to them.

Burtapalooza is a wrap.

Opportunity Seized

Director of Sales, Angelo Chavez, takes the stage to thank everybody for coming on behalf of Burt Automotive Network. There’s a hearty round of traditional, end-of-production applause and the extras start trailing off, some disappearing down the walking path toward town and some climbing the stairs that will take them out of Frog Island Park and into the night.

By all accounts, Burtapalooza is a huge success. The producer’s happy, the client’s happy, the band is happy - even the Evil Genius is happy. With any luck or justice, the campaign will leads to more opportunities for talented local bands to earn money from their music. Nathan Mackinder is optimistic.

“Things look good as to being able to do more of these projects and start spreading them out to other acts and give clients a diversity to choose from, rather than computer generated sound beds made by some rich engineer in the suburbs. People want real music and so do today's advertisers.”

Authenticity will be key to infiltration.

- Mitch Phillips

See A Picture of the Burtapalooza Big Whigs

-30-

-- Mitch

Prog vs Prog: Space Nelson's "Don't Panic" & Eyestrings "Consumption"

2006-02-11T21:42:00.001-08:00

For those of you out there who might be prog-curious but you're not sure where to get your ears wet, you're in luck. We've put together a side by side comparison of two 2005 releases that haven't received their fair due. If you're serious about expanding your musical horizons beyond the latest fad and into more adventurous territory, we suggest you check out Space Nelson's "Don't Panic" and Eyestrings "Consumption", two impressive releases from two progressive, yet distinctly unique Michigan bands.


Band Name: Space Nelson Source: Inspired by guitarist John Piasentin's "spacey" paperboy	Band Name: Eyestrings Source: Taken from a line in William Shakespeare's "Cymbeline"
Band Members: John Piasentin (Guitar/Vocals), Pete Hopersberger (keys/vocals), Gary Lock (bass guitar), Eric Fischer (drums)	Band Members: Ryan Paramenter (Keys/Vocals), Mathew Kennedy (bass, moog, theramin), Alan Rutter (guitars/vocals), Bob Young (drums, djembe, tabla, percussion)
Release Title: "Don't Panic" Release Date: March 2005	Release Title: "Consumption" Release Date: October 2005
Recorded at: Tempermill Studios by Jim Kissling (Ferndale, MI)	Recorded at: Windfall Recording by Ben Ridley (Hammondsport, NY)
tracks/time: 8 tracks @ 32:06 min/sec Average track length: 4 min Shortest Track: 2:49 min/sec Longest Track: 4:43 min/sec	tracks/time: 7 tracks @ 64:00 min/sec Average track length: 9 min Shortest Track: 2:02 min/sec Longest Track: 20:00 min/sec
Short Description: supercharged prog-rock featuring tight vocal harmonies, controlled polyrhythmic time signatures, predictable pop-friendly melodies and smoking instrumental jams	Short Description: dark, ethereal, capricious, experimental, jazz-infused prog featuring dynamic and fluid melodies, atonal flirtations, exotic instruments, abstruse lyrics and multi-part compositions
Cover: Art & Design: Pete Hopersberger Pages: 4 (duotone/b&w) Lyrics NOT included	Cover: Art & Design: Ryan Parmenter Pages: 12 (full color) Lyrics Included
Price: $12.00 includes S/H	Price: $12.00 plus S/H
Popular Comparisons: Rush, Dream Theatre, King's X	Popular Comparisons: Genesis, Yes, King Crimson.
Sample Clips: "Tilt" "Control"	Sample Clips: "Valid For A Week" "Slate Clean"
Website: www.SpaceNelson.com	Website: www.Eyestrings.com

-- Mitch

Show Review: Steffie Sings For Her Sex Change

2006-02-05T09:11:00.000-08:00

by mitch phillips

I was graciously invited to attend the third CD release party for Stephanie Loveless' debut entitled, "Steffie Sings For Her Sex Change" which took place at her house in Ferndale last Saturday night.

About twenty people were there when I arrived with prog-rocker John Ludi. I dragged him with me in case I didn't know anyone else there. John knew Steffie in a previous lifetime and incarnation when he was known as "Tim" in band called Soft War. Seems we all changed names or identities at least once since we'd met; evidence of a perpetual search for our place in the world, I suppose.

As it turned out, Storm Records point man Norm Andreson was in attendance, as well as Cyndi Summers of Veggies in Mottion, three transsexuals, a handful of activists, and friends in every size, shape, age, gender and color.

I ordered my Steffie' CD months before the party, but it never arrived. Apparently, the first recording was scrapped in order to capture some better performances - which made me wonder what I was about to hear. After all, Stephanie (or Tom for that matter) hadn't touched a guitar in fifteen years and who knew what hormonal therapy did to vocal chords.

But in several of her e-mail confessionals (i.e. "Steffie's World"), many of which included the sordid details of a promiscuous pre-op transsexual on the prowl, she insisted the songs were just pouring out of her and she couldn't wait to share them with friends. Every life-changing, life-challenging, life-affirming, and even life-threatening event seemed to produce a new song and she'd be performing many of them tonight.

By the time I made my way to the well-stocked food table (which, if you've seen me lately, is where I seem to be spending much of my time), people were being seated on folded chairs in the living room for the coming performance. I found a chair close to the food.

A small Traynor P.A. and two mics were set up in the corner of the living room and Steffie took her place behind them. With typical humility, but an atypical feminine voice that bordered on affectation, Steph thanked us all for our continued love and support and began her first song entitled, "A Girl Like Me".

I was pleasantly surprised. It didn't suck. In fact it was pretty damn good; the song was simple, the performance was clean, the chord progression was effective and the delivery was sincere. It was a well-crafted song about a transsexual looking for love and acceptance. When it was over, Steph breathlessly thanked us for our kindness over and over again, patting an open hand on her budding chest, then in front of her face like a proud mother trying to stifle a bad case of the misties, lest it destroy her carefully applied mascara.

Steff followed with "Fairy In A Jar", a song about being treated like a curio by an insincere paramour, something to be trotted out as a novelty for friends. It was good too. She sang and played almost entirely with her eyes closed, as if opening them in the middle of the performance might cause the whole room to evaporate. Again, the crowd was enthusiastic, clapping as she blushed and thanked us repeatedly.

I was still a bit bewildered by the whole trans-gender thing. I couldn't stop looking through Stephanie for some hint of the guy I knew and respected as Tom Ness, music magazine publisher and fearless activist. I found myself searching for remnants of his physical identity; the sinewy arms, the strong jaw line, the pronounced adams apple, the determined intensity in the eyes and the inexhaustible energy. The important stuff was still there, but the context had changed and I couldn't help but mourn the loss. I was certainly willing to accept and support his decision to live his life as he saw fit, but it would take a little more time for me to re-program the neurons previously reserved for Tom. I'm a proud liberal; tolerant, accepting, inclusive and all that. But I'm a redneck liberal - it takes me a little longer to make the jump.

John Ludi, my date (I'm sure he'll thank me for that), begged-off after a few songs to go program some drum tracks on his laptop at a local coffee house. He told me it was a better space for being creative, the comforts of home having proved too distracting. I think he was just ditching me. Other than disbelief and a bit of winking amusement, I'm not sure how he took to the Steffie experience. "We'll talk later," he said with a smile as he disappeared through the back door.

While the first couple of Steff's songs were light-hearted pop fare, "I'm An Idiot" and "Serenity" expressed thoughts of self-loathing and suicide, which never seemed to be far from her mind. Living with the courage of your convictions can be a soul-wrenching experience, especially when those convictions are in direct opposition to majority norms during a nasty culture war. The psychic weight of fearlessly being who you are, and not who people think you are or should be, can be crushing. Sometimes it can seem more practical for everybody involved to end the fight on your own terms. But the intermittent despair, like the intermittent joy, is the stuff of life that makes us who we are. The one mercy of the material world is that nothing lasts forever, not even the suffering.

After the first five tunes, I realized that none of them were actually on the CD I was now holding in my hand. But soon she performed "Treat Me Like A Lady", "Blessing & A Curse" and "Jean", the last a sorrowful song about the recent death of her mother and the fears, hopes, regrets and forgiveness they were unable to express. Despite what I consider to be a throwaway guitar motif, I could hear the conflicted emotion and inescapable finality of the lyrics permeate the room. It was intensely personal.

While some of Steph's songs sank into melancholy, that tendency was thankfully absent in the vegetarian-inspired silliness of "If You Love Your Friends (You Should Eat 'em)". This is the kind of song you'd sing with forty other people on a bus headed for a PETA rally in Washington D.C. Better than B-I-N-G-O. The cleverness of the lyrics prompted much laughter and merriment.

She closed with "Liar, Liar", a violent tirade inspired by unrequited love, but not before succumbing to a complete brain-fart and forgetting the lyrics. She laughed at herself unitil we kick-started her with a hint from the lyric sheet. Soon she was off again, eyes closed, head back, hammering the nylon strings on her classical guitar like there was literally no tomorrow.

A wash of sincere, supportive applause filled the room. It was a fine performance, after all. Steffie looked overwhelmed by the reaction.

"This is the last of three shows here at the house, so it's like the end of the tour for me," she quipped into the mic. "But I want to tell you this was absolutely the best night of all! You guys were just super! I want to thank each and every one of you. I was soo nervous!"

When the show was over, people got up and stretched; some wandered into the dining room to pick on the food trays, some headed for the bathroom while others stayed to chat with Stefffie. One of the tranny's picked up the guitar and gave an ad-hoc performance for two of her sisters who were wowed by her digital dexterity. Most of us, including yours truly, dug into their pockets to contribute to the cause - in this case, an operation to take place someday that would permanently change a penis into something resembling a vagina. Whatever - either one will get your ass into trouble if you do your thinking with it.

Copies of the farewell issue of Jam Rag (which includes an interview of "Steffie" Interviewing "Tom") were strategically placed around the room. I picked one up to take home with me to read what "Tom" had to say abut it all, but mostly just to keep it as a memento.

I wasn't really mourning the loss of Tom anymore, but celebrating the accomplishment of Stephanie who looked perfectly happy to enjoy the fruits of her hard-earned labor.

- Mitch

Visit SteffieLoveless.Blogspot.com

Visit Steffie on Myspace

If you'd like to obtain a copy of "Steffie Sings For Her Sex Change", write to steffie at Loveless@JamRag.com

Photo of Tom Ness used with permission from Metro Detroit Green Party

-- Mitch

"Burdened Hands" by Eyestrings

2005-07-09T19:32:00.000-07:00

Early last year, Eyestrings sent us a copy of their amazing 2004 debut, "Burdened Hands". It quickly made it into my iPod, but it never got the treatment. Pretty soon, their sophomore release will be available (slated for a Sept. 05 release) so you prog fans have just enough time to fully digest this substantial debutr before progressing any further. Click "read more" below for the review and song samples.

Band:Eyestrings

Title: Burdened Hands (debut)

Label: Split Difference Records

Release Date: January, 2004

Produced and Recorded by: Eyestrings, drums recorded at Windfall Recording (NY), mastering Jonathan Wyner @ MWorks Mastering (MA)
Musicians: Ryan Paramenter (voice, snth, mellotron, trombone), Alan Rutter (guitars, supporting vocals), Mathew Kennedy (bass, Moog), Bob Young (drums, percussion)

by Mitch Phillips

Prog fans have taken a lot of crap from the glossy fashion/music press over the last twenty years; their heroes have been repeatedly maligned as 'inexcusably pompous’ (Jethro Tull), ‘appealing only to male sci-fi bores’ (Yes), ‘bereft of sex and emotion’ (Kansas), and ‘(shunning) blues-based rock in favor of bombastically reinterpreting classical works’(Emerson, Lake & Palmer). And all those thread-bare, regurgitated gems came from just one issue of Maxim Blender (Sept. 2003 "50 Worst Artists In History").

But just because you can't sell tampons or tennis-shoes with King Crimson's "Larks Tongue In Aspic Part III" or club-dance to Yes' "Five Percent For Nothing" doesn't mean it isn't worthwhile. Prog fans know their music exists despite its lack of commercial appeal or the approval of the majority of rock fans who seem stuck in a perpetual cycle of blues-based revivalism. Regardless of what Rolling Stone, Maxim Blender or Spin try to sell you to go with an expensive pair of pants, there are rock bands out there who celebrate the depth, complexity and the adventurous nature of music for its own sake.

Eyestrings is just such a band.

"Burdened Hands" is a significant debut from this Detroit-based neo-progressive quartet. Their performance is dynamic, rhythmically challenging and technically proficient. The music tends toward the grand and theatrical ("Recovery", "Funnel", "Only A Body") but can be dark and brooding as well ("Nothing" "Empty Box") and even show a sense of humor, something prog bands have often been accused of sorely lacking.

This disc caters to that rare, patient listener who's willing to suspend final judgment until the entire record has run its course - or even much later just to make sure it all sank in. The tracks range in duration from a rock-typical 3'35" to a prog-epic 12'37", with a grand total of one hour and six minutes of music packed into ten tracks. Though its undoubtedly progressive in nature, it's not entirely unapproachable; tracks such as "Itchy Tickler" and "Slackjaw" will appeal to those who appreciate a good tune as much as a clever arrangement and top-notch musicianship.

Eyestrings owe their particular sound to the punctuated rhythms of composer Ryan Parmenter's piano & keyboard work and the exploratory, intrepid guitar lines of Alan Rutter. Bassist Mathew Kennedy and drummer Bob Young support the adventure with the harmonic competency and mechanical dependability expected of a solid, progressive rhythm section.

The band formed in 2001 when Parmenter, Kennedy and Young (formerly of Discipline) drafted guitarist Alan Rutter from Los Angeles (RCA Project) to finish the new line-up. Their debut was released in January of 2004 and performed live at a show with local prog contemporaries Space Nelson and Tiles (Ed: really wish I wouldn't have missed that one).

Currently, Eyestrings is in the studio working on a follow-up (due out September of 2005) and expect to perform a series of live dates following the release.

Track Listing:

Recovery - A grandiose piano punctuated by guitar riffs reminiscent of Steve Hackett opens this thoughtful, ten-minute epic about the pain of recovery and the power of denial.
Itchy Tickler - Eyestrings flair for the theatrical meets Yes' flair for obtuse, interpretive lyrics. Bouncy walking beat marks a memorable contrast on this record.
Dead Supermen - What might have gone through the mind of Supermen George Reeves and Christopher Reeve, or any of us who've lived long enough to look back on our glory days with a wistful sniff.
Anachromism - Synthesized gothic darkness about, uh, about ..... (thanks for printing those lyrics backwards!) ... about six minutes long. Read the lyrics at your own risk - mirror not included.
Funnel - This reminds me of "Fragile"-era Yes meets "Drama"-era Yes. A solo piano intro drifts in seamlessly from the previous track and gives way to a very staccato melody that chimes in unison with the instruments. BTW, the Drama-era Yes line-up, with Geoff Downes and John Wetton, is doing a tour this year - but then, so is Eyestrings. Better plan to see both.
Just A Body - Ryan Parmenter's voice takes on a Bowie-esque quality on this track that presumes mortality is the be-all and end-all of human existence. You're nothing but cold meat on a hard slab, boy'o. Judging from what your life's been like up 'til now, what did you expect?
Slackjaw - Ryan Parmenter channels the voice of Tom Waits, who channels the ghost of Frank Zappa in this polyrhythmic waltz for a penny-arcade - at least that's the way I hear it in my head.
Nothing - ' And nothing happened yesterday / and nothing happened today / and there's nothing you can say / ... and the things you thought you earned are flushed away ' Story of my life set to a brooding electric piano and a vocal delivery that sounds like it came from a handful of Vicodin washed down with a bottle of cough-syrup.
Time Will Tell - A return to the punctuated rhythms. Features the psychotic guitar shreddings of Alan Rutter.
Empty Box - Sad epic about, if I had to guess, a dreamer who's fallen in love with a pretty face on the idiot box.

• • •

Visit Eyestrings.com

Check out more progressive music @ Progarchives.com

-- Mitch

Progressive Rock Pureed Once Again

2005-06-25T08:09:00.000-07:00
by Mitch Phillps

Back in September of 2003, Maxim Blender came out with it’s list of The 50 Worst Artists in History. Usually I ignore such obvious ploys to sell magazines, but I decided to take a peek to justify what I thought I might find. As usual, I wasn’t surprised. No less than four bands I’ve enjoyed in the past made the list: Emerson Lake & Palmer (#2), Tin Machine (#12) and, to a lesser extent, Kansas (#6) and Asia (#7).
What’s more, the virtual frat-house of quip-scribblers at that NYC glossy (it took no less than nine Blender-boys to produce the piece) managed to insult other top acts that fit the “progressive rock” label (even those not on their hit-list!) with the same lazy insults that have been regurgitated in the rock press for the last thirty years; Yes and Jethro Tull are described as ‘inexcuseably pompous’ and ‘appealing only to male sci-fi bores’, Kansas as ‘bereft of sex and emotion’, and ELP of ‘(shunning) blues-based rock in favor of bombastically reinterpreting classical works.’
What they didn’t mention is that no band had ever accomplished what these acts had with such brave originality or remarkable technique - two traits conspicuously missing from contemporary rock (in my opinion, rock innovation stalled with the last incarnation of King Crimson ). Instead, MOR rock fans have been fed a revolving mix of blues-based revivalism which, out of pure boredom, has come full circle and returned to its most primitive roots in The White Stripes and the garage movement (for the moment, we’ll set aside the hip-hop/rock amalgamations and concentrate on the pentatonic v.s. diatonic, blues-based v.s. classical-based flavors of rock music - How convenient, eh?).
That’s not to say progressive rock hasn’t produced some of the worst music - it probably has. Truly adventurous music is bound to produce more than it’s share of boners due to it’s unpredictable nature. But It’s free dalliance with synthesizers, theramins, operatic themes, classical movements, Jazz progressions, rhythmic syncopations, odd time signatures, no time signatures, and rock songs of epic proportion and length have produced some truly exceptional works of musical art. To revile it’s worst moments while ignoring or rudely shaming it’s most successful ones is disingenuous and insulting to the millions of fans who sought-out this music and made it successful - in some cases, despite the efforts of the music business (I seem to recall reading that Canadian prog-rockers Rush were ignored by major labels until it’s grass-roots success proved its worth as an an attractive investment ).

Progressive rock most noteably fails when it tries to appease pop audiences in an attempt to achieve record sales commensurate with whatever music fashion currently holds sway (I’d have to agree with Blender’s panning of ELP’s “Love Beach” - an awful fate for rock’s classical re-composeurs [sic]). It best succeeds when it’s allowed to incubate apart from consumer-culture and it’s fashion accessories, which is why, I would guess, the best progressive music seems to have been created by sheltered art students in 1960’s England who were twice-removed from American market forces.
But I suspect the biggest reason progressive rock has been so ignored, abused and altogether abandoned by today’s music industry, press and critics (who are, by the way, collecting their paychecks from the very same mega-media companies) is because advertising firms can’t figure out a way to market beer & tennis shoes (or drugs or cars or nasal spray or tampons). with it. Its potential as a niche market, even when such business practices are prevalent, seems to have been overlooked. I’ll cite as evidence of neglect the fact that every other music form that hit stride in the seventies (i.e. Disco, Punk, Funk, and now New Wave) has already been and/or is currently being re-exploited for 21st Century products.

Yet, you may never see (thankfully), or perhaps can’t imagine, a commercial using “Five-Percent For Nothing” by Yes or “Larks Tongue In Aspic” by King Crimson to hawk blue-jeans (though I do seem to recall one of the networks using part of an ELP ‘s version of “Fanfare for the Common Man” for The Wide World of Sports ). Music for music’s sake will always lose out to music that makes you want to fuck, fight or shop. Pop culture rarely rises above it’s base instincts. The deplorable state of the classical music market and it’s conspicuous disappearance from commercial radio should be cited as further evidence that some forms of art best left to incubate away from market forces.
For too long progressive music fans have taken shit from the glossy fashion/music press. We’re quite aware of our status as a fringe group and we prefer it that way. We actively seek out the extremes in sonic and ryhthmic complexity and deliberately avoid specious trends meant for club-hopping followers of fashion.
So let me take advantage of my independent poverty and relative anonymity and be very clear in my reaction to the Blenders, The Rolling Stones, The Spins, et al of the fashion/music press who repeadtedly insult Prog fans with borrowed quips and hipper-than-thou drolleries: fuck-off you self-important, overbearing, air-sucking, coporate-music prostitutes. I like my music to reflect my life: long, hard & complicated.

- Mitch Phillips

-- Mitch

"Rise Above or Fall Below" by John Ludi

2005-06-11T19:50:00.000-07:00
John Ludi is the latest persona of a local music veteran whose spent better than twenty years creating music both with bands such as "Pliny The Elder" and "Soft War" and as a solo artist. After returning to Michigan three years ago, battered and bruised from a soul-searching trek across America, John Ludi turned his thoughts inward and began his latest, and perhaps greatest work, entitled "Rise Above or Fall Below".

Artist: John Ludi
Release: Rise Above Or Fall Below
Year: 2005
Musicians: John Ludi (guitars, basses, keyboards, programming) Greg Kutcher (guitars on "The Way"), Ken Shaw (hand drum on "The Way")
Additional Recording: Digital Vision (Wixom)
Additional Engineering and Mastering: Michael Moore (No, not that Michael Moore)

If you've been to his website, you'd know that John Ludi loiters on the fringe of popular culture: where undisclosed numbers of alien abductions and cattle-mutilations are covered-up to prevent a worldwide panic; where out-of-body-experiences are investigated to validate the existence of the soul; where a small faction of social deviants practice yoga, mindfulness meditation and live 'a lifestyle of voluntary simplicity, frugality, and avoidance of debt' (a radical notion in 21st century America if ever there were one); and where some truly interesting things happen if you're paying any attention. Ludi doesn't collect "Anomalinks" as he calls them because he's gullible or prone to conspiracy theories, but because he's well-read and insatiably curious about a world in which he finds himself ill-at-ease.

To everyday, red-state, Bush/Cheney bumper-sticker folk who insist that conspicuous consumption and media-inspired ass-sniffing are the height of human experience, John Ludi is just another deluded liberal (though he insist on the term "pragmatist") blathering on about finite resources and unnecessary violence in a world intent on eating itself. But to those who feel comfortable on the fringe, despite its capricious and sometimes silly nature, and who realize the value of curiosity and the rarity of humility in a world controlled by arrogant, hyper-confident predators and the wanna-bees who will lie, cheat, kick and kill to take their place, John Ludi is the voice of sanity put to music - more precisely, well-crafted, synth-pop rooted in late 70's to early 80's art-rock and new-wave.

"Rise Above or Fall Below" is Ludi's latest release, a cohesive collection of 13 songs with a nod back to art-rock and new-wave in the tradition of of Peter Murphy, Peter Gabriel, David Bowie, Nick Cave and bands such as The Fixx and Roxy Music.

The songs tackle such heady themes as modern decadence ("Whore of Babylon"), spiritual opportunism ("Feel of Clay"), diminishing biodiversity ("Web") and insatiable materialism ("SUV"). There's also a bit of introspective self-loathing to keep him from getting too puffed-up ("Mediocrity" and "Mr. Sad") and failing that, Ludi works his punk muscle on "Best of Armageddon".

But its Ludi's personal struggle and his search for meaning in life that makes this musical journey so compelling. You can hear his hunger for enlightenment on the hip-tripping dance gem "Rise Above" and his belief in transcendent divinity on "The Way". There's a weary wistfulness on "Still Comes The Dawn" and palpable yearning on the closer "...or Fall Below".

Though relatively dark for a pop culture hit, "Rise Above or Fall Below" is a compelling listen from a seasoned artist in search of self-realization.

Review by Mitch Phillips for Michiganbands.com

Track Listing

1. The Whore of Babylon
2. Web
3. Rise Above
4. SUV
5. The Way
6. Still Comes The Dawn
7. Mediocrity
8. Feet of Clay
9. Home
10. Mr. Sad
11. The Beast of Armageddon
12. ...or Fall Below

Visit JohnLudi.com

-- Mitch

The Bomb Pops - Things They Say

2005-06-05T13:24:00.000-07:00
From the "better-late-than-never" section, Mitch Phillips dusts off the old CD pile and comes out with The Bomb Pops 2002 release, "Things They Say" which features six tracks of pogo punching pop that'll make you wanna tear your t-shirt, dye your hair green and stick a safety-pin through your nose. Clocking in at a total of 13.6 minutes, this CD, unlike Mitch, wastes no time in getting to the point.

Band: The Bomb Pops

Release: Things They Say

Year: 2002

Members: Tim Hervey (guitar) , Shawn Hervey (bass), Natalie Wegner (Vocals), Phil Bansen (drums)

When I first saw The Bomb Pops several years ago at Club Bart, I remember saying that they were all substance and no style (Can you believe the arrogance? I blame the Vicodin). Anyway, here was a great power-pop band, but without a feature to set them apart from the dozens of great bands in the same genre in Detroit.

I like to imagine they took my advice with 2001's addition of vocalist Natalie Wegner, who's smooth and sexy voice is reminiscent of Gwen Stefani or perhaps Martha Davis (No Doubt and The Motels respectively). Whatever their motivation for the line-up change, Wegner's presence gives basement-brothers Tim and Shawn Hervey a splash of style to go with their long-suffered, down-stroking verve. Like some of their infamous 30-second punk songs, The Bomb Pops "Things They Say" is also short and sweet (13.6 minutes total) and comes in a tidy, six track package that inspires an impromptu pogo on just about every track.

At first I was a bit put-off by some of the drumming on this disc (e.g. the intro on "Day Dreamer"), but after listening with fresh ears, I have to conclude everything is as it should be and any timing aberrations are either ignorable, intended or well-earned. For what it's worth, The Bomb Pops have since replaced drummer Phil Bansen with Dark Carnival's Chris Connolly, so you can expect their live show (if they're still gigging) to be quite impressive.

In any case, there's some really good stuff on this disc, particularly the bounding punk gem, "Keep On" which I'm going to add to my iPod right now. You can check out two of the tracks at Bombpops.com. Get it while you still can. - Mitch

Track Listing:

Outta Here
Take Me Away
Day Dreamer
Keep On
You Got To Know
Don't Wanna See You Cry

-- Mitch

Why I don't write about music anymore.

2005-04-12T02:35:00.000-07:00
This blog has been quiet for almost a year now. More and more time passes withou an addition to this blog or any other publication that I've been known to contribute to. Why? I've been asking myself that question for a while now. No real motivation to contribute I suppose. There's certainly no money in writing about music, unless, of course, you went to an Ivy League school on the east coast and don't really need the money anyway. This game is about who you know and not what you know or what you can do. Event the free little free rags in Detroit are part of a very tightly controlled clique of fashionistas. So advancemennt in "the field", if you can call it that, is unlikely.

What's more, the closer you get to the music business and the writing business, the less attractive it is. Getting close to the music is one thing, getting close to the musicians is quite another. This is a highly competitive field with very little tolerance or time for anything that isn't related to career advancement. Respect or even good manners are doled out in direct proportion to your ability to give an artist credibility and exposure - which tends to make you very cynical. It's very difficult to seperate yourself from that mindset.

I've been to a few shows, only my favorite bands, and have even begun reviews of those shows only to abandon them for my criticisms. I wonder, what purpose does this bit of writing serve? Who am I writing for? In other words, who am I serving? I find it difficult to answer that question anymore. I used to write for myself, content to be alone with the music and the written word. Somehow, I've lost that feeling entirely.

more to come.....

-- Mitch

2004-06-14T17:11:00.000-07:00
Forge: Bring on The Apocalypse

Mitch writes:
Like all of my reviews, this one's very late in coming. Forge have already collected their well-deserved Detroit Music Award for OUTSTANDING HARD ROCK/METAL ARTIST/GROUP back in April and, I'm sure, are moving on to other things. I flaked out again a few months ago and disappeared from MB due to burnout and frustration and never finished their review. There just isn't enough time in my life to indulge in my avocation and meet all my familial and financial responsibilities. But when the writing bug bites, I have to listen and I really hate to leave things undone. So, enough of my blather. Here's my review of Forge's "Bring on The Apocalypse." - Mitch

"Bring on The Apocalypse" by Forge

Band: Forge
Release: "Bring on the Apocalypse"
Label: Static Records
Year: 2004
Band Members: John Dearry (Guitar), Aaron Greene (Vocals, Guitar), Greg Mastin (Drums), Steve Greene (Bass)
Recorded at: Tempermill Studios by Tony Hamera
Produced by: Tony Hamera and Forge

Apocalypse Now?

On September 11th, 2001 it seemed the world we had known, loved and took for granted evaporated before our dumb-stuck eyes. And for a few hours that morning nobody knew if the attacks were over or if there was something much larger, longer and tougher in store for us. Was this a one-time deal or the beginning of the end for the U.S.? After all, every empire that has ruled throughout world history has met its inevitable demise. It's only a matter of time, really, and our young nation seems intent to burn our historic candle at both ends and in the middle.

Those who clutched the American flag with white knuckles and who heretofore believed the U.S. was indestructible, impenetrable, and untouchable suffered the worse reaction to 9/11. My neighbor, God Bless his red American neck, didn't leave his house, his shotgun or his private stock of domestic beer and cigarettes for three weeks; there was much re-rationalization to be done privately indoors. His very accommodating wife (she keeps him in fresh beer and cigarettes) told me he nearly suffered a complete breakdown trying to make sense of the whole thing.

Some people, like me for instance, weren't entirely surprised by the attacks - shocked and saddened, of course, but not entirely surprised. If you know your political history, especially the last forty years of U.S. foreign policy, you have to figure there's some past due karmic debt. When I heard a third airliner hit the Pentagon I called my wife, counted my blessings and braced for impact. What more could you do really?

But some people secretly welcomed the idea of an American meltdown. And I'm not talking about middle-eastern Islamic extremists hell-bent on destruction, but fine, upstanding, pay-your-bills-on-time, everyday kind of people. Why? A couple of reasons. First, Armageddon would likely mean the end of the prevailing social order, which many in the overworked underclass would certainly welcome - if only to take a breather from the 2 1/2 jobs they're working just to survive. And it would create an opportunity for some people to reposition themselves within whatever society emerged from the ashes. Like we all should have learned from Vice President Dick Cheney and Haliburton Corp., devastation does have it's opportunities.

Post-Apocalyptic Social Climber

Take my massive friend "Torque", for instance. Torque's a gun-toting 2nd Amendment patriot who was also shocked and saddened by 9/11, as befitting any upright Christian-American. But secretly, he welcomed the idea of an end to the prevailing social order - an order in which he finds himself wanting in power and position. In any apocalyptic aftermath, Torque would likely be upgraded in status from lowly maintenance worker who feels under-appreciated, under-paid and under-utilized, to the quasi-realization of his chosen e-mail address, "King Torque". Egomaniacal aspirations aside, many people I know would likely find themselves depending on Torque for his keen survival skills, high aptitude for mechanical repairs, and his uncanny ability to build useful things out of junk. Add to that his Alpha-Male, "Silver-backed Gorilla" disposition (his own description) and you have a recipe for an post-apocalyptic survivalist who'd be more than willing to fill any local leadership vacuum. If he survived at all, he's pretty confident he'd come out on top.

Appetite for Destruction

But there's another reason regular folk might welcome an apocalypse, which is even more primitive than Torque's fantasy of post-apocalyptic social climbing. An Apocalypse would satisfy the urge to witness devastation on a biblical scale. With the mega-popularity of reality television nowadays and its ever-increasing vulgarity, violence, and voyeurism, I have to believe there's sizable audience out there who'd love nothing more than to witness destruction of massive proportions, even bigger than last year's "Shock & Awe" special (I mean, that was so last season). I think there's a real hunger in this country to push the envelope, dance on the razor's edge aand tempt the fates with a raised middle finger- which brings us to the title of this record.

Bring On The Apocalypse

"Bring on The Apocalypse" is Forge's third full-length release on Static Records, following 1998's "Decloaking" and 1999's "Trials". The bands releases have evolved with a science-fiction theme that at first seemed quaint, then kind of slick and now poignant and darkly prophetic for wartime in 2004. Their sound has been described in another review as "new-jack meta-metal and 'punkish modern-hardcore'. I'd only add that 'Apocalypse' is an appropriate sonic context for those who teeth upon ultra-violent sci-fi, comic books and video games. It captures the bleakness of post-modern warfare with the rage and power born of humanity in crisis.

What I find particularly appealing about this recording are the timely and relevant themes of war and social decay which Forge deliver with consistent and believable angst. There's good reason to be pissed off these days (unless you haven't been watching the news) when it seems the very fabric of the civil world is unraveling in a chaotic spin. No genre captures this angst and fatalistic despair better than hardcore metal (with the possible exception of industrial metal e.g. Ministry). Forge tempts fate with a soundtrack for the end of days. Probably the most relevant record I've heard so far in '04 and a requirement for any returning vet who's developed a taste for hot, bloody metal the hard way.

Track Listing and commentary:

1. The Fold: The record begins with a dose of adrenaline, a guitar, bass and drum battery that has an urgency and purpose reminiscent of Queensryche. They lyrics remind us of the sacrifices we make for social assimilation and rails against those who accept the status quo without question. Aaron Green sings, "We learn that way from the start and every drone does their part.../ It's never too late to become what you hate.../ just one more chance to take it back, just one more chance.'

2. One Swift Motion: Drummer Greg Mastin makes no bones about boxing your ears with double bass-pedal mallets. In peace time, this song could be soundtrack for "Final Destination", the movie in which death chases the characters down one by one and finishes them off with photogenic flair. But since we are at war and people are really dying every day in Iraq and Afghanistan, I couldn't help but think of our troops when Greene sings, "You checked the right side, forgot about the left / You check behind you, forgot about in front/ ...Each step you take could be your last / just pray that it happens fast." God speed to the men & women of the armed forces and, God willing, may the rest of you return safely.

3. The Torch: Continuing with the theme of war, "The Torch" is a rock anthem for those who do battle. Dual guitars riff in unison against a battery of drum fills reminiscent of Judas Priest or Iron Maiden perhaps. The vocal mix here reminds me of early Kiss. The lyrics instruct our troops to cover their ass until glory can be achieved; "Keep your guns ready and stay on guard / Your greatest moments are in store."

4. Bring on The Apocalypse - This one begins with a speed-metal punctuated by drum and bass stabs. "Bring on the Apocalypse" isn't so much about prophesy or the end of days, I think, as it is about the desire to simply witness destruction on a biblical scale. Sure, there's a references to plague, viruses and a 'final battle' for global supremacy, but the lyrics betray a simpler motive. It's not some lofty goal of, say, hitting the social or moral "reset button" and cleansing our troubled, chaotic planet of it's karmic constipation. Rather, it seems to be no more than the basic instinct that compels us to watch the bombing of Baghdad on CNN, or gawk while passing a bloody car-crash, or satisfy our voyeurism for aging, feeble rock-stars with an episode of "The Osbournes". Here, armageddon seems to represent the ultimate in reality entertainment - the hyper-real destruction of the human race. When you've exhausted all forms of prurient entertainment in the so-called "developed world", what could be more satisfying than witnessing mass annihilation? Don't take my word for it, read these lyrics. "We've always wondered. I'm sick of wondering. I want to live to see what armageddon brings... / I say we do it / let's stop waving swords / let's get them bloody / let's satisfy the hordes.

The impatient speed-metal guitar battery here is an appropriate medium for delivering this particular message. The chorus is anthemesque, "C'mon! C'mon! Bring on the Apocalypse. C'mon! C'mon! Bring on the Apocalypse!" I shudder to think of President George W. Bush jamming air-guitar to this tune in the oval office.

5. Mastermind - And as for the Vice President, these lyrics... "...arranging all the pieces in a line / I'm closing in on what is mine / I put the plans into motion / I am the worst of my kind / I'm staying one step ahead / I am the mastermind". Another chill up my spine.

6. Days of Destruction - A grunts theme if ever there were one, "Days of Destruction" reveals the role conflicts and quagmires of conscience suffered by those who kill for us in the name of.... well, whatever. Forge reminds us that in wartime, "The first lesson you learn is that no one's hands are clean", and "in these days of destruction / we all become the monsters...in childrens dreams". Poignant resignation wins out in the end while, "Forever searching, to find our lost humanity."

7. 6.6.44 - At first I thought this title might be some esoteric bible reference to armageddon, then I realized it's actually a date. June 6th, 1944. D-Day. Even WWII veterans and The Great Generation haven't been forgotten here. Lyrics include graphic descriptions of terrors on French beach-front property. Can't get a picture in your head? Watch the first ten minutes of "Saving Private Ryan" and blast it out simultaneously with this tune in the background. Incoming!

8. Secret Mines - Not sure what the message is here (asian child wage slavery if I had to guess) but the bully chorus chanting "Become - ONE OF US!" aroused an urge in me for repeated air-fisting. Workers of the world, UNITE!

9. Parade of the Forgotten - The excellent lyrics here of a veteran's lament would have been much better served with a march, a ballad or anything with a slower, more deliberate tempo. Ironically, the song loses emotional punch with the battery of driving guitar and drums. Even the title suggests a more introspective tempo. Great lyrics, but the wrong music.

10. Stickman - Ok, we've reached the point of departure on this record, where themes are abandoned and lyrics become completely unintelligible: "The little crimes slip by / liquid loyalties re-incise / and reaching for the feed / they unearth a hidden greed". Huh???? Translation: The CAT ate the BAT / on the welcome MAT / got really FAT / and wore an ugly HAT. Forced rhymes really hurt. Great music, crappy lyrics. Very thin, kinda like a stick-man.

11. Defenseless - Great punk-metal mayhem with spastic drumming on this one. Forge reminds us in the lyric that all is illusory, transitory, temporary and not at all what you'd hoped it would be. Mortality's a bitch but at least sometimes the music is really, really good.

12. Departure - Not a drastic departure, but closer to screaming death-metal. The cryptic lyrics could be about the transmigration of the soul from birth to death and birth again with an awakening to self-realization - or it could just be about some really cool spaceship that can take you throughout the universe without ever leaving its parking space (ever see the movie "Contact?"). Who the hell knows. Forge delivers the power to move, but the trip you take is entirely up to you.

- Mitch Phillips

Be sure to visit: http://www.staticrecords.com and http://www.forgemusic.com

-- Mitch

Welcome to Michigan Indie Review Blog by Mitch Phillips

2003-11-10T12:26:00.000-08:00
Welcome to Michigan Indie Review. My name is Mitch Phillips (not the voice-over guy) and I've been writing about independent bands from Michigan for over ten years. The reviews that I post here may have already been published on Michigan artists.com, Michiganbands.com or JamRag. Back to top.

Music Review: Robb Roy ''Days of Pride & Hunger''

2003-11-07T14:01:00.000-08:00
Music Review: Robb Roy ''Days of Pride & Hunger''
Date: Friday, November 07, 2003 @ 00:00:00 EST
Topic: Music Reviews

Robb Roy's fourth full-length release, "Days of Pride & Hunger", offers fourteen new songs, one video by a White-Striped director, one jingle for an SUV-on-steroids, four cameos by local artists and nearly enough blood, sweat and tears to destroy one of Michigan's most beloved indie rock bands forever. Read Mitch Phillips' review of this important local release. It made him laugh, it made him cry, it made him ask Brittany Spears, "Oh why, oh why?" Click "Read More" below.

Band:Robb Roy
Release:Days of Pride & Hunger
Release Date: Oct. 21, 2003
Recorded At: The Cleaners, Studio Seven, Studio Select (Detroit)
Produced by: Jason Keuhn
Band Members: Graham Strachan (vocals), Michael Kudreiko (guitars), John Cottos (bass), Duane Huff (drums)
Additional Musicians: Jill Jack, Pat Brennan, Chris Codish, Chris McCall

True Believer’s Broken Hearts Club Band

A few weeks ago I stopped by a local music store to get some strings for a campfire gig. The manager of the store and I go way back so it’s a good excuse to catch up on the latest local music gossip. At some point, I always ask him about his brother, one of the most talented heavy-metal guitar players I’ve ever seen.
“He gave it up,” Joe said plainly. A short burst of laughter escaped my lips before I realized he was serious. “Yup, he sold every bit of his gear and took up computers. He said he was tired of having his heart broke by the (music) business.”
I was stunned and didn’t know how to respond. Joe’s brother had been “living the life” for as long as I’d known him, sacrificing everything else to chase that elusive rock & roll dream. I’d always admired him and his band mates for their focus, determination and commitment. But it had been nearly twenty years since their rock odyssey had begun and ultimately, when measured in cold, practical terms, they had little to show for it.
That’s how the music business breaks your heart - slowly, over decades, until one day you realize you’re forty and you have to start your life over because you’ve neglected such basic needs as health insurance and a retirement plan. At some point you have to stop searching for the end of that rainbow and plan for your inevitable death. Welcome back to reality, bandhead.

Context & Conscience

So it was in that context of surrender (right or wrong) that I first listened to Robb Roy’s latest CD, “Days of Pride & Hunger” which, perhaps tellingly, opens with a song titled, “Goodbye.”

‘That was a valiant effort / you hung in there for years
tore a hole in the center of your heart / but she didn’t care / You withstood the compromise / you didn't mind the bleedin / gave of yourself completely / til you almost disappeared / Goodbye, Goodbye/ So long, farewell, you left the best behind’

In its entirety, the lyrics read like the emotional debris of a failed relationship (which it very well may be), but after reading singer Graham Strachan’s last web-diary entry, I couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t, in part, a veiled capitulation to the soulless music biz (the anthropomorphized “she”), a final “Adieu!” to a heartless mistress and her empty promise. I wondered, could this be the end of Robb Roy?

Strachan’s online diary reads: ‘‘We are a victim of our own history. A band with all the promise of the "next thing to break" syndrome. We have been that band many times. We have dealt with that expectation ...(and) have, for what ever reason, not jumped to the promise land of rock and roll. Nearly every place we play someone walks up and asks, "What the hell are you guys doing here?", or "Why haven't I heard you guys on the radio?" It's a compliment. But after a while it eats at you...’

The result of those gnawing expectations seem to have found their way into the lyrics of this release which Strachan says is, “...very autobiographical and sum(s) up our journey so far”. The title track, “Days of Pride & Hunger”, asks what every regionally successful indie band must ask itself when considering its future on a cost/benefit ratio - emotionally and fiscally; ‘Can you tell me how we’ll take this loss and make it stop? and ‘Can you show me how we’ll keep from going under?’

Track 9, “Scrapin’ By”, piques at self-doubt and forces an emotional inventory with the heartfelt query, ‘Are you the man you hoped to be? / Or are you just scrapin’ by?’

And on Track 13 we find our protagonist “On Solid Ground”- but probably not where’d he’d hope to land. ‘I want to tell you a story / ‘bout a boy who was bound for glory / chased a dream and it beat him badly / Now he’s home where he belongs.’

Each song on its own tells a unique story of a painful struggle and personal growth, but overall, the lyrics belie the conscience of an artist(s) who’se given up much to “succeed” and is, quite sanely, wondering why.

Of Daylight & Dark Nights

In addition to struggle and growth, there’s a consistent theme of loss on this record; loss of love, loss of dignity, loss of innocence and even loss of life. Chris McCall adds supporting vocals to Track 14, “Hamtramck”, a song that paints a stark picture of that city with the murder of Lauren Ciek, a former acquaintance to the band. The song has already received a negative response from one city resident who doesn’t appreciate his community being portrayed as anything but a cosmopolitan hamlet of hipness. But in keeping with the brutal honesty on this record, Robb Roy drags Hamtramck out from under it’s cozy blanket of indie nightlife and into the cold-blooded reality of day, reminding us that, sometimes, Hamtramck is a place where people die. ‘This town don’t want to see you smile.... / In Hamtramck there’s a reason to despair / another young girl murdered / we’re all too numb to care’.

Track 2, “Hole (in my Heart)” mourns the emptiness suffered as a result of living in a wasteful, shallow, media-saturated culture that takes everything for granted (or is that just me being cynical again?). When my eight year-old daughter is witness to her former hero, Brittany Spears, french-kissing Madonna on national t.v. (to boost street ‘cred and youth ‘cred re$pectively), I know exactly how Strachan feels when he sings:

‘How long can we go on and lie to ourselves? / Create a world where image is everything / Turn our backs on the one, true, real inspiration / Hole in my heart / Holding my head in my hands again.’

The closing track, “I Sleep”, makes beautiful use of a Beatle-esque vocal arrangement and outtro (thanks to bassist John Cottos, who co-wrote this track with Strachan). The lyrics convey the sorrowful regrets of a part-time dad whose missed out on the defining moments of his child’s life. Brother’s Groove-r Chris Codish lends his light touch on a reflective Rhodes. The chorus scores an emotional slam-dunk that’s tough on a teary-eyed critic {sniff}. Intensely beautiful.

Light at the end of a long tunnel (as pictured)

By this point I’ve probably got you thinking “Days of Pride & Hunger” is all darkness and melancholy. It’s not. In fact, its best moments rise in contrast to the enveloping darkness - where a glimmer of hope defeats mounting despair and a moment of grace trumps a bad experience. On track #3, "As I Am", Strachan finds grace and acceptance - not from a woman, but the female personification of music herself: 'She don't give a damn / she takes me as I am / she makes no demands / she makes me a better man.'
There's even a few moments of humor on this disc. On track #1 a slight pause and a “squeeky nub” prompt an unexpected guffaw. On track #10, after the lyric 'cest la vie', we hear an officious voice in the background proclaim, "That's French!" Finally, the chorus from Blondie's "One Way or Another" provides some lightness as a musical quote on track 12.

And you can always depend on Robb Roy to deliver a few top-notch, M.O.R. rockers too; “I Don’t Want You”, “Battlelines” and “Serial K” do the job with typical style and efficiency thanks to drummer Duane Huff and guitarist Michael Kudreiko who make the beats kick and the hooks stick. The return of “Happy” producer and friend Jason Keuhn (Vanessa Williams, Chris McCall, Pas/Cal) assures proper handling and a good mix - but if you still want more for bang for your buck, you can check out Director Kevin Carrico’s video for “What If” on your computer (best of all, it's Mac compatible too- Thanks, Mike).

Hummer Bummer

The high point of this CD is still the polished truck jingle, "Roll On" (track 8). There are few things sweeter than hearing Jill Jack’s vibrant voice gelling perfectly with Strachan’s while Dearborn's own Pat Brennan provides a lush bed of organ-ic keys. This is Robb Roy at their very best.
Though this rare gem has been liscenced by General Motors for the Hummer 2 (that off-the-curb Tonka-Toy™ for overcompensating suburban metro-sexuals), I have yet to witness the song’s defilement on national television. Not that I’d deny our boys a well-deserved royalty check, I just don’t think it’s a very good match; the song’s about contemplating life changes while admiring the beauty of the American countryside - it’s not about searching for contentment in conspicuous consumption while tearing-up that landscape in your quasi-military SUV (which will require several stops at the gas pump if you want to actually travel from Virginia to the Carolinas, as per the lyrics).

If it were up to me, I’d pitch “Roll On” to Greyhound whose large-capacity diesel busses are more environmentally friendly to our as-yet undeveloped natural resources and much better suited to the lofty contemplations of day-dreaming songwriters (Hey, Eminem wrote lyrics on the bus - at least he did in the movie). Imagine, millions of indie music fans across the country, inspired by Greyhound’s “Roll On” ad campaign to purchase a “ Super Friendly Fare” and make a yearly pilgrimage to their favorite music festival. I like it - somebody get on the phone, quick.

And in the end....

“Days of Pride & Hunger” is rich with sincere expressions of vulnerability, poignant illustrations of regret and an undercurrent of reflective melancholy that gives this record a emotional depth greater than any of Robb Roy’s previous releases. The songs live and bleed with personal revelations in which aching passions are tempered by mature acceptance and resignation evolves into knowing self-realization. This CD is what happens when indie-rock grows up - beyond the dream.

According to Graham Strachan, finishing this record nearly broke up the band. The stress of going further into debt coupled with the intense personal dramas surrounding the members nearly caused a musical meltdown. But it's the heat of such friction in which passionate music is created. The struggle is not an impediment to success, it's the meat of life that makes us who we are. It’s divine mercy that allows us to let go of unhealthy attachments. Like Strachan sings in “Days of Pride & Hunger”, ‘Don’t lose yourself in the past / Cherish the road and don’t look back.’

- Mitch Phillips

Track Listing

1. Goodbye
2. Hole (in my heart)
3. As I Am
4. Days of Pride & Hunger
5. We
6. I Don't Want You
7. Careful
8. Roll On
9. Scrapin' By
10. Battlelines
11. Hamtramck
12. Serial K
13. Solid Ground
14. I Sleep
"What If" Video WMV
updated video link.
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=738

Music Review: The Hopescope ''Bring In The Sun''

2003-10-11T14:00:00.000-07:00
Music Review: The Hopescope ''Bring In The Sun''
Date: Saturday, October 11, 2003 @ 23:30:00 EDT
Topic: Music Reviews

Tortured by the role strain created by his neurotic need to please people and his ethical duty to give an honest opinion, Mitch Phillips' personality splits right down the middle in a temporary manifestation of review-induced schizophrenia. The Hopescope's "Bring In The Sun: A Five Year Journal" chronicles five years in the life of songwriter Eric Empson and his long journey from west-coast wanna-be to a self-realized soul. From unrequited love to the bottom of a bottle, Empson's musical diary is full of hard knocks. But where he eventually finds grace in The Divine, Mitch's altar ego only finds solace in the soothing sound of the waves.

Band: The Hopescope
CD: Bring In The Sun: A Five Year Journal
Year: 2003
Label: Marathon Records
Produced by: Jeff Elbel
Band Members: Eric Empson - lead vocals tracks 1,3,6,9 & background vocals, guitars; Brian Richardson - lead & background vocals, percussion; Robert Kandell - bass, keyboards; Wally Segienda - keyboards, background vocals; John Barber - drums, percussion.
Additional Musicians: Jeff Elbel, Josh Ramsey, Nick Amoroso, James Wilke, Megan Elbel & Edward Christie III

Bitch: What's the matter with you? Time for a bad one, eh?
MITCH: (looking around) Huh? Who’s that?
Bitch: Don’t be an idiot. It’s your critical conscience. You know, that voice inside your head that rarely makes it to print anymore?
MITCH: (sighs) Listen, Im not in the mood...
Bitch: Tsk...don’t be a wimp.
MITCH: I don’t need this. Why are you here?
Bitch: To make sure you don’t pull your punches. You’re getting too soft. (Snottily)“Hi. I’m Mitch Phillips and I like everything!”
MITCH: Hey, I’ve been really lucky lately. What can I say? Super Model-t, Immigrant Blue, Space Nelson....the submissions have been amazing!
Bitch: Puh-leeze. You’’ve only been reviewing what you like! That’s easy.
MITCH: Hey, If you don’t have anything nice to say,
Bitch: ‘...don’t say anything at all ?’ What is this, Sunday school? Somebody’s gotta do the dirty work around here. Toughen up for chrissakes. What have we got?

MITCH: It’s a band out of the Ann Arbor area called The Hopescope.
Bitch: Nice name. In fact, a slogan comes to mind: “The Hopescope: because having hope in this world requires a very narrow point of view.“ What do you think?
MITCH: That’s really cynical.
Bitch: I like it.
MITCH: The disc is called “Bring In The Sun”. And the subtitle is...
Bitch: There’s a subtitle? What is this, The Book of The Month Club?
MITCH: The subtitle is ‘A Five Year Journal’
Bitch: Ah, so that’s why you've cracked. You don’t want to dis’ anything with that much time and energy invested. What’s the big deal? We’ve wasted more time than that on internet porn.
MITCH: At least the band has something to show for the last five years of their life. I’ve got you.
Bitch: Yeah, me and hairy palms. Just put the disc in the player and lets ‘Bring In The Sun’ as they say.
MITCH: (looking at CD cover) Nice package. Duo-fold six-panel insert, 4-color printing on both sides and on the interior tray card. They wanted to do this right. You have to respect that. They spent some money on this.
Bitch: Thirteen grand it says on the website. You can buy two Hyundai for that kind of money. They’re having a sale.
MITCH: That’s about what it costs to put out a first-class DIY record these days.
Bitch: (track 1 begins) Ouch. I’ll take the Hyundai. What was that intro sound? Was that rain? No, no, It sounded more like the guitar player didn’t ground his amp (mimics electrocution) Zzzzzt-zzzzt! Smells like teen spirit.
MITCH: Cool slide intro, though. The guitar sound is really compressed.
Bitch: Really squashed is more like it. Tom Scholz would be so proud. What’s this one called?
MITCH: “Blinded by the Scene” (reading lyrics) Looks like another story of L.A. disillusionment: Boy meets L.A. Boy is seduced by L.A. ...
Bitch: ... L.A. bitch-slaps boy and sends him back to the Midwest where he belongs.
MITCH: Something like that. It’s a rock & roll rite of passage. I like the lyric, ‘ All the stardust turned into smoke before my very eyes / Quick cash, noir trash, I was hypnotized’...’
Bitch: Ok, I’ll give you that. But the music is... It’s like Boston meets Cheap Trick - without the exceptional voices of Bradley Delp or Robin Zander to save their asses. I’ll pass. Next...

MITCH: This one is called, “Cancer on our Love”
Bitch: (laughs) Are you serious?
MITCH: Serious as cancer. (Track 2 begins) There’s your rain sample.
Bitch: That rain sounds like eggs frying. Now I’m hungry, damn it.
MITCH: Nice drum work here. I like the snare trills on this track. Drummer’s name is John Barber. Reminds me of Steve Gadd playing on Paul Simon’s “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover”.
Bitch: Way # 51 - Tell her you've been diagnosed with Cancer on your Love.’ That should do it. Next!

MITCH: This song is called “What is the sound of one heart breaking?” Obviously a wordplay on the popular zen koan.
Bitch: It's a song about a sound that isn't really a sound at all. It’s a Meta-Koan. Get it?
MITCH: No. (looking at lyrics) It looks like it’s about a surreptitious affair and unrequited love.
Bitch: Huh?
MITCH: He busted her with another dude because she doesn’t really love him.
Bitch: Oh, bummer. So it’s an “I Scream Koan” eh? (Track three begins to play) The guitar is flaccid. So that ‘s the sound of one heart breaking, eh? My heart’s breaking just listening to it.
MITCH: The vibe is dark but I kinda dig the back-ups... (mimics singing) “oh - oh - oh - oh - oh - oh”.
Bitch: Sounds like the army choir of the Wicked Witch of the West. Next!

MITCH: Track four’s called “Letting Go”.
Bitch: Paul McCartney has a song called “Letting Go”. It was on the “Venus & Mars” album. Man, I miss Linda McCartney. I’ve always been a sucker for artsy plain-Janes. I cried when she died. Did you know that?
MITCH: What do you think? That “Letting Go” was about putting a girl on a pedestal. This one’s about about a girl putting his head under a pedestal and jumping up and down on his ego until her insults are indelibly stamped into his temporal lobe.
Bitch: Brutal! Really?
MITCH: And I quote, ‘“You’re going nowhere, “ she said.’ ‘ ”You make a great impression....But it doesn’t last.” ‘
Bitch: (laughing) Oh, man! What a bitch!
MITCH: He ends the song with the words, “My trampled ego isn’t worth saving.” Now, are you volunteering to add to this guy’s misery with a bad review?
Bitch: Until now, I thought you were The King of Self-Deprecating Confessions. I stand corrected. But the vocals are pretty wimpy...
MITCH: (groans) here we go...
Bitch: (sings “Letting go / I need to let go” with sarcasm) It’s like feeble whining from a passive-aggressive loser; a feckless nerd who falls in love every time a woman asks for laundry change. You know the type.
MITCH: He’s gonna have rhinoceros skin and ice-cubes running through his veins by the time he recovers from your insults.
Bitch: Consider it my contribution to his artistic survival.
MITCH: That’s big of you. How about some constructive advice?
Bitch: Ok, he needs to write a song called, “Your a heartless bitch and I’ll have my revenge - with your little sister!”
MITCH: So, what you’re saying is the music is too weak for the lyrical content? That there's a lapse in tone. Is that about right?
Bitch: No. Weren't you listening? What I’m saying is grow some balls. Next!

MITCH: (Track 5 begins. The sound of guitar harmonics fills the office) This one is called “Harmonic Solitude!”.
Bitch: (sarcastically) Ooooh (sonorously) HARMONIC SOLITUDE! What does that mean exactly? Let me guess; a lonely, misunderstood guitar player pines for love from the safety of his bedroom studio. Am I close?
MITCH: You’re an ass.
Bitch: Question: What do you call a musician without a girlfriend? Answer: Homeless and hungry. That one gets me every time!
MITCH: Uh, I don’t think he’s looking for a girlfriend this time. In fact, you’re probably not going to like this.
Bitch: What then, a boy? Is our protagonist switch-hitting now? They say homosexuals are “IN” this year. Don’t you watch TV?
MITCH: Less and less. No, that’s not exactly it either.
Bitch: Wait just a second...did I hear the “J -Word” in there? (In the voice of an evangelist) Did I hear the name of GEE--uh -ZUS on this GOD-FORSAKEN record! Can I get a HAL-LAY-LOO-YAH from my brethren? Addendum: What do you call a musician without a girlfriend? Answer: A Christian Rocker.
MITCH: OK, that’s enough.
Bitch: What?
MITCH: Don’t diminish an act of sincere vulnerability. Surrender to a higher power is the first step in self-realization and the highest calling for a human animal.
Bitch: It’s the first step in recovery, too. Ok, now I’m thirsty.
MITCH: I seem to remember you crying for the intervention of a higher power at least once in your pathetic life.
Bitch: (Looking at the inside tray of the CD cover) Why didn’t I see this before? There’s a picture of The Bible open to some yellow highlighted text. Can you read what it says?
MITCH: No, it’s too small. But it’s somewhere just before the chapter on Peter. (Pulls a bible from the bookshelf and blows off the dust) I’m not sure what part he highlighted, but it says here, ‘Confess your faults one to another, and pray for one another, that ye may be healed...’
Bitch: Ok, I’m a self-loathing, overly-critical, onanistic, procrastinating loser. Wow, you’re right! I feel so much better.
MITCH: ...and it says here, ‘...he no longer should live the rest of his time in the flesh to the lusts of men, but to the will of God.’ And, “For the time (has) past...when we walked in lasciviousness, lusts, excess of wine, revellings, banquettings, and abominable idolatries.’
Bitch: Yeah, party’s over pal. Turn off the MTV. For what does it profit-eth a man to be featured on “Cribs” yet surrender his soul? There are no rock stars in Heaven.
MITCH: No critics either.
Bitch: Amen.

MITCH: (Track 6 begins) This one’s called “Passion Rock”.
Bitch: You know you’re in trouble when a song begins with a “Cheering Crowd” sample.
MITCH: Yeah, I think cheering crowds should be left to live recordings. Maybe they’re trying to be ironic.
Bitch: That’s hoping for too much. This one has all the passion of a used tissue, if you know what I mean.
MITCH: You’re just sick and wrong. There is a BIG STADIUM SOUND and a BIG ROCK & ROLL ENDING though. I like the processed back-up vocals. Haven’t head that since Mr. Roboto ended Styx’s career.
Bitch: Yeah, but the drums sound like a drunken tap-dancer wearing hollow clogs. What happened to Steve Gadd?
MITCH: I blame Alex VanHalen and all that talk about playing ‘behind the beat.’
Bitch: Yeah, blame the blind guy. NEXT!

MITCH: This one’s called “Disbanded”.
Bitch: Finally, some good news.
MITCH: No, the lyrics are really good. It’s about leaving the cover gig to pursue your dreams.
Bitch: Sometime you should just leave the cover gig and become a plumber instead, ya know?
MITCH: (reading lyrics) ‘Late nights loading gear / my clothes reek of smoke and beer / And I’ll wake up and do it all again / Playing much too loud / for a lost and hopeless crowd...’
Bitch: Hey, I know that place! It’s The Catalina! Or as Scotty Potty used to call it, The Cat-arrhea - because it always inspired the watery feces in us.
MITCH: You're really disturbed. And it’s called The Arena now.
Bitch: Strong drinks, loose women and Rock & Roll. Good times, eh?
MITCH: Alcoholism, STDs and Crappy Covers. Hard Times is more like it.
Next!

MITCH: This one’s called “From The Bottom Of The Bottle”. It’s about alcoholism ...
Bitch: Finally, something I can relate to.
MITCH: ... and a desperate plea for salvation.
Bitch: ...or not.
MITCH: He writes, ‘Just get me through this night / replace this hollow heart with You’
Bitch: Just give me some cold porcelain and a bowl in which to spew...
MITCH: ‘...Thank you, Father God / I’ve made it through the storm...’
Bitch: ...but I won’t be coming to church tomorrow, which is pretty much the norm...
MITCH: Knock it off! This is serious stuff and I think just about every musician who’s done their time on the circuit can identify with the desperation in this song - including you. Why does the mention of God in rock music make you so uncomfortable?
Bitch: Sublimation is only cool if there’s leather involved.
MITCH: That’s really sad.
Bitch: That’s pop culture, baby. Next.

MITCH: This is the title track, “Bring In The Sun”. I dig the dual guitar intro on this one. The contrast between the acoustic guitar and the electric guitar with delay works really well. I think we’ve got something here.
Bitch: Yeah, yeah. So what. So it’s not a total loss. Big deal. One song in five years.
MITCH: The harmonies are smooth, its got a groove, texture, mood, depth and even an unexpected element - a church bell. Nice touch.
Bitch: Good Lord.
MITCH: Yeah, and He gets a credit in the lyrics too. Whaddaya know? Divine Inspiration really does help.
Bitch: Now you’re capitalizing “He”? God help us. Can we move on now?

MITCH: Track 10’s called, “Put Your Hands Together.” Strong guitar intro followed by percussive attacks from the rhythm section...
Bitch: ...promptly followed by a chorus of wimpy vocals. Why does Christian rock have to be so damn wimpy?
MITCH: It’s not wimpy. It’s just nicer. But Eric Empson’s strength is definitely in his lyrics. ‘Seven years at sea / All alone with me / Invisible to humanity / A little conversation was my only wish / but the silence is golden when you’re catching fish ...’ That’s some good stuff in any genre.
Bitch: Yeah, especially the ever-popular Fishing Rock. Ok, nice words but wimpy vocals.
MITCH: See how crass you’ve become? You wince at something that’s just plain nice. We’ve got a perfectly good rock song here about finding a glimmer of hope in a dismal world and you feel compelled to tear it down. Why?
Bitch: To be cool and popular, of course
MITCH: You’re hopeless.
Bitch: Am not! In fact, right now I’m hoping this is over really soon. Next!

MITCH: Track 12 is called “Music is The Language of God”
Bitch: Let’s hope He’s multi-lingual. Now I’m capitalizing ”He”.
MITCH: Again, cool guitar intro...
Bitch: ...followed by a contrived melody and more wimpy...I’m sorry, I mean wistful vocals. Sounds like Divine Inspiration is as fleeting as secular inspiration. It’s not A-Muse-ing? Get it?
MITCH: No. Are you finished?
Bitch: I was finished after the first fifteen seconds. What am I supposed to do with the remaining eight minutes and twenty-five seconds? Recite the Ten Commandments? That’s a lifetime for a rock song. Have a little guitar with your reverb, dude. Next!

Mitch: That’s it.
Bitch: Thank Go...I mean great!
MITCH: ..........wait a second...
Bitch: Now what?
MITCH: Hidden track.
Bitch: Hidden track? Isn’t that just for The Devil’s music?
MITCH: It’s an instrumental with a recurring guitar decrescendo. I like the accordion keyboard patch and the sound-of-the-seashore sample. It’s comforting, aint it?
Bitch: The sound of waves is putting me to sleep.
MITCH: Then it’s the best track of all. Nighty-night.

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Music Review - Immigrant Blue (self-titled)

2003-09-30T13:59:00.000-07:00
Music Review - Immigrant Blue (self-titled)
Date: Tuesday, September 30, 2003 @ 13:20:00 EDT
Topic: Music Reviews

True, Immigrant Blue has already received some love here on MB (see Jeff Halicki's review here) but some things just bear repeating. Immigrant Blue's eight-song debut is something special and I'd hate for you to miss out on adding it to your local collection because we didn't plug it more than once. With that in mind, Mitch revisits Immigrant Blue's debut and includes a track by track analysis with samples.

Band - Immigrant Blue
Recorded at - Sound Stage 1 (Climax, MI.)
Mastered at - Masterfonics (Nashville, TN)
Produced by - Sean Mansell & Immigrant Blue
Band Members - Sean Mansell (keys / vocals), Chris Frankenhauser & Rob Clark (Guitars), Jon Moody (bass), David Perry (drums).

If it's true there are limited archetypes in rock & roll, Immigrant Blue seems to have taken over where 70's progressive-pop hit-makers Supertramp left off. On their self-titled debut, the Kalamazoo area west-siders deliver a retail-worthy package of eight solid tracks, each with a unique personality yet all flowing from the fertile imagination of singer/songwriter/keyboardist Sean Mansell. Put a great band behind Mansell's writing talent, lyrical wit and distinctive voice (Guitarists Chris Frankhauser & Rob Clark, Drummer David Perry & Bassist Jon Moody) and you get a deep groove in every beat and a sharp point on every hook.

The overall experience of this CD is a lively, melodic trek through funk, blues, rock and even a couple of marches (tracks 4 & 8)- variety you don't get anymore in contemporary rock. Immigrant Blue's sound is groovy, evocative and fills a sonic void that radio just can't or won't anymore. Thank God for our local indies and the treasures they produce out of pure passion for the music.

Radio comparisons aside, you could say Immigrant Blue put their mark somewhere between Knee Deep Shag and The Brothers Groove (I love it when I can use purely local references and get the idea across); the musical influence and production standards of fellow west-siders is evident in the performance while the impact of a keyboardist/lead-singer/songwriter is evident in the writing. In any case, with Immigrant Blue, Mansell's songs breathe and pump like an aerobic workout; loose enough to get your ass moving but tight enough to earn your respect.

Special mention should be made of the excellent treatment and arrangements of the back-up vocals on this record, especially on "Immigrant Blues" (track 2) and "Scream" (track 7).

Track by Track

1. Psycho Babble - It doesn't take long to internalize the hook 'I don't know how long / the universe will keep rapin' me' in this propulsive opener. So get out y'er air-bass and jam with the smokin' monkey while your singing along.
2. Immigrant Blues - Thirteen seconds of a Rhodes piano and then Chris Frankhouser stabs you in the face with a screaming wah-wah that cuts so deep it leaves you bleeding - albeit very happily. After Mansell draws you into the verse, he belts out the chorus with sincere passion, then a few girls from the U of M's Sigma Alpha Iota BH women's choir join in singing back-ups and you've got pure musical magic streaming through your speakers (Is this what happens when you record in Climax, MI?) This one rocks hard and rolls so smooth. Amazing work.
3. Jane - This funky dancer opens with a great lyrical snippet; 'Medium Colors / medium-sized / medium people / medium minds...' Drummer David Perry keeps this song ass-tight and the beats sharp and cracking; a compulsive tapper's rhythmic companion.
4. March St. - Not too many bands can make a half-time march really work but Immigrant Blue sound right at home serving up this refreshing musical dish with rare flavor. Groovy Rocco-esque bass solo beginning at 2'42"; at 4'45" overall we'll call it "IBmonkey in the Middle" ;0
5. Mary - This one starts out like an STP rocker, then eases back and sounds very Brother's Groove with its conversational vocal phrasing. Then it's right back to STP with a bull-horn chorus that asks, 'Does anybody here remember whatever happened to Mary?' Last I heard she was still fighting the good fight (i.e. working for free like the rest of us true believers).
6. In The Meantime - Think of the band "Live" in their "Secret Samadhi" phase. Great driving chorus and at least one line perfect for the Commander in Cheat, '..I am the quintessential slug / my narcissistic smile so smug / conscience is clear / no conflict here / it's all been swept under the rug'. Ok, so my politics are showing.
7. Scream - Again, reminds me of the band "Live" but a rocking tune and excellent, haunting back-up treatments. Love it.
8. Today - Ah, another meaty march. Thanks guys. We really don't get enough of this time signature. This tune is very reminiscent of SuperTramp and somwhat of The Beatles and STP again, as much for its tempo as its melodic turns.
Spend some time with this disc and you're really going to dig it. And be sure to catch Immigrant Blue live with The Kingsnakes & Kalamazoo's Sylvia Trench at Club Soda Saturday, October 18th 2003 .

- Mitch
P.S. Do you know how lucky we are in this state? The great stuff just keeps on coming....

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Super Model-T: Something For Your Misery

2003-09-15T14:02:00.000-07:00
Super Model-T: Something For Your Misery
Date: Monday, September 15, 2003 @ 21:54:44 EDT
Topic: Music Reviews

In the past three years I’ve brought home a lot of local CD’s. I play them while I do the dishes, while my daughter does her homework and while my wife cleans up after the both of us. Whenever I leave the house, I make sure to bring one along so I can get acquainted with a disc before I do a review. Since I’m terminally disorganized, CD’s end up all over the damn place; in the living room, in my office, in my truck and even in my wife’s car. Eventually (and thanks to her indulgence) they find their way back to my office desk in a heaping pile. Except for one, that is . . .

For some reason, I couldn’t find my copy of Super Model-T’s “Something For Your Misery”. It wasn't in the CD player in the living room. It wasn't on my desk hiding under a pile of unpaid bills and review notes. Perhaps in the console of my truck? Not there either. Damn. Where did I put that disc?

Eventually, I found it in my wife’s CD player. I’d left it in there weeks ago and she’s been listening to it ever since. I’ve played dozens of local discs for her and she's never shown any interest before. In fact, the reaction I’m used to getting when I play ‘my music’ (as she puts it) is a pregnant sigh that says, in effect, “Can you turn off the damn stereo and let us watch some T.V.?” or “Can we listen to the radio now?” Not this time. This time she wanted to know when I’d be bringing the disc back!

That’s because Super Model-T’s “Something For Your Misery” is exactly that, a rock & roll care-package stuffed with great tunes that’ll help you forget about your problems while your singing along your car. Supercharged rockers like “CJD”, “Sorry” and the title track, “Something For Your Misery” will pump-up your adrenaline and get you whacking something in-time while mid-tempo tunes like “London Bridge”, “Listen” and a rare gem titled “Statuette” will put you in a reflective, wrist-dangling-over-the-steering-wheel-while-you-stare-into space, kind of mood.

In a sane radio-universe (i.e. one not wholly owned and operated by Clear Channel Inc.), at least two of these songs would be in regular rotation (with that in mind, be sure to get involved with Jam Rag’s “Michigan Music Is World Class” coalition and help take back our airwaves). But it’s not a sane radio-universe, so you’ll have to buy your very own copy of Super Model-T’s “Something For Your Misery” over at McM.net. At five bucks a pop (’...that’s just 45¢ per song, friends - a whole 54¢ less than iTunes! And you get a shiny compact disc and a duo-tone card-stock cover too! [shipping not included]) you can’t get a better deal on misery-medicine than that- at least not without a crack-pipe.

Just make sure you buy your copy soon so you can fully dig Super Model-T tearing it up at PumpStock this Saturday, September 20th with The Howling Diablos, South Normal & Sponge.

- Mitch

Track Listing
1. CJD
2. Sorry
3. Like A Suitcase
4. Listen
5. Statuette
6. OK
7. Worry
8. London Bridge
9. River
10. Someone Like You
11. Something For Your Misery

Band: Super Model-t
CD: Something For Your Misery (debut)
Year: 2003
Recorded at: Tempermill Studios - Ferndale, MI.

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Music Review: Space Nelson's Evil Computer From The Future

2003-09-10T14:04:00.000-07:00
Review of Space Nelson's Evil Computer From The Future
Date: Wednesday, September 10, 2003 @ 13:10:00 EDT
Topic: Music Reviews

Although the title “Evil Computer From The Future” actually refers to a strange sound Pete Hoperspberger squeezed out of his synthesizer one day (and I say ‘squeezed’ because said computer is depicted by a menacing chrome juicer on the CD cover), could it also be a reference to the "machine" that churns out formulaic fashion-pop for the music industry year after god-awful-year? Thankfully, we have Space Nelson to fight that diabolical device and boldly go where few local bands fear to tread - and where even fewer succeed.

Band: Space Nelson
CD: "Evil Computer From The Future"
Label: Tralfaz Records
Released: 2002
Recorded at: Padded Cell (Steve Szanja) and MPA Studios (Chuck Alkazian)
Members:John Piasentin (guitar & vocals); ; Gary Lock (bass guitar) Eric “Fish” Fischer (drums); and Pete Hopersberger (keys & vocals).

On Space Nelson's “Evil Computer from the Future” (their third release) the Livonia-based quartet continues in the musical tradition of bands like Rush, Saga, Dream Theatre, Kings X and other North American examples of that much maligned and misunderstood sub-genre known as Progressive Rock. "Prog", as it's sometimes referred to by fans, owes its roots to the esoteric musical explorations of the mid-sixties art-college underground and produced such bands as Pink Floyd, Yes, Genesis and Emerson, Lake & Palmer.

Space Nelson's sound is characterized by stylized keyboard work, dynamic guitar lines and seadfast vocal harmonies (which sometimes sound to me like of Larry Santos of "Hot Fudge" fame singing with Trevor Rabin of Yes' 80's line-up - whatever it is, it works) that glide above a bold and punchy rhythm section. The band liberally explores syncopation and compound time signatures - all the while managing to provide hooks attractive enough for your average pop fan. That might not sound like a big deal until you do the foot-tapping math and realize your singing along in 7/8 or 11/8 time with rotating couplets of 5/8 and 6/8 (track 3 "Lost"). Whoa.

The CD begins with the snth & bass harmonic intro of "Gary's Lament", an ambitious song that owes its title to the difficulty bassist Gary Lock first had in getting his part tight. The song's verses change from common time to 7/4, 6/4 and back again without ever seeming cumbersome or awkward. Once the band became comfortable with such dynamic changes, syncopation and uncommon time signatures found their way into most of the songs on this disc (though songwriter Piasentin swears the music just comes out of his head this way); these are, perhaps, technical challenges befitting a band composed of three engineers and one graphic artist (you know, for balance).

Listening to the performances on this disc, you get the feeling the members of Space Nelson are having an incredibly good time. What might be considered over-playing from any other band comes off as gifted musicians who can barely contain their enthusiasm for having been freed from the constraints of a common-time straight-jacket: Gary Lock's bass parts are adventurous and punchy as any I've heard since Chris Squire; drummer Eric "Fish" Fishcer is all over the place but exactly where he needs to be at any given moment; Keyboardist Pete Hopersberger treats us to an entire pallete of classic synth patches, a Rhodes and a Hammond Organ that lets loose ala Keith Emerson on "My Way Home" (track 12) and guitarist/songwriter John Piasentin provides exactly what is needed for each song and not a note more. In all, Space Nelson is tight as a drum - anything less with these arrangements and it would all fall apart.

Like most progressive rock, Space Nelson's music has a decidedly major diatonic feel as opposed to a minor pentatonic feel (i.e. a classical vs. blues). Rock critics often mistake this angularity for a lack of feeling or depth and sometimes dismiss progressive music as grooveless bunk. As if to underscore this very problem and provide much needed contrast, Space Nelson include "Rudy" (track 9), an extremely groovy gem which features a percussive Rhodes piano, smokey vocals and streaming guitar lines worthy of Jeff "Skunk" Baxter (Doobie Brothers, Steely Dan).

If I had to bitch (and it seems I always do at some point), I could say Space Nelson isn't really adding anything to the progress of rock (in my opinion, rock innovation stalled with the last version of King Crimson), but borrowing from the North American tradition that's been established for over thirty years - therefore it isn't truly progressive but retro-gressive and derivative. But the sub-genre's been so neglected over the years I'm quite happy to find a band (and a local band at that) who are capable of delivering hardcore timing, great instrumental interludes, dynamic changes and a batch of songs that I'm still not sick of listening to after a ten days.

A must-buy for prog-rock fans.

-Mitch
Track Listing
1. Gary's Lament
2. Road Song
3. Lost
4. Thinking it Over
5. Never Before, Never Again
6. Change Your Mind
7. Once
8. Automatic
9. Rudy
10. Overwhelmed
11. Window
12. My Way Home
13. The Key

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''Nobody's Gotta Know'' by Donkey Punch

2003-05-31T13:55:00.000-07:00
Music Review: ''Nobody's Gotta Know'' by Donkey Punch
Date: Saturday, May 31, 2003 @ 14:25:00 EDT
Topic: Music Reviews

Band: Donkey Punch
CD: Nobody's Gotta Know
Released: 2003
Produced by: Ben Began @ 40 oz Sound (Ann Arbor) except track 4, produced by Mike Relay @ Secret Studio
Mastered at: Solid Sound
Band Members: Eric Day (vocals & keys), Aaron Brink (guitar), Christopher Lee (bass), Todd Waters (drums), Brian Drake (trumpet), Todd Bauer (additional trumpet), Garrett Mendez (trombone).
Click "Read More" below for Mitch's review.

review by Mitch Phillips

So I'm at this fancy house party seeing how the other half lives (indoor heated swimming-pool, his & hers new SUV's, plasma-screen tv, and a new boat on a man-made lake surrounded by plush green lawns), and I strike up a conversation with the only person at this party whose net-worth is currently less than mine; the hostess' 18 yr old niece who is now jobless between semesters. She moved in with her upper middle-class aunt last year to put some distance between she and her troubled parents (long story) and to help get her on the fast-track to material success (i.e. college ->career ->suitable marriage ->lake-front property). But last year, in a sudden attack of "what am I going to be happy doing for the rest of my life", she changed her major from business to journalism. Ah, a kindred spirit.

Knowing she's probably the only person at the party who might give a damn, I ask her if she's ever heard of Michiganbands.com.
"Oh yeah," she says nodding. "I've been on that site lots of times." My ears perk-up.
"You have?" I say a bit surprised. Despite our ever-increasing traffic, I've never actually met a non-musician who frequents MB. "That's our site," I say, trying to hide my pedestrian pride. "Webmaster Rick and I, that is."
"No way!" she exclaims sincerely. "That is so cool."
What the hell; I'll take 'so cool' if I can't get the money-gig.

Inspired by her enthusiasm and interest, I try to turn her on to some local music I think she'd like. Let's see, she's young, cute, friendly, bears midrift with hip-huggers and wears leather sandals. I suggest a cool ska band out of Ann Arbor called Donkey Punch. That elicits even more astonishment.

"No way!" she repeats wide-eyed. "I can't believe you know who Donkey Punch is! I love that band! Donkey Punch kicks-ass!" Ok, so she didn't hear it from us, but at least my instincts are on. "I can't believe anybody would actually name their band that!" she adds laughing, eliciting a quizzical look from me. I hadn't really thought about the band's name, thinking it only a clever pairing of words. Pardoning my ignorance, she whispers the definition of "Donkey Punch" in my ear: apparently, a sexual maneuver whereby the male, during doggie-style intercourse, punches his female partner in the back of the head just before climax, causing her muscles to contract for his pleasure.

Whoa - has sex changed that much since I was eighteen?

Well, for our purposes, Donkey Punch is a seven-member ska-punk (skunk?) ensemble that originated on the campus of the University of Michigan in 1998. Their third release, "Nobody's Gotta know" includes four high-energy, horn-pumpin' tunes for youth-culture skate-punks and one slower gem entitled, "Stay Away" - which may be the only waltzing-ska song I've ever heard. The production, arrangements, performances and writing on this release are top-notch and, with the exception of being too short (only five tracks), it's nearly flawless. Although most of their music is charged with head-bobbing optimism verging on sticky, sun-ripened bubble-gum, the lyrics are spiked with enough misogynistic sarcasm to twist a young girl's innocent smile into an affronted grimace. Heres' just a few morsels...

From "In the back of my car" : "Plese don't turn me down / down / down / don't turn me down, honey, or I'll turn this car around."
From "Sorry to say": "Oh, my love / I'm so in love, It's true / Sorry to say, it's not with you..."

From "Stay Away" : "I'm not nearly as cool / as I've led you to believe / I'm a scum-bag / I'm a liar / and I think that your should go / Stay away / stay away from me / stay away 'cause you'll be sorry....'cause most likely I won't be sorry..."

This is a highly-recommended, retail-worthy release for local ska fans. And that opinion comes with an independent confirmation from an eighteen year-old coed who, maybe, hasn't listened to the lyrics too closely- or can't remember them due to a curious lump on the back of her head. - Mitch Phillips

Track Listing:

1. In the back of my car
2. She's a disaster
3. What can I do?
4. So sorry to say
5. Stay Away
Listen To Donkey Punch on MP3.com.
Visit Donkeypunchrock.com

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Long Black Sedan's ''Lousiana Prison''

2003-05-23T13:53:00.000-07:00
Music Review: Long Black Sedan's ''Lousiana Prison''
Date: Friday, May 23, 2003 @ 14:50:00 EDT
Topic: Music Reviews

Band: Long Black Sedan
CD: Louisiana Prison
Recorded at: Soundcamp Recording Studio
Produced by: Steve Presti and LBS
Band Members: Dylan Dunbar (guitar and vocals), Joe Nestico (guitar), Jack Schneider (drums), Jeremy Grenier (bass)
Click "Read More" for Mitch's review.

Long Black Sedan create hillbilly rock for the tequila and tattoo set who live for ass-kickin', lick-oriented, guitar-based music that pounds you from the speakers. Their latest release, Louisiana Prison, is characterized by the raw vocal shreddings of Dylan Dunbar and the potent blues-infused lead-guitar work by both he and Joe Nestico. This CD takes me back to the southern-fried, red-neck bands I grew up with such as pre-eighties ZZ Top (track 6 "The Other Side"), Molly Hatchett, Lynard Skynard and Blackfoot (track 5, "I'm Not The One" nearly caused me to launch into a chorus of "Highway Song"). But there's also traces of punk-a-billy boys Social Distortion on high R.P.M tracks like "Hillbilly Hot-Rodder".
In any case, Louisiana Prison is packed with what I like to call "field-party" music for a long, hot summer. These are jams you can blast into the sticks while your tail-gatin' on the two-track and wailing on your air guitar. Just be sure to bring a friend; there's so many tasty guitar licks on this CD you're fingers will be too cramped to hold onto the liquor bottle.
A special live surprise hidden on this CD will delight hardcore blues fans.
- Mitch
Track Listing

1. Burn Baby Burn
2. Louisiana Prison
3. Only Son
4. I don't care
5. I'm Not The One
6. The Other Side
7. Hillbilly HotRodder
8. You and I
9. Mr. Wolf's Wild Ride

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The Beggars "A Heap O' Livin'"

2003-04-10T13:52:00.000-07:00
Music Review: A Heap O' Livin' by The Beggars
Date: Thursday, April 10, 2003 @ 19:35:00 EDT
Topic: Music Reviews

Thanks to the impeccable taste of Kilkenny's Nick Woods, I had the good fortune to witness a last-minute performance by Royal Oak garage rockers The Beggars at the Frank J Calcaterra American Legion Post 386 in Eastpointe. From an ad-hoc set-up on the dance floor, The Beggars up-staged Kilkenny at their own CD release party (man, the nerve!). The show was great, but their debut ep, entitled "A Heap 'O Livin", is even better - the best thing I've heard since Kilkenny's ep. Click "Read More" for a quick, gushing review, applicable links and show dates.

On their debut ep A Heap O Livin', The Beggars have distilled the essence of the garage movement in just four tracks of stripped-down, retro-fied, invigorated rock. The make the best use of vintage instruments like a Farfisa organ and Rickenbacker twelve-string electric to create a sound that reminds me of heyday bands like The Archies, The Kinks or Paul Revere & The Raiders. But The Beggars go a step further and infuse their music with the energy of "New Wave" punkers like The Cure & The Clash, especially on track four, "Right On Time". Most importantly, they've captured the verve that's been missing from "modern rock" and spawned the backlash known as "garage" in the first place.
All four gems on this ep are brash, uncut and vibrating with enough energy to make even most cynical music critic (a'hem) smile just for the pure joy of listening. "A Heap O' Livin'" by The Beggars is a must-have, feel-good, shake your ass in your Underoos™ CD for troubled times. Buy this ep and just let it repeat.

- Mitch

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Trailer Park Barbie's ''About Ready''

2003-04-04T13:50:00.000-08:00
Music Review: Trailer Park Barbie's ''About Ready''
Date: Friday, April 04, 2003 @ 18:05:00 EST
Topic: Music Reviews

As Donald Rumsfeld has proven over and over again, you don't win many friends by assaulting people with your honest opinions (The truth? The Truth? You can't handle The truth!). Such is life for The Secretary of Defensiveness and a local music critic who finds it hard to love a band that reminds him of his dark and sticky past. With any luck, both of them will find some "Peace" and acceptance in the world. Read Mitch's review of Trailer Park Barbie's debut release "About Ready".

Band: Trailer Park Barbie
CD: About Ready (debut)
Recorded and Mixed at: Laud Productions
Engineer: Tim Lau
Band Members: Erin Schultz (vocals/bass), Kevin Thomas (guitar), Todd Anthony (drums), J.R. Lamb (added bass and vocals for live performances).

Compliments

At some point, every red-neck, working-class cover-band wonders what would happen if they stopped playing "Tush" and "Mustang Sally" for a weekend and wrote some originals. After all, doesn't everybody in their little pond tell them what big fish they are and how they should put out their own CD? Many cover-bands threaten (I was in several), but Trailer Park Barbie has made good on it. Their debut release, "About Ready", is a mix of bowling-alley bar-rockers, a couple of M.O.R. power-ballads and one drunken revelry ("Drink More Beer" track 9) that proclaims, over rotating power-chords,
"I'm going to drink more beer than I ever have before (chorus: TONIGHT!) / I'm going to vomit in your car like I never have before (chorus: TONIGHT!).

Thankfully, like their rural fringe contemporaries ( think Narrow 7 or Happenstance ), the Lansing-area based TPB (as they'll be known, perhaps, once Mattel™ files a threatened lawsuit) have hidden at least one semi-precious gem in nine unrefined chunks of coal on their first CD.

The title track. "About Ready" (track 7) is a spirited girl-rock anthem with a simple melody, an inspired chorus and back-up vocals that prompt you to tweak the volume-knob in a clockwise direction. Just don't pay too close attention to the lyrics; forced rhymes like 'I'm about ready to crank it up / just like a girl rocker / from the stars above' can cause an uncomfortable cringe (there's plenty more where that came from). But for the most part, this tune "rocks" and I can easily imagine it packing the dance-floor about halfway through the third set anywhere in Middle-America on a Friday night. Where's my Pabst!

Complaints

The technical performances and production on "About Ready" are as untidy as a midday sound-check at the corner-bar: an unrestrained lead guitar sputters mechanical "hot-licks" ; lazy drumming with a lame attack is delivered with questionable conviction; and a mumbling, inarticulate delivery from an un-remarkable voice tortures sometimes truly awful lyrics. Ok, call me Simon, but this record often sounds as if first takes were kept when a dozen or more were necessary. Unfortunately, tight budgets almost always trump much needed do-overs in the world of local indie rock.

First-time offerings from working cover bands rarely produce exceptional work. Usually, they're regrettable collections of bad musical ideas pasted together too quickly with painful cliche's, most of which should have been discarded during the writing process. The unfortunate tendency to include everything can ruin a record. That's why you hire a producer; to help separate the wheat from the chaff, steer the you away from cliche' and towards honest expression, inspire you to be more than you are. As I've said so many times before, I'd much rather hear a solid ep with three or four tasty morsels than a full-length release with more fat than meat.

Dude, What's Your Fu**ing Problem ?

I have to admit my biases here; the very concept of Trailer Park Barbie, a band that was created as ' a tribute to all those classy, trashy bar bands out there' is a uncomfortable reminder to me of where I come from and why I never, ever want to go back there again. It reminds me that I pissed-away my best years playing the same shitty cover-songs over and again ad nauseam (TPB's cover playlist is nearly identical to mine from a decade earlier) for the same crowds of tragic alcoholics and moronic beer-swilling twits in every little crappy bar that would have us. It dredges up bad memories of over-drinking, over-drugging, and nailing everything with a heartbeat and a hole just to reach the level of sedation needed carry on for another week. During my run, anything that was ever good and pure about the art and adventure of musical performance was mutated into bad habits and toxic regrets and I'm still repairing the damage. So, like an unflattering mirror, TPB's music reflects my past back to me - which makes it nearly unbearable for me to listen. I haven't quite attained the acceptance or "Peace" Erin Schultz sings about on track eight, but I'm working on it.

Yeah, I know, It's not about me (I plead subjective context). But the same dead-end reality of bowling-alley celebrity that caused my career-ending depression prompted TPB drummer Todd Anthony to threaten quitting the band once and for all unless they started writing their own music. The result of that threat is "About Ready." Good for him. Good for them. I hope they never plays another stupid-ass cover song for an ass-hole drunk who insists on hearing "Old Time Rock & Roll" or "Mony Mony" ever again. It's a miracle there aren't more psychotic, homicidal musicians out there. And it's a shame what we'll suffer for money.

Conclusions

The problem with cover bands playing originals is it often sounds like cover bands playing originals. If TPB's goal was to mimic that "classic cover sound", they've nailed it down to the very last lick. But if they're striving to create "original" art that can compete in a broader market, they're still too close to the bowling alley to see clearly. There are no Working Class Hero's on this record.

That said, TPB does not feign rural-chic, like a "stressed" John Deere Cap and a sleeveless flannel shirt ensemble bought at a Grosse Pointe Woods boutique. Trailer Park Barbie is the Real Deal, warts and all; reality music, if you will. They're about blowing off steam at the corner bar after a long week of blue-collar slavery, not pandering to the popular whimsy of urban scenesters looking for a quaint diversion. "About Ready" is the proper reward for all their die-hard fans who make it a point to see Trailer Park Barbie whenever they're in town. You don't get that kind of loyalty in the cold, cruel city.

Track By Track

1. I Don't Care - Good choice for lead-off track. This rocker has a good chorus but if I never hear another bull-horn vocal it'll be too soon. That effect wore out it's welcome in the nineties.
2. Oh Yeah - Clearly, some musical ideas should be discarded long before they every make it to CD.
3. Can't Get Enough - Bowling alley rocker meant for bustin'-a-move. Cat, Bat, Mat, rhymes are tiresome to the ear. All balls and rock & roll cliche'. Then again, it worked just fine for AC/DC.
4. Find My Way - Slow-dancing power-ballad replete with lead guitar (ala eighties' Bad Company).
5. Save Me - Lots of good musical ideas here but not much of a song. Sounds more like a vehicle for Thomas' modal investigations.
6. The Devil - Cow-punk rocker (on the order of the "King of the Hill" theme) with an intro that sounds like a traditional Irish tavern tune. Problem is, it sounds like singer Erin Schultz has a mouthful of cud. I can't understand a word you're mumblin' girl.
7. About Ready -The lone gem on this disc. Great tune. Great Chorus. Great arrangement. Sub-standard lyrics keep it from attaining priceless gem status, but it doesn't destroy this very fine song. I'd still put this one on my regular playlist just for it's optimistic vibe. Everything seems to come together for the Trailer Parkers here.
8. Peace - This ballad is probably the closest thing to a heartfelt lyric on this record. Schultz' back-ups work really well here and a keyboard string-patch adds much needed depth. Guitars over-dubs walk over each other a bit around 2:30.
* Drink More Beer - A jarring contrast from the previous ballad. According to their website poll (as of 3-29-03), "Drink More Beer" is their most popular song. That says it all, really. The more you drink, the better it sounds.

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''The Real You'' by Chris McCall

2003-03-19T13:47:00.000-08:00
Music Review: ''The Real You'' by Chris McCall
Date: Wednesday, March 19, 2003 @ 20:05:00 EST
Topic: Music Reviews

Almost a year to the month after he'd first received a copy of Chris McCall's debut EP "The Real You", Editor Mitch Phillips probably has the distinction of being the very last one to review this slick seven-track release. He writes...
'Now I've got three CD's, two promo packages...and the guilt of an entire year weighing on my conscience (You dropped the ball, boy-o). I pushed her CD to the front of my list.' Click "Read More" for his review and samples.

Artist: Chris McCall
CD: The Real You ep
Produced by: Jason Kuehn & Chris McCall
Recorded at: Harmonie Park Studios by Jason Kuehn
Musicians: Chris McCall (vocals, keys), Jason Kuehn (guitar, keys), Don DiDinoto (bass, backing vocals), Ron Otis (drums), John Madison (viola), Johnny Evans (saxophone), Mike Martin (mandolin), Mary McCall, Don McCall, Maureen McCall-Carroll, Bethanne McCall, Mathew McCall-Stillman, Maria McCall-Pruett (back-up vocals on "Lips"), Karla Richardson - (backing vocals "Don't Give Up")

Reviewer's Guilt

I'm almost exactly a year late in writing my review for Chris McCall's CD, "The Real You." Graham Strachan, the singer from Robb Roy, introduced me to Chris McCall and her band in the lobby of the State Theatre during the 2001 Detroit Music Awards. McCall had lent her Star Search-worthy voice ('92 semi-finalist) to Robb Roy's "Happy" album and more recently to their cover of "Happy Christmas". I received my first copy of "The Real You" that very same night, listened to it all the next day, wrote notes in my truck, and then... I don't know what happened. For whatever reason, the CD got shelved and all my random scraps of notes were lost. Now I've got three copies of McCall's "The Real You", two promo packages complete with beautiful 8x10 glossies of McCall and the guilt of an entire year weighing on my conscience You dropped the ball, boy-o. I pushed her CD to the front of my list.

I may be the very last one to write about "The Real You" - but that does give me one advantage; I can read all her other reviews first. Though I've neglected Chris McCall, plenty of others haven't; she's collected a stack of press clippings from the local pulp-machine over the past year. Let's recap what they've said about Chris McCall's "The Real You" so far:

Sue Ness (for Jam Rag) - '...brilliant...expertly performed and meaningful...'
Paully Moonbeam (for Jam Rag) - 'tasteful arrangements utilize sweet tones of the viola and highlight Chris' soaring, powerful timbre.'
Ben Edmunds (for Hour Detroit) - 'Chris McCall's big voice never has been better presented..'
Gary Graff - (for The Oakland Press) - '...crafted songs with an ethereal edge...
Brian McCollum (for The Detroit Free Press) - '...brimming with confidence and an effortless depth. '

Now that all the clever, music-reviewer adjectives have been used up...
The Last Review of Chris McCall's "The Real You" EP

On "The Real You - EP", Chris McCall delivers a mix of polished fringe-pop that ranges from the hot-pants and hip-boots vibe on "Glass People" to the club-dub compatible dance-pop of "Real You" to more subdued, darker selections awash in emotional intensity and spiked with soaring vocals like "Call It The Truth" and "Don't Give Up". Husband, manager, producer and engineer, Jason Kuehn , (whose mastered tracks for PAS/CAL, Robb Roy and Vanessa Williams among many others) has created a retail-worthy taste of what he and McCall label "mood-pop." Indeed, McCall and Kuehn's music is moody and sometimes colored with a hip surrealism that's reminiscent of Kate Bush or perhaps Tori Amos. Special mention should be made of Don DiDinoto's stellar bass work on this record. The texture, quality and diversity of sounds in his portfolio add an crucial depth to McCall's music.

EP: snack or a meal?

At seven tracks "The Real You EP" is a full-length release in my opinion. True, it's significantly shorter than the average CD, but like so many chain restaurants these days, the "average" CD heaps more onto your plate than you'll ever consume in one sitting. Local artists would do well to focus on nuances of taste rather than the density of serving size. Don't be fooled by the "ep" tag, "The Real You" is a stand-alone musical experience that leaves you satisfied but not over-indulged.

Cover Art: mere necessity or added value?

Although ep's generally preclude a full-length release including the same material, the packaging aesthetics should still be taken seriously. That said, the cover art of "The Real You EP" is vapid and dull. McCall's image (though pleasing) has been terminally flattened with a gauzed-out duotone and doesn't reflect the richness of her music. I can't stress enough the importance of interesting cover-art; that first visual impression colors the whole experience. To some degree, we do judge a CD by its cover; dull cover-art can translate to "dull music" in the mind of a potential consumer before they've ever heard a lick. Local musicians should get better acquainted with their contemporaries in the visual arts and bring back the mystical fascination created by a good cover instead of considering it merely a space to be filled. Consider it "added value" from a marketing stand-point.

And so...

Chris McCall has earned her place at the table with "The Real You EP" . It will be tough to improve upon it will a full-length release. The inclusion of a few lighter numbers and better artwork should do it. The trick for a pair as clever as Chris McCall and Jason Kuehn is to produce a CD that's as artistically fulfilling as it is saleable.

Track by Track

1. Glass People - swaggering story-song about two kinds of people; the alpha and the beta, the supposedly strong and the seemingly weak, everybody else and telepathic Glass People who 'can fly'. Back-up vocal arrangement are smooth as polished glass and sound like they were arranged for a commercial jingle. This tunes' got a hot pants and hip-boots vibe you don't hear too often. Squelching sax work provided by none other than Johnny Evans, The Howling Diablos' award-winning instrumentalist. Crisp, tight and dynamic performance from drummer Ron Otis.
2. The Real You - Title track has a slick back-up vocal arrangement and texturally pleasing guitar over-dubs that remind me of The Beatles' Revolver - a reminder that not everything from the sixties came out of a garage in one take. There's so much going on it's fascinating to listen by layer. Perfect candidate for a full-on techno-remix.
3. Call It The Truth - Piano (McCall) and Viola (John Madison) intro clues you into a serious change in direction. "Call It The Truth" is a personal and beautiful piece of music that draws you into it's simple melody and then delivers an emotional charge of unconditional love around 2:55 that will send chills up your spine. Intense bridge. You may have forgotten that you could feel so much.
4. Don't Give Up - "Don't Give Up" is reminiscent of Kate Bush's work in it's vocal phrasing, melodic structure, instrumental arrangement and it's brooding, surreal intensity. It's a vibe that I find most pleasing - but my tastes are a bit darker and further toward the tattered fringes of pop.
5. Crow in the Snow - This song has a hip surrealism and texture that would make Mitchell Froom (producer for Crowded House, Susan Vega) proud. I really dig this vibe. Hats-off to Jason Kuehn for his production on this one.
6. Damage - Breathy vocal delivery over a gradually intensifying layers of sound ala "Where the Streets Have No Name". Technically as good as anything on this EP thanks to the superior production, but this tune doesn't get where it's going fast enough and after 5:30 exhausts the listener. Musically constipated; all build-up and no release.
7. Lips - Cozy, nap-inducing ballad from McCall that somehow includes six people from her extended family singing back-ups. Now that's support.

- Mitch Phillips

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The Process ''Blood and Bones''

2003-03-08T13:44:00.000-08:00
Music Review: The Process ''Blood and Bones''
Date: Saturday, March 08, 2003 @ 10:20:00 EST
Topic: Music Reviews

In the face of a probable war with Iraq, it's fitting to come across a CD with a political point of view that dissents from American realpolitik. "Blood & Bones" by The Process (their eighth full length release since '91's "Mystery Babylon") is thought-provoking in it's politics, reverent in it's spiritualilty and contagious in it's Jah-makin' back-beat. Editor Mitch Phillips goes off on a political bent in another one of his long reviews. Three song samples included. Click "Read More" below.

Band: The Process
CD: Blood & Bones
Produced by: The Process & Gee Pierce
Recorded at: U be U Production House, Saginaw, MI.
Engineered by: Gee Pierce
Musicians: Davide Asher - vocals; Garrick Owen - guitars; Bill Heffelfinger - bass, keyboards; Sam Metropoulos - drums.

"Blood & Bones" by The Process sounds like a mix between 80's hit-makers Eddie Grant ("Electric Avenue") and UB40 ("Red Red Wine) but with a harder edge due to the Guitar Player endorsed wailing of Garrick Owen . The keyboard-laden backwash and electronic drums provided by programmer/bassist/stickest Bill Hefflefinger (Go ahead, say it again. Hef-fle-finger) gives the music a decidedly retro-eighties vibe, but vocalist David Asher includes an occassional rap to keep things feeling contemporary. The musical performances are first-rate, the songs are pop-friendly (i.e. not strictly reggae) and this disc contains at least two bonafide original reggae gems: "Run Them Down" (track 3) and "Rapdown" (track 6) (samples included in track by track analysis at end of article).
The Process members (David Asher, Garrick Owen, Bill Heffelfinger, and Sam Metropolous) look to be some genuine freaks if the back cover photo is any indication. Heffelfinger appears with a pile of faux-dreads, black fingernails and a Chapman Stick (which, unfortunately, barely makes an appearance on this CD). Add to that the band's stated goal, "...to fight ignorance, apathy and social retardation," and you've got some talented freaks, a funky reggae beat, and a heady social conscience. What more can you ask of a band?

Pot Smoke & Politics

What's more important than what I think about the music is the fact that this local disc is the only one currently in my possession with such a strong political point of view. That might not be saying much for a band who made HIGH TIMES magazine's 25 Greatest Pot Song's hit-list with, "Jah Made The Herb" (off 1996's "Craven Dog"). Ganja-smokin' Rastafarians preach politics in equal doses with religion, sometimes, I think, to distract us from the fact they smoke so much dope.

But at least once in recent history, Rastas used the power of popular music to make political changes at the top, as in the '72 Peoples National Party (PNP) victory in Jamaica that rode on a wave of Bob Marley's populist jammin'. Appropriately, The Process have included on "Blood & Bones" a lively version of Bob Marley's "Get Up, Stand Up" (track 7)- which is the theme song of political empowerment (Of course, Marley, his wife and his band members received gunshot wounds for all their trouble. You haven't really "made It" until someone wants to kill you for playing your music). Can reggae music save American politics in the same way? Not a chance, unfortunately. We're still too conservative in this country to take advice from someone who wears a ganja-leaf like a badge of honor; "religious ritual" isn't any more credible than "medicinal marijuana" to such a cynical race of old Puritans.

So, The Process make no bones about where they stand on the political spectrum, espousing nothing less than the re-distribution of wealth in "Spread The Money" (track5). Asher sings, 'Got to spread that money all around / Give it up to the poor right now / No, you can't take it with you when you go / Give it up rich man It's a crime...' There was a time when I would have dismissed this argument as simplistic, knee-jerk liberalism. But since our president plans to give yet another tax windfall to the ultra-rich while the states go bankrupt, school and social programs get cut to the bone and your grandma has secretly resigned herself to an early death because she can't afford her medication, I'd have to agree with Asher; it is a crime. Don't even get me started about Enron. Eat the rich with a sharp fork and plenty of salt. That is, unless you're still hoping they'll bank-roll your music or writing career.

Life, Liberty and The Bad Karma Bitch-Slap

Although I was horrified by the terrorist acts of September 11th, I wasn't totally surprised that it happened. Neither was the Federal government; national security agencies had warned for years that it was only a matter of time before we got hit with terrorism - we just never thought it would be so hard.
The universe has an unnerving way of serving up a bad karma bitch-slap when you're least expecting it. Not that we Americans are uniquely evil or deserve to suffer such tragedies more than others, but our freedom and liberties come at a very high price to the rest of the world in terms of natural resources and military chicanery. If you believe everything happens for a reason, it's not hard to come up with a few reasons why, collectively, we had it coming.

Now it feels like the the party's over, the tab is on the table and the bar-lights have come on, revealing all our glaring imperfections in the stark light of the United Nations Security Council. I don't know about you, but I get the feeling our empire may be on the decline if the rest of the world has anything to say about it.

On "Blood & Bones", The Process tap into this sense of impending doom with prophetic songs like "Mist of Time" and "Rapdown" whose lyrics warn of divine retribution from "Jah" (God).

From "Mist of Time" 2002 © David Asher and Garrick Owen
"Who are they to take a chance on time
And take the money and run,
And laugh and have their fun
What could they be thinking,
Making more war plans,
Taking money, building weapons,
To kill out man
Chem-weapons, germ-warfare, bio-tech Death
They won't be happy 'til we breathe our last breath
And give up the world, to a blackened Earth
'Cause they never figured out what life was worth
Riding on desert winds, Freedom calls your name Across the sands of time In these last days."

From "Rapdown" ©2002 David Asher and Garrick Owen

Over the hills and across the sea
Devil governments have their way
Here at home, across the sea
Jah say, "Devil governments have to pay"

Blood, Bones, Balls and Body-Bags

I have to hand it to The Process; It takes real balls to sing lyrics like these in a political climate like this. In the early seventies, you might have been put on the FBI's secret enemies list. But today, you could be whisked away in the middle of the night, "processed" in a foreign country, "detained" indefinitely without ever being charged, and all because you happen to have been born in the Middle East and are critical of the United States government. Lucky for The Process, I think white guys masquerading as Jamaicans are still considered federally protected wildlife.

I find it refreshing that "Blood & Bones" has a reason to exist beyond pure sense-gratification for us consumers who are, to steal a phrase from social critic Neil Postman, 'amusing ourselves to death.' This is a timely and important record full of historical mysticism and socio-political self-examination. But it's also fun reggae music with a great beat - which is what makes it so dangerous; "Blood & Bones" could make political dissent even more popular than a pre-emptive foreign policy did. There's never been a better time to promote the non-violence and anti-materialism of Rastafarianism than right now - when an Ivy League business brat threatens to jam a silver spoon into the delicate gears of world politics and destablize the whole machine until it comes crashing down on our heads.

In the meantime, smoke a big spliff for old time's sake and dance naked to The Process in constitutionally protected privacy while you still can. Eventually, you'll have to be a good citizen and get out your duct tape and plastic sheeting, just like the man told ya. True, they won't be much good for protecting your from chemical or bilogical warfare, but they'll make handy do-it-yourself body bags when the shit really hits the fan.

Track By Track

1. Rising Up - Rising up from ignorance with the flame of passion, and ultimately to the light of knowledge. , 'This train's bound for glory/ and it's riding through the night / to the bright daylight'.

2. Mist of Time - Prophesy, revelations and the end of days song that makes you wanna walk like an Egyptian and rap like Noam Chomsky in the zone.

3. Run Them Down - Bonafide reggae gem. They don't get any better than this call out to the warriors of Babylon (i.e. Jamaica, not Iraq). Excellent production by Gee Pierce and a curtain of back-ups provided by the very talented Michelle Shaw.

4. Blood & Bones - Rastafarian history lesson that hints everything old is new again - including slavery. Thought we were rid of dat, did you? Silly mon, don't you know federal prisoners are used as cheap labor for corporate America? They not only for license plate makin' anymore. Ok, so they don't really mention that in the song, but it's true nonetheless. Look it up. Go ahead.

5. Spread The Money - Infectious reggae gem whose lryics are tantamount to capitalist blasphemy - but it's a hoot for us poor folk to sing while we're reggae-dancing on the beach.

6. Rapdown - If this gem don't get your head-a-bobbin', mon, nothing will. Asher and Jah hold-off the evil doers with a hypnotic rap while Garrick Owen wails in reverence to the king. Jah! Jah! Jah! I must experience this song live.

7. Get Up Stand Up - I think a Bob Marley cover should come standard on every reggae album. This is the song of political empowerment from the father of Reggae music. The synthetically enhanced, dare I say, Processed version.

8. Rasta Callin' - Another Rasafarian history lesson set to music, this time sounding like the Jamaican version of eighties supergroup Asia due to the retro-keyboard patches.

9. Rising Up (club mix) - Mixed by producer Gee Pierce, this version of track one just goes to show you there's more than one interpretation for any given piece of music.

-Mitch Phillips

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Music Review: ''The Upstairs Chronicles'' by Almost Famous

2003-02-10T14:06:00.000-08:00
Music Review: ''The Upstairs Chronicles'' by Almost Famous
Date: Saturday, February 22, 2003 @ 08:41:53 EST
Topic: Music Reviews

Almost Famous may not win a Grammy Award for their CD, "The Upstairs Chronicles", but they get my vote for "Most Patience With an Online Indie Publication While Awaiting a Stupid Review" (I'm afraid to even look at the post-mark on that envelope). In any case, this eight-song debut is the result of the trio's foray into pop music while matriculating at The University of Michigan - that liberal bastion of affirmative action and war protestations that I would donate my kidneys to attend. Is my envy showing? On to the review...

Band: Almost Famous
CD: The Upstairs Chronicles (debut)
Released: November, 2002
Members: Ben Diesel (lead vocals and guitar), David J. Yu (guitar and noises), Charlie Naebeck (bass & vocals).
Additional drumming: Lindsay Williams
Management: Ruth Naebeck for Ntertainment Group, Inc.

The Praise

The Upstairs Chronicles by Almost Famous is a musical account of what band members Ben Diesel, David J. Yu and Charlie Naebeck created in Naebeck's upstairs practice space over the course of a year while attending The University of Michigan. Understanding that goes a long way toward the enjoyment of this disc. Think of it as a musical scrapbook. an eclectic mix of testosterone-free, campus-flavored indie pop that includes gushing love-songs like "First Day" (track one), infectious power-pop numbers such as "Placebo" (track two) and even an ethereal and synthetically pleasing number called "Planets" (track four - listen to Planets at mp3.com).

The best moments on The Upstairs Chronicles are seasoned with a dry sense of humor (think of The Violent Femmes) ; I laughed out loud when I first listened to the meta-lyrical (i.e. a lyric that is aware of itself as a lyric) "440 Hertz" (see lyrics ), which asks the burning question, 'What can I say that's meaningful in just 22 syllables / I'm down to fourteen and nothing yet / I should have been an architect.' In "Napster" (track 6) Diesel sings, "If I spend more than 15 minutes in this room, my brain will explode....got a fast connection to Napster and...a predilection towards piracy...I got 12 beers in me and I just wanna hurl".

The Punch

This disc begins with a sappy, albeit heartfelt, ode to matrimony entitled "First Day" (as in, 'today is the first day of the rest of our lives') that exhibits the trio's ability to harmonize nicely, but lyrically, paints them into a corner with the inescapable and inappropriate use of the word "Today". The song's selection as the opening track may cause you to disregard the CD before you get to the real meat (in my opinion, "Placebo", "Planets" and particularly "Bubbles") . Additionally, the band and their management (Naebeck's young wife, Ruth) have chosen "First Day" as the single to promote. Personally, I'd opt for "Bubbles" (See Lyrics ) which highlights the band's keen sense of humor and is the most natural sounding song on the disc. But I can guess why Ruth may be attached to "First Day." You be the judge, listen to a sample of "First Day". (editor's Note: According to manager Ruth, First Day was chosen as the single by the Almost Famous street team via online poll.)

As a musical product, "The Upstairs Chronicles" is a bit disappointing. A fuzzy cover-photo of the boys in feigned repose is the first clue that this CD lacks sophistication. Bad band portraits on CD covers don't inspire you to reach for your wallet. But packaging can be changed - even after a release. Hey, widget companies do it all the time to increase sales and to change a product's image. The band's fixation with penguins (yes, penguins) should inspire something more appropriate to their sense of humor.
The production quality on this disc is hit or miss (the quality of the boy's home-grown mixes are often better than those produced in a studio), and sounds better through a cheap pair of headphones than a home stereo set-up . The recording suffers from a presence that screams "home studio project completed one track at a time" that robs it of vitality, especially from the more energetic tracks such as "Placebo" and "Pins & Needles" that deserve a full band recording together in a live-room.

Finally, the lack of a consistent, dedicated drummer in this project is painfully noticeable. Apparently, they've been working on filling this slot for some time.

Conclusion

Consider "The Upstairs Chronicles" the first chapter in a book on becoming "Almost Famous", wherein the characters are introduced but the plot and the writer's voice have yet to be fully revealed. If they're serious about the music business as a career (i.e. if there's permanent, irreversible damage), I'd be interested in following the band as they mature. The casual brilliance and humor of "Bubbles" and the arrangement on "Planets" warrants further investigation of this band. But if this is just an undergraduate flirtation with pop music, an experiment by three college boys who, if they achieve a prestigious degree from The University of Michigan, will look back on this disc as a juvenile flirtation with music on their way to achieving McMansions in the 'burbs - well, I suppose that would be fine too.

- Mitch

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"Yesterday, Friday & Today" by Tripper

2003-01-21T03:57:00.000-08:00
It was way back in January of 2003 at Radiocraft's [IN STEREO] CD release party at The Magic Bag where I was twice surprised by Tripper. First, that they had delivered such a sizable following (who promptly dispersed after their set), and two, that they closed with "Lets Go Crazy" by Prince. I admit to being a bit mystified by both occurrences. But Tripper's modern acousti-pop vibe was tight and "Yesterday, Today and Friday" is radio-ready - which isn't necessarily a compliment. Click "Read More" below.

Band: Tripper
CD: Yesterday, Friday & Today
Produced by: Dave Feeny, Jim Kissling & Tripper
Recorded at: The Tempermill, Ferndale
Band Members: Frank Buscemi (vocals, guitars, harmonica, mandolin, keys), Steve Marvicsin (guitars, vocals, keys), Ken Thomas (drums, vocals, percussion), Steve "Sky" Walker (bass, vocals)
Guest Musicians: Aaron Berch - piano on "One Summertime"; Jill Jack - backing vocals on "My Angel" & "Cloud IX"
Radio Babies & Mall Friends

Since I'm late coming to the party (as usual), I perused Tripper's posted reviews for "Yesterday, Friday and Today", their second release following 2000's "Moxie Stick". After three or four complete spins on my home decks, I'd have to agree with Real Detroit on this one: 'It's (as) if Dave Matthews and the Counting Crows had a baby...' Nowhere are those comparisons more evident than on "Near" (track 4) and "Hammock" (track11). On other tracks, such as "The Good Guy" and "So Believable" the bands leans more towards pop-rockers The Goo Goo Dolls (my wife's comparison) or, I'd say, any other darling of "Modern Rock" who received too much airplay in the last few years.

Singer/songwriter Frank Buscemi's recognizable vocal grit and Tripper's radio-friendly sound seem especially crafted for the twenty-something Starbucks set who suck on $5 lattés at the mall and reminisce about their favorite episodes of "Friends". In fact, this CD would be perfectly suited to a montage on that sitcom, originally pitched to the networks as, "a show about nothing". This disc contains twelve highly-polished tracks about nothing, or at least not much anyway: the first clue comes on "Barefoot" (track 2) with a chorus that repeats incessantly, "And we'd ride / your bare foot out the window / and we'd ride (etc...)" Or the chorus of "Holiday" (track 8) that closes with the benign and quotidian, 'Baby's on a holiday / Baby's on a holiday/ Baby's on a holiday...'. Had there been a bit more depth to the preceding verses, the chorus' might not feel like repeated thumps on the head.

So tired, tired of waiting, tired of waiting for you...
The lyrics throughout this CD are cryptic and innocuous, dealing mostly with vague themes of unrequited love, longing and mostly just waiting around for someone to do something. On "The Good Guy"(track 3) Buscemi sings, "I'll be waiting / 'cause I've got nowhere to be." On "Cloud Nine"(track 7) he sings "Give me something for the waiting." On "Near" (track 5) he sings "It must've been Monday / you've got me waiting again." All that waiting and, lyrically, nowhere to go.

Then again, vague feelings of unrequited love, longing and hanging around (the mall?) waiting for something to happen are exactly the type of things a certain market (13-18yr olds) of consumers with a lot of disposable income can relate to. Perhaps Tripper is so good at what they do nothing is left to chance.

It's only on "One Summertime", guitarist Steve Marvicsin's ode to a summertime love-affair, that I have any clue what the song is about. But then "Yesterday, Today and Friday" can't be about the content of the lyrics, but the character of the sound. This disc is probably the closest thing I've heard to MODERN ROCK RADIO! that wasn't from a major label.
Charting an "Angel"

On the CD's shining moment, "My Angel" (track 4) we hear Buscemi pleading, "Don't leave me standing / Don't leave me stranded / lift me up / lift me up my angel' (perhaps she's an A&R rep?). This semi-precious gem has a thick & hearty Americana vibe seasoned with mandolin & hammond organ that reminds me of The Wrenfields - without the compelling lyrics. It's flawlessly delivered and the production sounds amazing thanks to the genius of Dave Feeny and Jim Kissling @ The Tempermill - I just don't find it terribly interesting. Nevertheless, "Angel" charted at #4 on MP3's National Top 100 and led to the group being named by that site as 'one of the best unsigned bands of 2001', which, unfortunately, means exactly dick with the coming extinction of that site. The band is also mourning the loss of actor John Ritter whose most famous character (Jack Tripper from "Three's Company") was the inspiration for the band's name. Sorry guys.
Conclusion

Tripper has achieved a sound on "Yesterday, Friday & Today" that, I think, commercial radio expects. In fact, It sounds so much like radio that local indie snobs like me, whose tastes run closer to the fringe, keep turning it off before the CD has run its course. So judging from my current success, that probably means they'll get signed by a major label, sell a million copies and laugh about a certain poor, self-important local music critic who doesn't know a $winner$ when he hears one. Hey, I know my luck. - Mitch

Track Listing

1. Clearly Mistaken
2. Barefoot
3. The Good Guy
4. My Angel
5. Near
6. So Believable
7. Cloud IX
8. Holiday
9. Remind Me
10. See You Out There
11. Hammock
12. One Summertime
-- Mitch

The Wrenfields "Seconds"

2002-11-24T04:29:00.000-08:00
Band: The Wrenfields
CD: "Seconds"
Producer: Tyler Brown
Recorded at: The Compound, Dearborn, MI.
Year: 2002

From Pioneers to Patriots

If the Wrenfields' debut "21st Century Pioneer" represented the bold trek of former rockers into the undiscovered alt/country, their follow-up release, "Seconds" (as in another heapin' helpin') shows they're now bonafide settlers on the Americana frontier, unapologetically staking their claim in the heartland which they both praise and defend on this record.

Straddling the fence between pop-rock cool and home-cooked country corn, The Wrenfields lean towards the latter on this record without abandoning the vibe they established on their debut. The whimsy of "Gonna Be Happy", the head-bobbin' rhythm of "Lovesick" and the breathless imagery and optimism of "Carried Away" prove the band hasn't lost any of their '21st Century' appeal, but rather have evolved into a more roots-oriented band with tracks like "We Must Say Goodbye", "Patriot's Day" and the lovely closer "Never Once Alone".

Guitarist Tom Morgan's evolving pedal-steel work and Keyboardist David Berriman's honky-tonk piano chops go a long way towards setting the tone on this record. But the inclusion of banjo, mountain dulcimer, fiddle and additional acoustic guitars (courtesy of guest musicians David Wolfenberger, Janel DeVries and producer Tyler Brown) show The Wrenfields are quite serious about getting it right.

I'll admit that, at first, my rock snobbery was piqued by the knee-slappin', Hee-Haw'n rhythms and southern vocal twangs (now, would that be southern Dearborn Wrens?) on tracks such as the opener "Every Now & Then" (now I understand guitarist Matt O'Bryan's insistence on covering Eddie Rabbit songs) and "I Felt Rain". But despite my hip discomfort with anything that might inspire line-dancing (ugh), "Seconds" has become a warm and welcome companion to my holiday season when such sentiments seem perfectly appropriate.

Cooks in The Kitchen

Because every member of The Wrenfields had a hand in the writing process this time, there's such a diversity of styles on "Seconds" you never get bored with the music over the course of eleven tracks. The multiple collaborations between band members on this record (nearly all of them with the extremely talented and intuitive lyricist John Pyro ) work surprisingly well and create an eleven-course meal fit for any table this Thanksgiving.

Featured Specials:

"We Must Say Goodbye" - According to sources within the band, this tasty tune is about a longtime friend of Drummer/Vocalist John Pyro's who recently moved across the country. Pyro is a gifted lyricist and together with guitarist/writer Tom Morgan they've penned some of the best songs to come out of this band. This track stuck so good, I even woke up with it playing in my head one morning. It just gives me the peaceful, easy feeling I need to get through the day without killing anyone. )

"Carry Me Away" - Another Pyro/Morgan gem, "Carry Me Away" is a powerful freeway song with enough inspired imagery to paint a patriotic postcard in your head; the only thing missing here is purple mountain's majesty and amber waves of grain, but alas, it's been done. Probably the best work I've heard from Ohio producer Tyler Brown who also produced the band's debut; more tasty layers than a turkey club. Great work.

"Patriot's Day" - Maybe the most surprising and controversial song of the year, "Patriot's Day" was written by bassist Frank Budd (who plays acoustic guitar on this track) and drummer/vocalist John Pyro. If the lyrics are assumed to be biographical in nature, this song could win The Wrenfields some new die-hard country fans while simultaneously alienating others.

Formerly titled "Katie, Bar The Door", "Patriot's Day" is post-9/11 anthem that would make Pat Buchanan blush with protectionist's pride, make the NRA lock & load with misty-eyes, and whip the religious white (er, I mean "religious right") into a frenzy of self-righteous indignation. Conservative Republicans and Libertarians might call "Patriot's Day" a masterpiece of national sentiment rivaling Lee Greenwood's "God Bless The U.S.A.". Those who sympathize with Liberals, Democrats or The Green Party, however, might call it an anthem of reactionary, lock-step jingoism for flag-waving simpletons; the musical equivalent of slogan-slinging bumper-stickers praising blind allegiance to U.S.A. Inc.

One thing neither camp can argue about is the song's dramatic and powerful effect on it's listeners, me included. Great stuff and a poignant and heartfelt reaction to a national tragedy. Read it for yourself below.

?
Patriot's Day (Katie Bar the Door)
Written by John Pyro and Frank Budd
? 2002 The Wrenfields LLC (BMI)

An evil of humanity / evil of humanity / an evil of humanity / has scarred this countryside

Upon our streets fell ash and soot / as hell and earth collide / this evil among humanity / has scarred my countryside / but

I'm a patriot / and proud to be / I wake each day to reveille For the God that made this country strong / will lead our fight / our victory song Liberty / draw back your arms / guard your freedom from this harm Don't you let the world in anymore / oh / Katie bar the door

The sleepin' giant wakes again - the sleepin' giant wakes again / the sleepin' giant wakes again / they'd better run they'd better hide

Fear the battle hymn of our young and brave / as they put this terror in its grave / the sleepin' giant wakes again / America the great unites / cuz

We are patriots / and proud to be / awake each day to reveille For the God that made this country strong / will lead our fight / our victory song / Liberty / draw back your arms / guard your freedom from this harm Don't you let the world in anymore / oh / Katie bar the door

The colors of our flag won't bleed / the colors of our flag won't bleed / the colors of our flag won't bleed / so raise old glory high

We are patriots / and proud to be / awake each day to reveille For the God that made this country strong / will lead our fight / our victory song Liberty / draw back your arms / guard your freedom from this harm Don't you let the world in anymore / oh / Katie bar the door

Our guns drawn / and we will fight / protect our homeland day and night / the colors of our flag won't bleed / so raise old glory high

Served on the side

"Worthless" - Over the summer, I got a sneek-peek at the words to this song. I was surprised to find John Pyro had such a dark side to him. The lyrics were so harsh, I'm told, that co-lead singer Noreen Novrocki, at first, refused to sing them. Luckily, the music isn't quite so dark but rocks harder than just about any cut on this disc.

"Souvenir Smile" - an easy-does-it ode to the velvet Elvis and his tacky Graceland estate in Memphis, Tennessee. This track has such a great turn in the chorus you can't help but sing along full volume. Features another big ending that's becoming the band's trademark.

Mystery Dish

"Mother Nature's Girl" - Due to personal upheavals over the past year, co-lead singer Noreen Novrocki never quite got yer groove on this record. "Mother Nature's Girl" is wandering and pointless, lacking both reason and direction. But her presence should never be questioned; her soothing voice softens Pyro's sometimes nasally snarl on this record and her beaming presence on stage is irreplaceable. Besides, she penned my all-time favorite Wrenfields song, "21st Century Pioneer". I've rarely been so moved.

Confessions & Conclusions

I must confess, over that past two years and as many records, I've spent a good deal of time with The Wrenfields, both at their Dearborn studio and elsewhere. So you can dismiss my opinions as glad-handling fluff from someone who's too close to the band, if you wish. My name appears in the "Thank You" credits on the J-card of "Seconds" which should effectively disqualify me from any critique of their music.

But if you trust my judgment when it comes to finding musical gems created in Michigan, I'd tell you that there's very few bands that I've come across whose songwriting skill matches that of The Wrenfields. I wouldn't have thought there was room in my life for anything resembling country music. But just like Eminem changed my mind about the appeal of rap, The Wrenfields have changed my mind about putting some twang in my life. Now heck, I think I like it. - Mitch

-- Mitch

"Wake-up Call" - Red September

2002-07-23T04:01:00.000-07:00

Band - Red September
CD - Wake Up Call
Label - - Static Records
Produced by: Peter Schorn
Recorded by: Roscoe at Roscoe's Recording, Detroit.
Mastered by: Tim Pak at Woodshed Studios.

If you were introduced to local indie rock in the early eighties like I was, you'd remember the new-wave power-pop that emerged in the Detroit area from bands like Rhythm Corps, Toby Redd, The Cadillac Kids, The Look and even The Rockets.

Red September (Peter Schorn, Paul Brown, Frank Greenhalgh) sound like hold-overs from that era in Detroit indie rock that brings back memories of skinny ties, spiky hair, polished patent-leather shoes, parachute pants (that's pre-acid-wash), cotton blazers in pastels and memories of "Jaggers" lounge in Waterford where many, if not all of these bands, played at one time or another.

Well, Jaggers is extinct and, thankfully, so is this particular flavor of Detroit
pop - that is, with the exception of Red September. They are the only local band I've heard in the last few years who remind me of that era so I suppose there's some historical and sentimental value there.

*You'll notice the band's name and the title of this CD hint at living in a post-September 11th world (they come dangerously close to using tragedy as a marketing tool - a prophetic
coincidence I hope?) though there's no direct references to the towers or the
Taliban, thankfully.

Musically, Red September's major-chord, enthusiastic bubble-pop seems ill-equipped to deliver the seriousness of the heady issues they tackle.
But lyrically, the band has delivered on a number of contemporary issues: "Wake Up Call" contains a poignant list of what's wrong with this world including
Gun violence (#1 With a Bullet")
General apathy and denial ("Graffitti" and "Taken In")
Religious strife ("My God (Can Beat Up Your God)" )
Technological hypnosis ("WWW")
Hyper-sensitivity due to media manipulation and the legislation of morality ("Killjoy")
Snobbery ("Welcome to the Other Side")
And even the cultural and financial wreckage left to us by the Baby Boomer generation ("Living in Oblivion").

References to the demise of social values and morality are strewn throughout this disc, but it's the simple truths writer Peter Schorn pens in his lyrics that make you nod with him in agreement.

From "MyGod (Can Beat Up Your God)"

- 'Time and again in modern history / a recurring source of human misery / Has been the inability to accept what's over there. ' .... ' so we found ourselves in foreign lands / with foreign people who didn't understand / that all this suffering was really for their own good.' (Peter Schorn ©2001 Belligerent Music, ASCAP)

From "Killjoy"

'...then a vegan, commie, junkie, movie-star / junkies in from the Left Coast / to bless us will all the knowledge / that she's learned from researching her roles /....'

'Don't eat that / don't drink that / don't smoke that / stop having fun'
(Peter Schorn ©2001 Belligerent Music, ASCAP)

From "Living in Oblivion"

'...We were latch-keyed to a falling star / devoid of dreams and passion / and since we're not to be going far / we indulge in retro-fashion...'
(Peter Schorn ©2001 Belligerent Music, ASCAP)

From "WWW"

'...An endless game of show and tell / I've bookmarked all the URL's / of all the places I've gone and seen / But, what's it all really mean?...'

This CD is a buy for people who long to pull their skinny ties out of the closet and have a healthy argument about why the world's so fucked-up now. Count me in Peter, for old-time's sake. - Mitch

*( According to Sue Static and Peter Schorn, the artwork and title for the CD "Wake-Up Call" were conceived before Sept 11th, but the CD wasn't released until November. According to Sue, the CD was being manufactured at the time of the tragedy. The name "Red September" is over a decade old. Freaky, eh?)

-- Mitch

"Long Ride on a Short Bus" by Twitch

2002-07-22T03:50:00.000-07:00

Band: Twitch
CD: "Long Ride on a Short Bus"
Label: - Static Records
Produced by: Twitch
Recorded by: Roscoe at Roscoe's Recording, Detroit.
Mastered by: Tim Pak at Woodshed Studios.

Since their slogan caused me a convulsive guffaw ( "Remember, weirdos are your best entertainment value!" ), the latest, and unfortunately last "Twitch" release had to be the first thing I listened to from my Static Records "Care Package" (Thanks Sue). The trio of Rob Bullock, Tim Taebel and Scott Lemanski formed in 1990 and twelve years later offer "Long Ride on a Short Bus" as their brilliant swan-song (how come I never find out about these great, quirky bands until they break up? Same thing happened with Fez...).

To stir your aural imagination and get you as close as I can to their sound in words, I offer this:
If I were to describe Twitch as a gourmet meal, they'd be an
entre' of Frank Zappa served on a bed of fresh Primus with a dash of They Might Be Giants. Devo and Soul Coughing on the side, thank you very much.
This record is a testament to the boundaries of sonic mayhem and sardonic wit. It's what happens, I imagine, when seasoned pros reach a point where their technique, their neuroses and their smart sense of humor simultaneously evolve beyond what is approachable or comprehensible to corporate radio consumers - which is a delightful, exquisite and acquired taste for indie-snobs like me.

Musically, "Long Ride On A Short Bus" takes more turns than a two-wheeled tricycle. It's weird, unpredictable and well off the trodden path of standard pop or standard anything for that matter (some have called it avante-garde but I think the phrase lacks humor). The performances are air-tight, aggressive, progressive and venture into small, forgotten spaces where heretofore you might have only found a stray pubic-hair perched in a menacing position (ed note- what
the hell does that mean?).

"Long Ride On A Short Bus" is a "Must Have" for the discriminating listener bored with the standard fare. It's intelligent, self-deprecating and silly but technically and musically rich and satisfying. Too many great moments to mention, but here's a couple that stuck to the noodle:

- from Track 7 - "Sage" captures the folly and hypocrisy of the indie music scene with a nod and a wink.

'Would you just look at those losers they think they're cool / I was cool before cool was cool / I feel good when I say "loser" / of course, I mean it in the nicest way. ' Twitch ©2001

- from Track 6 - "Pasture Eyes" is an ode to the idiom "when the cows come home" or perhaps to the delusion of waiting for your inevitable success. Comes complete with jangling cowbells, of course.

'Nice day for kite flying / stiff breeze just right / I aint got time for that now / no, there's simply no time '

'Cause they're coming home soon / oh yeah, baby this I swear / any minute now / the cows will be here.' . . . Twitch ©2001

I've been walking around all day with the cow chorus ringing in my head. This one's staying in my personal collection (but you can Buy your own copy here). Can't say enough about this bizarre and delightful CD. - Mitch

-- Mitch

Celestial Harp & Flute

2001-08-03T10:33:00.000-07:00
Song: And So On

I feel like a naked, dancing wood-nymph after listening to "Celestial Harp & Flute," the instrumental duo of DL Turner (harpist and composer) and Nancy Ruth Holtzman (flautist). Although the sound sample's only forty seconds long, for a half-minute there I was prancing through a field of daisies and pondering the transcendent beauty of God's creation.
Specializing in weddings and formal occassions, "Celestial Harp & Flute" can make your special occassion, as one happy customer put it, 'sound like the angels (are) descending from heaven.' I wish I'd had 'em at my wedding, but I'm not sure Elvis would have appreciated it.

- Mitch Phillips

The Love Junkies @ The Hamlin Pub The Love Junkies @ The Hamlin Pub

2001-07-07T10:25:00.000-07:00
Editor Mitch Phillips takes you on yet another seedy adventure; this time to watch The Love Junkies help the locals indulge in some "Nasty Little Pleasures" at The Hamlin Pub in Rochester, MI.
"Johnny Love spins, crawls, jumps and climbs nearly every available platform in the room; the floor, the tables, the chairs, the speakers and, at one point, a barstool and lets the barkeep fill his mouth..."

The Love Junkies @ The Hamlin Pub
6-22-01
review by Mitch Phillips

Free At Last

Napoleon K is a free man. After thirty days in the hole, another ninety with an electronic dog collar bungied to his ankle (add fourteen to that for blowing a piss-test), months of therapy, weeks of court dates and thousands of dollars made out to “The State Of Michigan,” K has finally been remanded to my care - provided he stays away from baseball bats and minivans. It’s a long story.
He celebrates his newfound freedom by demanding I take him to see a live band. I celebrate by letting him be my designated driver, my “D.D.”. Johnny Love, singer / songwriter / guitarist for The Love Junkies throws in a free bar tab and food at The Hamlin Pub in Rochester and we’ve got the perfect night planned.

Editor’s Conscience vs Capitalistic Conditioning

Now, it may seem dishonest to accept perks to do a live review of a band. But the fact is, I’ve never been paid to do what I do and I usually blow between $40 and $60 every time I leave the house. By now, if you figure it like an accountant, with all the reviews I’ve done, all the time spent in front of the computer fending off my family while I edit, write, post on forums and send e-mails, I’m at least several thousand dollars in the hole for doing what I love. So if an artist feels compelled to remunerate me for my time, I’m not going to be passing up free drinks on the basis of journalistic integrity. At least not until Rolling Stone or Playboy give me an expense account or until some sugar-mama with a bank-roll and a soft spot for sardonic music writers pays the tab. It won’t buy them a guaranteed good review, but it may tip the balance of where I’ll be spending my evening.

My Way or The Long Way

We finally arrive at The Hamlin Pub somewhere in the middle of the first set. I was hoping to speak to Johnny Love before he went on; congratulate him on his first-born son (Ian Allen), thank him for inviting me out, thank him for offering to pay the tab, etc...but K’s predilection for freeway driving (as opposed to the frustration of stop-’n-go city streets) demands we go twenty miles out of our way before we ever actually drive toward the bar. But I don’t fuss - for the comfort of knowing I won’t be reciting random chunks of the alphabet roadside later on. D.D’s are a beautiful thing.

The Love Junkies are covering “Cumbersome” by Seven Mary Three as we walk in the door. Johnny spots me walking in, runs up and wraps an arm around my neck while he belts out the lyrics - apparently “unencumbered” by microphone wires. His dark-purple, crushed-velvet shirt is soaked from performing and he’s sweating all over me. It’s only the first set and Johnny’s on fire . The band is nailing the vocal harmonies while the pub crowd sings along like a mass karaoke machine.

The Hamlin Pub

The Hamlin Pub is basically your average corner-bar - attached to a mini-mall as almost every corner of every suburban street in the North American is nowadays. The interior is about what you’d expect from looking at it from the outside - nothing special. There’s no stage and no dancefloor - it’s more of a restaurant that stays up past bedtime. But the joint is already packed by nine-thirty and I’m wondering if K and I are ever going to find a spot to squat. I order the first of many drinks and wonder if Johnny Love knows what he got himslef into by offering me, an ex-bandhead with a taste for gasoline and sordid adventures, a free tab. K orders food and a coke. Good D.D.

Johnny Allen: Space Invader

K and I manage to intrude on a small group sitting near the stage and watch while Johnny Love spins, crawls, jumps and climbs nearly every available platform in the room; the floor, the tables, the chairs, the speakers and, at one point, a barstool whereupon he hoists his small frame, lays backwards (all the while singing, mind you) and lets the barkeep fill his mouth with whatever liquor she happens to be pouring at the time.
All of these stunts are part of the show, of course; Johnny Allen makes damn sure you’re paying attention - and he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you do. Johnny’s even placed a couple of tambourines in the hands of the most enthusiastic girls in the crowd who, despite being a little more than “tipsy,” can still manage to keep a beat. Allen’s the consummate performer and nobody goes away without being entertained. If you look bored, Johnny will invade your space, stick a microphone in your face until you smile, sing or run screaming from the room. You will not ignore the band in Johnny’s house.
Johnny screams, “Everybody say Yeah!”
Everybody does.
Johnny screams, “Everybody say Hell Yeah!”
Everybody does.
“We love you Johnny,” screams a drunk from a nearby table.
“I love you too, Man,” Johhny gushes sincerely. “You make my nipples hard!” There’s laughter. Johnny Love knows where he is; he’s a veteren master oft the esoteric art of “playing the crowd” and he uses all his skill. Appeal to their base instincts and the lemmings will follow you into the bottom of a sewer.

Crowd Pleasers and Paychecks

The band launches into Tom Petty’s “American Girl” and CandleBox’s “Shine,” among other contemporary bar staples. It’s not long before people start dancing in their seats and in the aisles. A wrinkled, balding little man with a button-down summer shirt (complete with checkbook, pocket-bible and three pens in the breast pocket) is dancing stiffly with a stunning young brunette with deep-blue eyes and a perfect, slender, tanned body bearing midrift paradise (Is that how harmless you have to be before a girl like that will dance with you?). When the song ends, she commences to sitting by herself in the front row, occassionally bobbing her head to a pleasing rthythm. No way she’s here alone, I think. Band wife. No doubt about it.
The Love Junkies continue to bang out crowd-pleasing covers, doing justice to each one with their tight vocal harmonies and exacting musicianship. But I’ve played nearly every one of these songs at one time or another and, despite the crowd’s enthusiasm, I can barely stand to listen. But I know the gig; playing covers pay the bills. Originals, in the context of The Hamlin Pub on a Friday Night, and for the purposes of this audience and the barowner, are filler. Unfortunately, playing originals and playing covers seem mutually exclusive; In either case your not taken too seriously if you do both.

Band-Wives and Tambourine Girls

The Love Junkies finish their first set and Johnny Allen wastes no time coming over to the table to thank Napoleon K. and I for coming. He makes sure we’re comfortable, well-watered and fed then begs-off to seek the guitar player from “The Gin Blossoms” who is reported to be hiding in the room.
Turns out the amazing brunette is drummer Slick WIlly’s wife, after all. I knew that. She sits back down in her front-row chair after a brief conversation with her husband and sips her drink, alone, staring into a space somewhere abover her husband’s kit on the back wall and lip-syncs the words to a country song playing on the jukebox. I stifle the almost overwhelming urge to sit down with her and strike up a conversation. But I don’t. I won’t. It’s like an unwritten law; a commandment from God to band-heads the world over. “Thou shalt not covet thy musical bretheren’s consort, nor even learn her name, lest ye are led into temptation as ye invariably are you irrepressible vermin!” I go with God. She’s an untouchable. She’s a band-wife.
On the flipside, one of the tambourine girls who kept the crowd kindled with her boisterous beat and raucous behaviour is a jolly Brit who’s utterly pissed (that’s British for ‘really drunk’). She has no intention of sitting alone, being alone, or for that matter going back to her flat alone. Turns out she’s a hairdresser who spends half a year in the states and the other half in Great Britan saving money so she can come back to the states. Despite the liquor-induced slur of her tongue, I love to hear her talk while she sways like a buoy in an ocearn of warm, frothy stout.
I turn my attention back to K who’s just now finishing up the last of his meal, chewing each bite a minimum of seventy-eight times, slowly, methodically, before swallowing what must now be liquid hamburger. He pads the corners of his mouth with a napkin he’s folded several times without disturbing it’s delicate geometry. With both hands, he slides the empty plate away from him and the ritual is over. I gulp my fifth drink too fast and dribble down the front of my shirt. He’s sober and caffeinated as every good D.D. should be. I’m stupid drunk and scribbling in my note-pad like a mental patient who’s channeling instructions for human metamorphosis from the late Franz Kafka.

More Of The Same, Yet Somewhat Different

The band starts their second set, singing, “...we can swim out past the breakers, watch the world die!” Another cover but the crowd is digging it; the tambourine girls are whacking the cymbaled rings and dancing in the aisles in front of K and I. Dr. Doug is thumpin’ his bass right in front of me and I’m gettin itchy to touch the strings and slobber on his microphone - it’s been too long since I’ve played. I settle for joining in on the dance, sweating whiskey with the locals to make room for more. Another decent cover, “who oh it’s good, who oh it’s good....livin with you,” and I stay for one more dance. Everybody’s having a good time and that makes the bar-owner cash-happy. It’s a celebration. Johnny graciously dedicates the next song, Bad Co.’s “Shooting Star,” to K and I.
The Love Junkies pause to change gears and play another original - but not before Johnny can reign-in the crowd’s attention with a lascivious gesture. “I’ve got to lubricate my mouth-organ, “ he says salaciously, then proceeds to lick a harmonica up and down in front of tambourine girl #2. Whoops and hollers follow and Johnny rips into the harp, introducing my favorite cut off their debut CD; the infectiously blues-driven “Didn’t I?” The whole band shines; Lucky Charms rips out a tasty morsels on git-tar, WIlly C. Love beats the skins while Dr. Doug (a.k.a. Yummy Love) spanks the bottom end. All this with the unrestrainable Johnny Love driving the Love-boat on harmonica and vocals.

Good-Bye Bowling Alley Blues

My ears perk up every time the Love Junkies play their originals; “No Regrets,” “The Moan of Lisa, “Phatty,” and The Banana Wigs, “Kick Me.” Johnny Love (a.k.a. Johnny Allen) has so much original material to draw from over his long career in the Detroit area he could play for a week straight and never crack the cover of his Fakebook. Tonight, he sprinkles a generous, yet sensible portion throughout three long sets.
Unfortunately, for this venue, The Love Junkies do what is expected of them, and they do so skillfully for the most part . But the set-list (including: Lenny Kravitz’, “Are you gonna go my way?” Jimi Hendrix’s “Fire,” Wild Cherry’s “Funky White Boy,” Kiss’ “Rock & Roll All Night” “Roller Coaster of Love” “The Wild, Wild, West” etc...) reminds me so much of my less-than-humble days in the bowling-alley bars and the tired suburban club scene it loosens my bowels and raises bile in my throat - regardless of the adept delivery.
Gigs like this aren’t really about experiencing original local music, but participating in desperate escapism without even a pretense that it’s about anything but getting drunk and having, or hoping to have sex. The Love Junkies debut CD, “Nasty Little Pleasures” (and the band’s name for that matter) winks at this phenomena with titles like, “The Moan of Lisa,” “I love Sex,” “Funk my Baby” and "Lawn Job" with quality songwriting and tight rock-n’-roll delivery. But, after seeing the performance, I wonder if that wink is really just an invitation, or a final surrender to indulge in more of the same ( i.e. If you can’t beat Jerry Springer, join Jerry Springer). Do the Love Junkies aspire to be anything more than your favorite bar band? Is “Nasty Little Pleasures” the white, midwestern soundtrack to bad sexual experiences and thick, unforgiving hangovers in strange beds? Does their music exist merely to facilitate more group-think chants like the phenomena of screaming “Get Laid, Get Fucked!” between Mony Mony’s thread-bare verses? I honestly don’t know. The Love Junkies are either deliciously sardonic or pathetically banal. I make it a point to see them the next time they’re showcasing downtown, where the expectation to play covers is not so overwhelming, distracting or necessary.

Old Regrets and New Adventures

What started as a noisome house-party at the corner bar has coasted to a unremarkable end due to technical difficulties with the bass, too many free-rounds from appreciative patrons and the need to just get home and sleep it off. The band, to speak in the vernacular of the night, ‘blew their wad’ with “Didn’t I” in my opinion.
An eleventh-hour offer from a cute blond, with the admission that she, “really, really likes sex” doesn’t entice or intrigue me. I’ve already been there. It doesn’t go anywhere or mean anything. The party’s over.
“You ready?” asks Napoleon K, keys in hand, looking refreshingly sober at 3 a.m.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready for something else.”

Mitch Phillips

Loadstone: Nobody Notices

2001-05-26T10:17:00.000-07:00
Loadstone warms you up to their precarious mood with an innocuous groove and understated complaints, then slams your head against the garage door again and agian until you admit, to God and all present that "Nobody Notices" or really gives a damn when you're having a lousy day.

Band: Loadstone
Song: Nobody Notices

After reading Loadstone's influences (Ailce In chains, Silverchair, Creed, Goo Goo dolls, Rage Against The Machine, Fuel, Korn, Papa Roach, Weezer, etc..) I was pleasantly surprised to hear the tone of this cut. Loadstone's "Nobody Notices" is much snottier than their listed influences (with the possible exception of Weezer). And it's not nearly as slick, polished or overproduced as those nationally distributed acts. This leads me to the conclusion that Loadstone's real influences are the sympathetic vibrations of the garage door at 120db, too much alcohol, too little sleep and just being really, really pissed-off at the world.
"Nobody Notices" evolves from an apathetic, Falstaff drinkin', basement-jamming bad mood to the raw expressioin of true garage-bashing angst; the kind you get when french-kissing a light socket while looking for true love. Slam dance without 'yer pants, buddy. Then poke'em in the eye with 'yer mic.

Mitch

Bowen's "Maria"

2001-05-25T10:20:00.000-07:00
What happens when a bunch of starry-eyed boys begin writing songs in the midst of their hormone-ragin' puberty? A weepy dedication to the girl of the moment.

Random Reviews
Band: Bowen
Song: Maria

Whispy girl-centered ballad (that, of course begins with a simple acoustic picking pattern coupled with a smooth wandering bass line that makes me want to sing, "Every Rose has it's Thorn") reminiscent of hair-band follies that lament, "oh, my life just would not be complete without such-and-such girl by whom every other girl pales by comparison (at least until next week). If I can't have her I swear I'm-a-gonna cut my hair, whine to my friends when I'm drunk, or (groan) write yet another weepy rock ballad that nobody can understand like I can."
The lack of dynamics in this selection are NOT improved by the tempo change near the end in which neither verse nor melody are improved. Even if the dramatic tempo change were coupled with a key modulation, a church choir and a digeree-doo I don't think I could quite understand the attraction to Maria.
On the up side, I bet there's a least one girl out there whose heart beats a little faster every time she hears this song; and that's as it should be. Every one of us have written at least one of these if not volumes. The sweet-sixteen vocal harmonies and the "Made for T.V." drama of this swishy ballad could make the teeny-dreamy fan-mag set write puppy lovin', joy-teared entries in their private diaries.
Oh, to be young and in love again...

Mitch

The Wrenfields at Memphis Smoke, March 2001

2001-03-28T10:14:00.000-08:00
The Wrenfields at Memphis Smoke
Royal Oak, Mi.
Wednesday, March 28 2001
review by Mitch Phillips

The Invitation

A month and a half prior to my mid-week arrival I received an invitation from Noreen Novrocki, asking if I’d come see her alt/country/roots sextet, The Wrenfields. I received a three-song EP in the mail with the usual promotional materials and a nice e-mail complimenting my past work. (Sly move - always appeal to the writer’s ego when trying to get press. ) She even offered to pay for my drinks. (Very sly move - especially if you know the writer has a predilection for liquor but only a budget for beer.) I’d already agreed to cover the show, even if I couldn’t admit to the reasons. But then I played the EP.
Then I played it again.
And again.
In fact, I played it so much I destroyed the disk. It won’t even cue-up anymore. I’m going to miss it terribly until the full-length CD comes out sometime this summer (so if you’re reading this Noreen, I really need an advanced copy of the full-length CD- or two at the rate I’m going through them).
I didn’t need any other excuse to see this band on a “work night.” after hearing track two, “21st Century Pioneer.” This heavy-hearted ballad that illustrates the singer’s reminiscent self-realizations is by far the Best Song I’ve Heard This Year. All three songs are different, well written, well performed and flawlessly self-produced. I couldn’t miss this show, even though I knew it meant a bleery-eyed morning at work the next day.

Hell Week

Now, workin’ folk are convinced that if you go to a bar on a Wednesday night one of three things are true: 1. You’re under 25, in which case you’re still indestructible after ten shots of Cuervo, one bad sexual experience and two hours of sleep ; 2. You’re supposed to be “working late,” not trying to impress that little piece from the office with your hip selection of restaurants; Or 3. you’ve got a serious drinking problem and you should be sipping bad coffee and chain smoking at the local chapter of “Friends of Bill W.” Nobody thinks to ask if you’re a musician or journalist because nobody in the 9 to 5 world to thinks you exist between those hours.
But Memphis Smoke has built-in culpable deniability for the avid club hound with a real job; it happens to be a first-rate restaurant with live music. Nobody will shame you for going to a great restaurant, provided you arrive early enough. So I shouldn’t have been too surprised to find the place packed with a standing-room only crowd at 8:30 on a Wednesday night. This is Royal Oak after all.
Considering the week I had, I shouldn’t have been there at all; My daughter came down with the flu on Monday; I had a job interview on Tuesday; My current job had me stressed-out; I got in nasty e-mail battle with one of the writers and my wife had been off work sick for three days and still didn’t feel any better. I was having a hard time generating any enthusiasm for this show and I wondered if my mood would color the review unfavorably. But I not only felt obligated to see this show, I felt compelled. So here I was, with my screwed-up priorities and all, kissing the ice in my second drink.

Painted Smiles and Crocodiles

When you’re a working musician who meets thousands of people every year, each wanting a piece of you for one reason or another and most of whom are shit-faced, it can be hard to twist a sincere smile on your face when you’re approached by a fan. I remember having that problem when I played-out and now I was getting the good-mannered smiley treatment right back from Wrenfield keyboardist, David Berriman. As I introduced myself I got the, ‘Who are you? And what the fuck do you want?’ feeling as he brushed me off to prepare for the show.
It was my own fault. I couldn’t keep from gushing over “21st Century Pioneer” and he didn’t have much time before he went on. And what did I expect really? Gee Mr. Phillips we’re so glad you could make it. We really couldn't go on without the support of fans like you and Michiganbands.com. Can I make you dinner, get you a cool drink, how ‘bout a date? Now sit the fuck down and let me prepare already. I really have to stop testifying to bands when I’m impressed with their music.
I sat the fuck down, managing to get the last and worst seat in the house . I was ok with that. Par for the week really.

The Set

Some cat in a flaming red sports coat and sunglasses who called himself “Mr. B” introduced the band and directed the crowds attention to a table behind me where, for the simple act of joining their mailing list, you could get your very own raffle ticket that might win you a 1963 Custom Fleetwood Limousine . The sleek, silver limo from another era, which was parked just outside the window on Main Street where it could draw the most attention, bear The Wrenfields name on the back quarter panels and long blue flames along both sides. Matt O’Bryan, rhythm guitarist for the Wrenfielfds and boyfriend to Novrocki, is a recent leukemia survivor and the band, to honor their good fortune, are planning to donate the proceeds from the raffle to The Leukemia Research Foundation sometime at the end of this summer.
Appropriately, the band opened with “Rise Above,” an optimistic song about overcoming life’s obstacles that opens their self-titled EP. I got a jolt of pleasant familiarity from this song as Drummer John Pyro (who co-wrote the song with guitarist Tom Morgan) sang lead. I was a bit disappointed the slide guitar was missing from the live version because it really lends it a rootsy edge. But I still enjoyed it if for it’s great hook and weighty significance. Rise Above, like the other two songs on the EP, is a viable single that I hope someday emerges from the commercial muck.
I ducked down in front of the band to snap some pictures with my old Konica, despite the lens-envy I suffered; some guy with a wide angle, telescoping monster of a camera with what looked like aircraft lights mounted on top of if blocked his shots from the comfort of his front-row seat while I ducked and dodged on the dance floor, nearly having to stick my little 50mm lens in Novrocki’s face to get one off. I prayed their would be something usable on the roll.
By the third cut people started paying attention; they turned away from their own conversations and started to watch the stage with interest. The band nailed a cover of Sheryl Crow’s “Run Baby Run” and I think people began to understand. The Wrenfields weren’t so much about alt/country music as they are about the kind of music you’d like to hear while being driven in your ‘63 Custom Limo on a two-lane highway while watching the country pass by your tinted windows (a fantasy I’d like to fulfill while listening to this band). There was no southern twang in the music to commiserate with you while you cried in your beer, but a down-to-earth understanding and appreciation for the finer points of contemporary American music shared between the band members and the audience via song. The Wrenfields are a Wednesday Night Music Club, if you will.

Sins of the Trade

Though some of the The Wrenfields covers were delightfully obscure (e.g. Bob Dylan’s “Mississippi” and , “Wichita” by The Jayhawks - a band some feel is the most underrated act ever), there were a couple of holdovers from their days as club bands (The Miracleberries, Killer Flamingos) that weren’t flattering to their newly emerging image as contenders in the Big Game.
Now, any Beatles song is better than no Beatles song to me, but their version of, “I’ve got a feeling” was too tepid and suburban for my taste, borrowing none of the gut-wrenching angst McCartney unleashed in the original. I understand a band must make a cover their own, but I have rules about this. Either you match the quality and passion of the original or you change the song in such a way (i.e. tempo, time signature or key) that, somehow, it seems better than you remember it. It would be pretty tough to improve on a Beatles song, so I wanted to see Novrocki let loose on this cut like the original, tearing the mike from the stand, screaming in emotional agony, then finally collapsing at the end of the phrase.
But had she matched McCartney’s passion - she would have been been decidedly out of character for this band - or at least for the overall vibe of their set. I’d have rather heard them do The Beatles “Two of Us” or perhaps McCartney’s “Back Seat of My Car” off his now obscure RAM album because they’ve both got that country-crusing ambiance The Wrenfields are so good at putting across. But again, any Beatles song is better than. . .
A goofy cover of Eddie Rabbit’s “Drivin my life away” - it may have had the yuppies gleaming while they clapped in time with this dinner-crowd pleaser, but it elicited a deep groan from this writer. I just have a real hard time being this giddy - ever.
Grand Funk’s “Bad time for being in love, ” a staple right out of the bowling-alley bar, might as well have ben Tommy Two-Tones’’ “Jenny Jenny” (‘867-5309’) for how misplaced this tune seemed to be in their set. The band rushed through this number, ending it mercifully fast.
Novrocki, with her sweet and refreshingly modest stage presence, made the mistake of apologizing to the audience for playing their originals. That modest temptation is better ignored when making the transition from competent cover band to serious artists. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that people want to hear what you’ve created, but you can’t afford to show any self-doubt when confronting an audience with your art. I believe The Wrenfields have greatness in them whether they are yet aware of it or not. That greatness was about to reveal itself again.

All Sins Forgiven

When Novrocki sang,”The grass is pretty green from this angle,” a shiver of recognition shot up my spinal cord, causing the muscles in my face to stretch my lips into an uncontrollable smile and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I crouched in front of the stage with my camera, poised to shoot, but decided I didn’t want to miss a second of this song through the viewfinder. I wanted the full, chilling effect.
The Wrenfields live performance of “21st Century Pioneer” (co-written by Novrocki and Guitarist Tom Morgan) made the Wednesday night drunk and Thursday work hangover so worth the trip I forgave them any sins they committed in the act of appeasing restaurant patrons. The sincerity of this truly great song was evident in the sudden passion displayed by each band member as they brought the song to it’s climactic conclusion.
I really can’t say enough about “21st Century Pioneer” because it’s so rare a gem like this comes along. I can only try to convince you to seek it out yourself, find a long stretch of highway to remind you again of your life’s possibilities, then push play and lose yourself in it’s sweet sentiment.
I snapped out of my musical daydream when The Wrenfields popped off “Patchouli Train,” the frolicsome third cut off their debut EP (co-written by rhythm guitarist Matt O’Bryan and Novrocki). Ever since I’d first heard this song I wondered what the hell a Patchouli Train was. So, like any good writing geek, I consulted my trusty Webster’s and found: patch/ou-li (pe choo lee)1. An East Indian mint that yields a heavy, dark-brown, fragrant oil. 2. A perfume made from this oil. But sometimes writing geeks should forgo their usual sources and just consult their local hippies. It seems a patchouli train is a car you pass that emanates the familiar odor of marijuana. When Noreen Novrocki let me in on this little fact I blushed for my naivete´.

Measuring Success

By all accounts, The Wrenfields performance at Memphis Smoke was a success: A success for the band because they landed a revolving five-week gig at Memphis Smoke and and were selected as this year’s band for the Grosse Isle Yacht Club opening: A success for the bar because they filled an empty slot in their calendar with a capable band; and a success for me and the rest of the patrons because we witnessed the live performance of some great songs - The Wrenfield originals. I hope, for all our sake, that The Wrenfields move quickly from light dinner entertainment to headlining hit-makers because I think they have it in them.
But the real success of the evening wasn’t the profit, or potential profit either the band or bar might enjoy in the future. The real success was that The Wrenfields touched at least one person in this room in a very personal way with one of their songs - and that one person was fortunate enough to share his gratitude with the creators. This is true success in the creation of original music.

Mitch Phillips

Blush / Sweaty Suede Lips / Atomic Numbers and Deathgirl.com St. Andrew's Hall, Detroit 3-24-01

2001-03-24T10:09:00.000-08:00
Blush / Sweaty Suede Lips / Atomic Numbers and Deathgirl.com
St. Andrew's Hall, Detroit 3-24-01

Live music events are for voyeurs like me and, luckily, exhibitionists like the dozen or so plaid-skirted, knee-socked, pigtail-ponies who sauntered through the crowd and hovered over the balcony rails at St. Andrews Hall for the Blush / Sweaty Suede Lips / Atomic Numbers / Deathgirl.com show on Sat. March 24th. "School-grrlz" feigning pre-pubescent naiveté and bearing upper-thigh seem to have become a fashion (or is it fetish?) in Detroit, much to my delight. It makes you wonder what the next decade will bring to the crowd's dress - or lack thereof.

Blush

I missed Blush - again, which is a stupid shame. Not only was it billed as their CD release party, but they were to perform with a more electronic approach, having recently lost their drummer, Kelly, a former Stun-Gun-ner who's sold her kit to pursue her passion for sequencing. By all accounts, (even the other bands) Blush "kicked-ass" and didn't suffer for the vacancy.
I can never get into the city before 10:30 pm. Another time perhaps. My apologies to that fine band.

Sweaty Suede Lips

Sweaty Suede Lips seem to get better every time I see them. This electro/gothic quartet was shaking the old hall with enough bass amplitude to make your head vibrate to a throbbing "auralgasm" - to borrow a term posted on the bathroom wall downstairs.
The crowd looked too stunned to appreciate the shear hedonistic vibe emanating from the stage that should've had them rolling on the floor touching themselves. Although movement front-stage was kept to a minimum, I could tell they were teetering on the edge of abandoning their inhibitions. I moved a bit closer just in case somebody did.
S.S.L. did an excellent cover of Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill" adding a noisy electronic edge to the glossy original. Bret Haupt's guttural voice and dramatic phrasing was surprisingly suited to the task of delivering Bush's lyrics. Keyboardist Justine What's-Her-Name was staid and nearly motionless as she lay down a bed of thick timbres to pillow Haupt's drama.
While valid comparisons to Nine Inch Nails persist, I believe there will always be a market for this brand of sado-electonica. The rousing cheers of the crowd at St. Andrews after each of their tunes support my argument. And I think Sweaty Suede Lips will succeed in carving out a niche that doesn't lend itself so easily to those similitudes.

Atomic Numbers

I've been dying to see The Atomic Numbers ever since I listened to their clips. I'm a sucker for finely crafted pop music of any flavor. I cut my teeth on music that lent itself to singing along, unlike the more vibe-like tunes that get-off younger listners today.
Though the Atomic Numbers were misplaced in this mostly electonic show, to catch them performing with acts of this caliber, for seven bucks, was a steal. So it took a bit of a paradigm shift to listen to straight rock/pop after listening to cooly-produced electronica. The performance almost seemed rough by comparison.
But the passion of their performance had the audience dancing and bobbing their heads. These guys lovetheir music and the love rubbed off on the first three rows. The intensity of the performance was only outdone by the sheer volume which made my nose itch by standing too close to the speakers. A girl close by covered her ears throughout the set.
The high point of the set was their closing cover of the Faces "Stay With Me," complete with Rhodes piano decrescendo and slide guitar on loan from Brendon Benson. Everyone over thirty (there may have been three or four of us, not including the band) was reliving a past life, vicariously through their talented performance. At some point toward the end of the performance the stage lights went out completely, but that didn't deter The Atomic Numbers from playing on while their stage hands fell overthemselves looking for that wayward plug.

Deathgirl.com

Finally, the headlining act with the coolest name, Deathgirl.com, took the stage in complete darkness. Rolling spires of multi-colored light pierced the blackness and the room shuttered with an electronic droning that intensified until the band exploded onstage. Very dramatic.
Melissa, a bi-chromatic haired Lolita with a sheer belly-shirt and child-like voice, took the crowd through their set of futuristic synth-pop with nary a pause. Actually. they segued their songs with some really bizarre samples that kept the set moving from song to song. Great idea, really.
Equally hard and sweet (that's rock candy baby), Deathgirl.com plays both on your taboo fantasies and your most gorilla-thrusting base instincts. Their electro-pop dance music is both hypnotic and seductive which was enough to keep the "school-grrls" hips gyrating on the balconies over my head.
Thank you Deathgirl.com.

Mitch Phillips

Article: A Disclaimer...

2001-03-16T14:09:00.000-08:00
A Disclaimer...
Date: Friday, March 16, 2001 @ 23:25:58 EST
Topic: Opinion

Writer Mitch Phillips gets defensive about his sometimes brutally honest reviewing style.

A Disclaimer....

by Mitch Phillips

Recently I’ve been accused of taking pleasure in thrashing local bands in my reviews when I should be, by all means, promoting them. After all, this website exists for this very reason. So shouldn’t I do everything I can to make them look good?

My response to this criticism was an emphatic NO.

'It does no good to be another yes-man in the local music scene,' I recently responded to a slighted bandmember by e-mail. 'Too often reviews are written by close friends and/or hangers-on who have nothing constructive or objective to say about a band's music or their performance which is of no use to anybody.’ Or they only go see the great bands who are already getting good press and leave the struggling, shitty bands to their own devices without any feedback. I don't think that's fair, so therein lies the method for my madness.

The purpose for my sometimes brutally honest slant is twofold: one, to “raise the bar” so to speak and treat local music and musicians like I would treat any national release or artist (This is especially important in the digital age, a boon to cheap recording that has spawned more bedroom producers than the porn industry); and two, to remove the mystery of why your favorite band hasn’t “Made It” yet.

If it seems perfectly obvious to me, a mere listener and ex-bandhead, why a particular band isn't a household word, what do you think the A&R person will think if you ever manage to get your CD across their desk? While I pour over every track, often more than once, (even writing the lyrics out if necessary) and give the music every opportunity to sink in and capture me, the A&R person has already tossed your disc in the “not a fucking chance” pile.

But what the A&R person misses becuase he or she doesn’t have the patience, budget or fortitude to find is a serendipitous discovery for me. I love great songs and it’s important to me (as I hope it is to you) to find the sparkling needles in the monotonous haystack. The odds of finding them are about the same, but when I do It’s almost worth doing this for free.

So if I’m a bit negative, harsh or downright nasty sometimes, to you or someone you love, don’t take it personally. Think of it as “tough-love” from somebody who sincerely wants to see you succeed, but knows you won’t unless confronted with sometimes ugly truths. I know good music is as important to you as it is to me, and I know your own creations are your little treasures, your babies born of your musical soul. But sometimes unruly children need a whack on the ass to get ‘em back in line. Just think of me as the “Bing Crosby” of local music reviewers.

Though I refuse to pull punches for the sake of a musician's ego, I'll ALWAYS make note of a bands strong points for balance.

With that said, bring 'em on.

Review by Mitch Phillips

©2001 Mitch Phillips All Rights Reserved

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Robb Roy at The New Place Lounge

2001-03-07T13:38:00.000-08:00
Robb Roy at The New Place Lounge
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

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Exploited Youth / Mad City Pleasure Zone / Jibilian/Glass - Violet Skin

2001-02-03T13:37:00.000-08:00
By mitch phillips at The I-ROCK, Feb 3, 2001

Although I'm not a balding, nostalgic metalhead and I'm too old to be a peevish punk, I found myself at the I-Rock anyway after receiving an invitation from Gary Jibilian to check out his new duo Jibilian/Glass.

Exploited Youth•Mad City Pleasure Zone• Jibilian/Glass • Violet Skin
at The I-ROCK, Feb 3, 2001

Worship My Stick

Although I’m not a balding, nostalgic metalhead and I’m too old to be a peevish punk, I found myself at the I-Rock anyway after recieving an invitation from Gary Jibilian to check out his new duo Jibilian/Glass.
“Fans of King Crimson, Gordian Knot and Dixie Dregs will love this music, but to be honest, every single person who hears these tunes genuinely loves it, “ Jibilian crowed immodestly in a recent e-mail. I was intrigued by the prospect of seeing anyone live up to that claim.
I’ve been a staunch fan of King Crimson since their reformation in 1980 with studio legend Tony Levin holding down the bottom end with an instrument called a Chapman Stick; an eight (sometimes 10 or 12) stringed instrument played by fingertapping bass and treble strings simultaneously with both hands. The spectacle of sound created by this particular incarnation of Crimson was something I’d honestly never heard before or since.
Now Gary Jibilian, collaborating with Drummer Todd Glass (both currently working with the Thornetta Davis Group) would be Stick-ing it to Detroit audiences with a hybrid created by Ned Steinberger and Emmett Chapman; the NS/Stick.

Exploited Youth

I’d settled down to a conspicuous table in the middle of the room while the first act trudged through their set. Exploited Youth is the latest musical dalliance of Rory Steele, a charismatic veteren of the so-called “original” scene. But I didn’t hear anything particularly original emanating from the stage at this point. At least it didn’t pique my interest enough to tear me away from writing background. At least not until he busted a string.
It wasn’t long after I pulled out my Steno when a friend of the band (whom I only remember as 'Chicago') approached to ask what I was writing and offered to fill me in. (Writing seems to be a magnet for attention in a bar with live music, a coincidence that isn’t lost on me - or my therapist) Chicago told me that one of his friends knew some music big-whig in L.A. who’d expressed interest in Rory and wanted him to come out to the coast. If I had a dollar for every time I’d heard that I could afford to write music reviews. Nevertheless, I listened respectfully to his sincere attempt to promote Exploited Youth.
Fearless, bold and charming, Rory Steele limped up to my table in a full leg cast with a smile on his face and a beer in his hand. Chicago introduced us and I asked him how he’d broken his leg.
“Working for a living, “ Rory said with a sardonic grin.
“So tell him about the band,” urged Chicago, pointing at me. Rory looked confused.
“We suck!” he said without an ounce of self-consciousness or remorse. His refusal to take any of this music business seriously was disarming. “Think Muddy Waters meets Nirvana!” Rory said, describing Exploited Youth. You couldn’t help but like this guy so I bought him a beer.
Though I didn’t really get a good feel for his music, I sincerely hope Rory Steele exploits that golden opportunity in L.A., if not for the music, then for the movies; the guy’s a real character and I'd pay to see him act.

Mad City Pleasure Zone

While I chatted up Rory’s sister-in-law, Mad City Pleasure Zone took control of the stage with a mix of reggae and ska that shocked the otherwise indifferent crowd to attention. The fast and funky mix of offbeat island rhythms whipped the crowd into a chair-dancing frenzy and appreciative whoops and hollers followed. Enough said, they came, they conquered and they were gone before I could coax Amy into telling me what got her off... musically speaking, of course.

Jibilian / Glass

Finally the moment had arrived. After hearing the night’s offerings so far I could only guess that Jibilian/Glass would be decidedly different, if only for the presence of The Stick (add reverb here) - still a musical curiosity in it’s third decade.
I had no idea what I was about to hear, having failed several times to successfully download an MP3 from Jibilian’s website (www.garyjibilian.com). And I didn’t know what he looked like either. Was he the long-hair, guitar-whiz looking guy sitting to my right? The staid looking German fellow with the close cropped hair and impeccable suit? Maybe he was that balding guy with glasses sitting in front of me. I didn’t know what to expect and the anticipation was gnawing at me. What did a Stick Player look like? The only thing I had to go on was Tony Levin, the bald bottom-ender extrordinaire whose done more to popularize the Chapman Stick than any other musician with whom I'm aware.
It turned out to be the guitar-whiz / Dream Theatre-esque fellow with long, bushy brown hair. I couldn’t help the image that formed in my brain. You know the archetype: G.I.T alumnus / private teacher whose digital dexterity is only outdone by the flurry of notes (of almost indistiguishable dynamic) that spew from his chosen, top of the line instrument - proving yet again that the musical instrument can be a useful aid in masturbation. A sinking feeling came over me. I hoped I was wrong.
Jibilian began a funky bass lick with his left hand followed by the treble strings tapped in unison with his right while Glass anchored the whole thing to reality with a battery of equally accomplished drumming. The rhythms morphed into polyrhythms of varying length and complexity then turned themselves inside-out until every modal path and chord inversion was exhausted in the course of seven compositions. And I mean composition, not song unfortunately; the type of progressive compositions that require herculean dexterity, stamina and discipline to reach the end of ... what seemed forever.
The second composition, “Galaxy Rodeo,” sounded supiciously similar to the technical acrobatics of Stu Hamm, involving many of the same country guitar-type licks, slides and yaws only on a stick instead of a bass. Jibilian was whipping off eight fingered arepeggios that could make even the most accomplished guitarist green with envy. Glass was locked in with him every step of the way, like a good dog who’d never abandon you when you in need.
The effect was dramatic in the beginning, just not enough to sustain the interest of a bar crowd. Not enough to make “Joe Bag-o-Donuts” tap his foot or sing along to the chorus (as these were all instrumental compositions he’d have a tough time anyway). In fact, the natives were getting a bit restless with all those notes flying about.
“This song’s called ‘Tango Tingo,’” Jibilian said politely.
“WE DON’T CARE! ” screamed a drunk from a nearby table. “STOP IT! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!” I think the fermentation in his brain couldn’t handle so many notes in one sitting (‘neither cast ye pearls before swine - lest a drunk mistake it for a beer nut). A bar is a real bad place for a recital.
Jibilian/Glass would be more suited to the Guitar Center demonstration crowd; Stick-curious peeping toms who can’t wait to get home and flaggelate their strings with a few polyrhythms of their own. There’s a limited audience for such things, but at least there’s an audience which is more than you can say for most of Detroit’s musical fare.
Don’t get me wrong, Gary Jibilian and Todd Glass are both top-flight musicians which are always a pleasure to watch and who are at least attempting to push the musical envelope; a breath of fresh air in an era choking on assimilation and mediocrity. We should all be so brave when considering our own creations.
But they are no King Crimson. Even Robert Fripp knew that Adrian Belew was a necessary addition to pad the crafty angularity of their music for a wider audience. Until Jibilian/Glass marry their technical wizardry with good ‘ole fashioned songwriting they will remain, at best, a musical curiosity for the initiated or at the very least local torch-bearers for the NS/Stick.
But it’s only their first gig as an instrumental duo and even Jibilian admits they’ve ‘only scratched the surface’. Let’s hope, for all our sake, that Jibilian/Glass doesn’t remain stalled in the spectacle of thier own technique because the result could be something really special.

Violet Skin

Shortly after Jibilian/Glass exited to appreciative applause (and the grateful rantings of at least one drunk), Grrl band Violet Skin took over.
While the grrls seemed musically competent, the mix at the I-Rock was doing them no favors; the timbres of the guitars seemed mushed together and the subtle dynamics of vocalist Katie Janness were lost in a wall of electric pulp. I don’t know whether to blame it on the band, the bar, or where I was sitting but the end result was uncomplimentary.
And It didn’t help that the three quarters of the band were stiff as wedding-night virgins; the bassist and rhythm guitarist appeared bored as wood and Janness' self-conscious and sedated. There’s a fine line between understated attitude and pallid indifference; the former results in charismatic charm, the latter is just plain tiresome to watch.
What stood out in Violet Skin was the virile percussive attack of drummer Angie Kaiser. Her rhythmic pounding and athletic stamina were exceptional; I’m guessing the result of years of punk labor in the Detroit trenches. Angie could hold her package in the presence of any drummer I’ve seen in the area. And all this built into a frame that might be five-foot tall on the vey best of days. Who’d have thunk it? A tempest from a teapot.
Although finding a hook in Violet Skin’s set was harder than sucking a clam through the shell with your hands tied behind your back, a song I believed was called “Pez” made a bounding departure from the moody grrl rock that dominated the set. Suddenly every member of the band was present and breaking it down. This song had a rousing effect on the musicians as well as the crowd who finally took notice.
If Violet Skin is able to further harness the power of the subtle dynamics in both their sound and their stage show it would be far more entertaining for everybody.

-30-

E.P.

Show Review: Broadzilla & The Bomb Pops

2000-10-06T14:11:00.000-07:00
The Monsters of Grrl Rock will chew you up and spit your out - with their merchandising alone!

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.

-30-

Show Review: Killbilly's & Twistin Tarantulas at the Token Lounge

2000-04-29T14:17:00.000-07:00
Killbilly's & Twistin Tarantulas at the Token Lounge
"Punk-a-billy rockers throttle local reigning kings of swing"

Token Lounge Killbillys/Twistin'Tarantulas Saturday, April 29, 2000 review by mitch phillips

Who'd have thought rockabilly virtuosos, "The Twistin'Tarantulas" could be TKO'd on their own turf and in their own genre? But that's exactly what happened at the Token Lounge's Room #2 when warm-up surprise "The Killbillys" sucker-punched the kings of swing and wowed the crowd with their psychobilly siezures. There wasn't a still foot in the outhouse while this band dominated the stage with their unique brand of Ethel-pumpin' cow-punk. True, The Tarantulas tend to be more traditional, rockabilly with a hearty dose of upright bass - something the Killbilly's lack if only for its aesthetic value. But even the untouchable double-bass talent of "Pistol" Pete Midtgard and his infectious plank spankin' couldn't save the arachnids from certain defeat by the Killbilly's "Jethro on Amphetemines" guitar attack. Two-thirds of this overworked trio were in a palpable slag making their presence anti-climatic spider-squash when following Killbilly road rage. If the Tarantulas want to keep their title as rockabilly heavyweights, Pistol Pete had better update his role as "keeper of conceptual continuity" in the post swing-fad era. The Voodoo Lounge has closed it's doors and the crowds are trading in their martinis for 'Hi-octane, chicken-pickin', ass-kickin', finger-lickin', stick-yer-dick-in rockabilly/punk heavy on the grease' as stated in The Killbilly's bio at: Metro Times. Don't miss this act.

Tribal Traktion @ Griffs Grill

2000-03-11T21:01:00.000-08:00
...in which the drummer rescues the reviewer from the Men's Room in time to enjoy their debut. review by mitch phillips Saturday, March 11, 2000

Early

I was there early enough to hear the pink-noise check bounce off the rustic brick. Early enough to see Tribal Traktion merchandise pulled from cardboard boxes and pinned to a makeshift wall in full white light. Too damn early.

But I didn't want to make the same mistake in Pontiac that I made weeks ago in Ann Arbor. If you don't get to Ann Arbor before eight on a weekend you may as well turn around and head for home because you won't be able to bribe your way into a parking space.

New Pontiac didn't disappoint me. It was the usual ritual - drive south on Saginaw until the guys in the parking garage wave you away, pull a "U"ey and head for greener pastures North of M59. Same damn thing every time.

I was even there too early to enjoy saying, "I'm on the guest list" while moving past the doorman, past the cover charge and past a line of disgruntled patrons who mumble, "Who the hell is he?" This job only pays in such perks, but the doorman hadn't even arrived yet. Too early for rock & roll, but too late to change my mind. I headed upstairs.

Drunk

Bassist Todd Levy greeted me at once, by name, and thanked me for coming. Levy is impressive; driven, confident and well spoken. And he knows the importance of good P.R. Tribal's name is getting some mileage because of his efforts. At least six local music sites now carry Tribal links not including Tribaltraktion.com. Who knows how many others.

I mentioned something about how tough the room was to mix and Levy shushed me quickly, "They're a little sensitive about that tonight." Apparently Tribal Traktion hired their own sound reinforcement, opting not to use the house P.A. - whose engineer was looking none too pleased to have his turf infiltrated. But it was a good call - Griffs is solid brick from floor to ceiling and if those reflective surfaces aren't dealt with carefully the best band can sound like a brass monkey dancing in a tin can.

Levy politely excused himself to ready the gear and I instinctively headed for the bar downstairs. Nine-thirty and the place was relatively empty. I wondered if I was in for another "private gig" where only the band's entourage and I show up to listen. But by ten thirty the place started filling up with young, fresh faces who mulled about in anticipation. I managed to get upstairs and grab one of the few tables in the room before it was standing room only.

By this time I already had a solid buzz on. Levy walked by my table and simply stated, "Jack & Coke," looked straight at me, then turned away. Was this guy shaming me? Perhaps he was worried what the alcohol might do to my perception - or if the review would get written at all. To be honest, I was a little worried myself. It doesn't pay to get to the bar too early when there's work to be done.

Free Therapy

But the opening band, Free Therapy, jarred me out of my self-consciousness drunk with a cheap shot to the crowd, "Who smoked a big, fat joint?" Cheers. (Uh, huh, huh, He said 'joint' huh, huh. ) "This song is about Dirt Weed!" More cheers. The band launched into a heavy, Pantera-type vibe and stayed there. The singer hurled angst driven growls and obscenities to an audience who was relatively indifferent their tuneless and hookless grooves. They've heard this kind of thing before. "Loft" music.

But indifference soon transformed into rapt attention when the band invited a female audience member on stage to demonstrate the fine art of "beer-bonging." Group-think took over. The crowd hooted and hollered on tip-toes to get a better view of her regurgitating beer down the front of her shirt. "Woooo!"

This is why Jerry Springer is more popular than PBS.

Old Pontiac Meets New Pontiac

At this point, a solitary black face entered the room stage left to join the crowd of antiseptic cotton balls in their celebration of safe debauchery. She headed straight for the dance floor and started cuttin' a rug, looking like the CEO of groove in a gray business suit, attitude specs, short skirt and heels. Her uninhibited nature immediately disarmed the Caucasian reticence that threatened to stifle the room. At least one beer-jockey joined her in a wild dance and the crowd came alive. But it wasn't long before our CEO stumbled over to take a seat. Not even she could turn Free Therapy into danceable sex. Too bad, really.

- Intermission -

The openers finished their set and the audience checked each other for the appropriate response, which seemed to be mostly silence.

I decided to cut back on my drinking a bit lest I miss the main event altogether. It was really too late for that; my head was already swimming. But I figured I'd better stand up and walk around a little. Besides, I'd grown a little weary of a bar patron who felt compelled to share with me his closet coke habit. He hides lines in his garage the way my mother used to hide beers in her room. Bad habits may change from generation to generation, but addiction is timeless.

I managed to make my way to the bathroom through a crowd who had taken up residence in front of the merchandise table. The place was really filling up now.

It was about 11:45. I figured Tribal would probably take the stage around midnight. What I didn't figure on was getting locked in the bathroom due to a door that was probably installed during prohibition. Lucky for me, drummer Mike Schwarzenberger needed to free his jitters before taking the stage. He heard me struggling to get out and yanked the door open. Free! I like this band already.

TRIBAL TRAKTION takes the stage

"What's Up?"

The crowd cheered as Tribal Traktion launched into their first tune. A dissonant guitar riff filled the bar and the rhythm section dug a deep groove underneath. Singer Mathew "Bob" Parnell began to rap over layers of well constructed timbres that weaved their way into the archaic brick.

"Did he say it was called Beakdown?" I screamed to two girls sitting at my table. They ignored me. I forgot to ask the band for a set list and the band forgot to give me an advance copy of the material. (My nearly indecipherable notes aren't much help.) I think it was "Breakdown."

Immediately I got the feeling that, musically, there's nothing this band can't handle. These are all well disciplined musicians who live to push the rhythmic envelope. And they're enviously young for such seasoned playing. Reflexively, I looked for weaknesses in the performance but came up with nothing. These guys were "on it." Running and ready for the big time.

Am I Too Old for This?

I scoped the crowd for reaction. People were standing, but still relatively motionless as the second tune came under way. Our CEO of groove stumbled back toward the bar for another round. I think her high heels were beginning to give her vertigo. Hope she's taking a cab home, I thought. Hell, at this rate, I'll be splitting the fare.

By the third song, "State of Nature," I began wondering if I were too old for this music. Don't get me wrong, I like a good groove more than most (and there were plenty of good grooves), but it seemed every time I started digging on one it was whisked away to another and another until I wasn't sure I was listening to the same song anymore.

Maybe I don't "get it" but every song seemed to suffer from bipolar disorder; different grooves, different keys, different feelings all jammed together in the same "song." And when I say jammed together, I mean the musical equivalent of a run-on sentence, a rhythmic non-sequitur. Schizophrenic music for short attention spans.

It wasn't the first time I noticed this type of incohesive arrangement in new music. Other local bands in the rapcore/funkcore genre are making similar decisions.

I asked photographer Marni Feldman about this later that night and she blamed it on MTV and other trappings of our highly transient society. I agreed to some extent, but I'd watched MTV since its inception grow from a hip video outlet to the fashion channel it's become and I still felt something was missing. It came to me later.

Perhaps A New Paradigm

The music is often bridgeless. There is no warning that the verse is leading to the chorus or the chorus is leading back to another verse or another part altogether. It just hits you in the face like a wood plank and you'd better just deal with it.

Tribal Traktion, like others in their generation, have for the most part abandoned the tried and tired formulas of Western pop music in search of more satisfying horizons. It's not very often you hear AABA or ABAB songwriting plots to reveal the final destination. Their songs are an extreme sports adventure into uncharted territory.

"We're trying to do something new, " Levy said when I confronted him with my perplexity later that night.

While I think Tribal Traktion is sincere in their quest, I don't think the band has completely escaped the culture that sired them. This generation, and its music gets bored easily. Mall-mentality in the face of an overabundance of choices - serial distraction. But what I see as musical vacillation could very well be a new approach to popular music.

GREAT MOMENTS IN TRIBAL WARFARE

Just when I began to think I was in for a full night of rap-laden funk and a mixed bag of polyrhythms, Tribal Traktion surprised me once again by exposing their soft, melodic underbelly in "X-Files." Like the perfect soundtrack for a David Lynch film, this song begins with a hip, moody groove that lulls you into a false sense of security. But it isn't long before your pushed out of your comfort zone and into a mosh-pit of nitrous-snorting psychopaths. From cool emotion to young spunk and back again. Though I don't remember the tune, I remember its heady effect on me.

Singer Matt Parnell bears his nipple piercings before launching into the playful rap of "Gone." By the end of the night the stage looked like a Calvin Klein billboard; young, cut bodies, sans shirts sweating in soft light. Marketable attitude and image. MTV would love these guys on spring break.

Todd Levy's incendiary bass solo was the highpoint of my night, not having been properly introduced to Tribal's music beforehand. It reminds of the Royal Transmission commercial (if I may date myself again) where Freeman James got sixty seconds to spank his plank before local television audiences. What a bass solo had to do with transmissions I have no idea, but it was a fantastic spectacle that I remember to this day. Now the memory will be indelibly linked to Levy's accomplished playing.

Synapses begin to spark and pop in my head when the band rips through "Feel This," the only Tribal tune I'd heard prior to the Griff's gig. My neck is bobbing and weaving and I began to dance in place with everyone else in the room. I remember wishing I was more familiar with the rest of material before coming to review them live. Guitarist Jason Milan was more animated than anyone in the room, jumping vertically into space several times

Wrap it up, already. Would Ya?

Throughout the night, Tribal Traktion proved to me that they can easily capture the best funk of the Chili Peppers, the angst of Rage Against the Machine, the melodic emotion of Stone Temple Pilots and the melancholic isolation of Tool. But they don't stay there very long so you have to pay attention. The music is fraught with sophisticated polyrhythms and rich textures that, while fascinating, sometimes distract you from the groove in a live setting. But the progressive nature of their music makes for a great listening experience, which I was able to enjoy later in more private surroundings with my stolen copy of their six-song, self-titled debut (sorry guys, I just had to know if it held-up on its own. It does - great work.).

Tribal Traktion at Griff's Grill was an official sell-out according to Todd Levy and I'd have to agree - you couldn't pack any more bodies into that space without pissing off the fire marshall. And they did pretty good with the merchandise as well, selling 18 of their tribal-design T-shirts, nine copies of their debut CD and one copy that mysteriously found a permanent place in this reviewer's collection.

To top it off, I learned that this was Tribal's first live gig - which might explain the presence of Mike's parents and Jason's ex-girlfriend who dutifully stood near the back of the crowd cheering them on. They had good reason to be proud - it was a well executed gig.
End

-- Mitch