Blow that for a lark.

Now, I think I’ll review just about whatever’s on the top of my mind, which could be anything from Elijah Craig bourbon to a sadly neglected BBC Radio show, but probably most likely an interesting bar/venue.

On the slate for tonight, The Doll Hut, Anaheim, CA. Everyone told me it was famous for punk music. I realized nearly immediately it was famous for ska and southern California punk, and possibly, on a long shot, old school rockabilly.. In my mind, those are far different from punk, but that’s probably because I lean a bit more new wave and post punk than I lean American Hardcore. This venue is old school for orange county, and is ideally placed amidst downtrodden car lots for an ideal ear blasting sound. Though, surprisingly, the sound was quieter than your average West Los Angeles “dive”. With a tiny bar area and open air back patio, this place has just about everything you could ask for, even a good Guinness pour. Hell, even the semi-retro Bettie Page-esque artwork suited the place.

It’s vaguely near Disneyland and I-5 so it might not be too terrible a location. Sadly though, if your someone who judges musical acts by their band name, it’s far too easy to see why the place didn’t seem to be doing much business. Granted, it was a Thursday night. I arrived solely for my local favorites, Armada. The preceding band Karmakaze wasn’t bad for that very illusive ska sound. The following band might’ve had good songs but I could barely hear them and dear lord did what I hear sound like it came from a cookie cutter of late 90s pop punk. The Doll Hut itself, was very laid back and congenial to a great night or afternoon of drinks, music, and whatever you want out of the cigarette vending machine. They had one and it had their tobacco permit taped up in the window. The beer was cheap, the sound solid and the atmosphere welcoming.

Hmm. I say welcoming and congenial but let get this straight: it is a dive bar. For those familiar with only West LA bars, this is another level. It is a proper dive bar, but at least it plays half decent music and pours good beers, even if they come in a plastic cup. If you ever have a reason or a chance, give this place a once over and stay for a couple rounds.

The Idyllists grace the platform stage with their foot-stompingly grooving take on 50s pop. With a dash of twang and outfits straight out of Hipster Weekly, they confuse the majority of the audience, here to see the next act. The lead fumbles in between songs graciously, as all mild-mannered English lead singers seem to do, before the barrel into another infectiously happy throwback pop diddy. Either they updated the sound with outfits and distortion, or the sound system at Stronghold is as bad as it looks. The Idyllists romance as they should, packaging an easy variety of Weezer with a Kinks kick. And you can’t go wrong with the Kinks.

The stagehands roll out a few IKEA lamps for mood lighting, but unfortunately there’s no dimmer on the stage lights so the houselights go up, making it feel a bit less like a concert and more like an attic. Travis Warren’s music doesn’t help matters. He’s an acoustic artist with tons of fans in tow from Santa Barbara and plays crooning ballads reminiscent of Emerson, Lake, Palmer. The crowd is mostly there for him, as he hits a wider audience and has been around longer. I apologize, dear readers, because an hour long set list of songs almost as good as Extreme’s ‘More Than Words’ does not spark my enthusiasm.

Armada takes the stage next and belts out a setlist comprised mostly of their new EP and kick off with the uproarious–yet catchy–’Beautiful Heat.’ Violinist Syd Page guests on ‘I Love You,’ and the additional instrument really lends it the emotional connection it doesn’t always have. He stays on for the jazzy ‘Possibilities’ and the loose crowd begins to dance. Armada wraps up the set with the crowd pleasing ‘Renaissance,’ fitting in perfectly with the wood floors and ceilings and hitting just the right vibe with the crowd.

Last, are an eclectic group of funk rockstars, WahnderLust with Kim Manning. All the musicians are talented, and the lead singer and guitarist both know how to perform to the crowd, which laps it up and breaks out on the dancefloor. Everyone enjoys a bit of good fun, but the third song is, I think, “Somewhere in Your Tupperware”. And, yes, it hops and dances about a moldy container in the back of your fridge. Maybe I don’t have a sense of humor, but, perhaps, four hours of music is too much. Or maybe I just need training if I’m ever going to attend a festival like Coachella.

The location is great: just the right amount of intimacy with no pretension. The sound system could use improving, as could the light board, and the addition of a full bar would make me happy. Stronghold is a venue to check out when you catch wind of it, and each of these artists are strong in their vein, and well worth at least one viewing, if you’re the same blood type.

6 March 2010

John Bardy

The Idyllists

Travis Warren

Armada

Wahnder Lust

Next up is a multi-leveled show at Airliner in Lincoln Heights. Upstairs is Cyn Electric followed by Rough Duchess, downstairs on a tiny half-stage are a group pop act closed by a local acoustic guitar comical lyricist. Upstairs has a better stage, soundsystem, and acts. Cyn Electric is an east side band playing a version of southern California punk ska, only with just enough talent to emerge from the mass of mediocrity which plagued Los Angeles in the 90s. They take only enough from modern pop rock to give the punk ska the proper edge to cut through the speakers and pick you up. ‘Course, maybe having Rough Duchess dancing in front kept the energy up, but at least half of it was Cyn Electric. The crowd always makes a live show better, and it’s extremely difficult to get an exuberant crowd in this city. Rough Duchess takes the stage at full throttle. Two performers and one laptop, yet it doesn’t lack anything. Sam and Noah can outperform two typical band members, and the audience doesn’t miss a thing. The audience isn’t as energetic as the music demands, but it’s also tiny, a Tuesday night, and in Lincoln Heights. Otherwise the show is amazing: loud, energetic, and full of crowd interaction. Noah plays in the crowd, and Sam dances on bars, ledges, and with the crowd. Great fun, and a great example of how electro-clash can be just as energizing as rock.

The next week brings a couple of intimate shows at Room 5, the lounge version of a swilling and swaying saloon. Saturday night brings The Brendan Hines back for more, filling in for Kristen Toedtman. Unfortunately, the earlier act packed Room 5 to the brim and barely anyone could squeeze in. Within ten minutes most of them are gone, sadly the rest of them hang in the back and talk over the first few songs from Hines. In a room this small, it’s more than noticeable. Hines takes it in stride and doesn’t drop a comically insulting line until the third song. Finally, they all vanish into the ether and the small audience left gets to hear what it wants, enjoyably melodious croons which err more country than pop. Luckily, the comedy keeps it grooving until Hines belts out his crowd pleasers. ‘Guess What’ is a solid example of his talents as a barroom lyricist. There’s also a fair few unreleased songs which go a good ways to capture the comedy heartbroken romance, or the lack thereof.

The next Tuesday sees a New York contingent at Room 5, Chloe Temtchine and Greg Holden. Temtchine plays palatable acoustic pop with a soulful voice, and excels at it. Then she pulls out surprises, with impromptu flawless beat-boxing during ‘Hotter Than Sunshine’ and a great song entirely in French. She says it’s about trying to take the high road, but realizing that you can’t get rid of the devil entirely, so you have to bring him with you on the high road. With a few more songs she rounds out the show, eliciting intrigue and pep, making sure we stay for Greg Holden. He takes the stage and croons as best as implants from Great Britain are known to. The only real comedy from the show comes in between songs, which are mostly earnest love songs sung very quietly. Near the end, he opens up with a friend on the piano belting out loveable and fun drinking songs about being an expat in New York. The crowd loves it, so I can imagine he’s better than most of the earnest love song crooners. Overall, Holden didn’t really grab me, but Temtchine charmed my cold cynical coal lump of a heart.

And that’s it for the new year up til now. I’ll try to get a review up of the show I’ll see tonight quickly. Hopefully no more three month waits.

Local rockers Red Cortez kick the show off. The wailing distorted guitars quickly bring to mind Kings of Leon and Coldplay. At least these guys are as good a mix as you can get of mopey distortion and angsty twangy ballads. Red Crotez doesn’t have as much spark as the lead singer seems to think, but they still win me over in a song. By the time they work a harmonica along with the words “Los Angeles, save me please,” I’m long since won over. A few songs later they complete their repertoire and exit the stage. All music and no show.

Up next are the slower and far more country The Street and Babe Shadow. The name easily endears them, as does the lap steel. Unfortunately, not a lot else works out for them tonight. Their easy-going, twangy pop doesn’t upset, but the fans are here to rock, and The Street and Babe Shadow don’t really pick it up off the bat. When they do, something is off and the sound isn’t coming together. Finally, near the end of the show the bassist breaks a string. They take a breather while Emma from Band of Skulls loans them a spare and when they finally kick off again, it’s ‘Ashes to Ashes’ and you’d be hard pressed to fuck that one up. The Street and Babe Shadow finish out their set with aplomb.

And that’s when the crowd appears from nowhere. The floor was practically empty all night, and KCRW took up most of the balcony to record the show. So, here I am, thinking it’ll be empty, even though it’s sold out. Nope. By the time Chris from KCRW introduces the band, it’s only a bit less crowded than the Florence and the Machine show. That’s when I find out that Band of Skulls has been in Los Angeles for the better part of a year, playing, writing, and recording. Sad I missed it, but glad I see the final show of the year.

‘Light of the Morning’ warms us up with its slow building guitar and its strong and solid drums. ‘I Know What I Am’ kicks the crowd off with the bopping-almost-repetitive-two-bit-inspirational mantra. ‘Death By Diamonds and Pearls’ calms it down and hits a solid groove, just so they can kick it up another four notches with ‘Patterns’. Russell Marsden and Emma Richardson rock out not two inches from each other. It’ll always amaze me how long, shaggy hair never gets caught up in the works. ‘Fires’ brings the crowd back to singing with this strong and solid ballad of broken hearts. Marsden introduces his friend’s guitar, which looks surprisingly like his own, for ‘Cold Fame’. ‘Friends’ catches the crowd unawares, only the die hard fans are aware of the track from the barely released New Moon Soundtrack. Thankfully, it’s just as catchy as ‘I Know What I Am’ and maybe slightly more repetitive, so the crowd’s in full swing by the end of it. Marsden apologizes for not warning about the new song.

After a solid performance of ‘Bomb’, Richardson gets to claim her corner as center stage for ‘Blood’. The roaring cheer the first few bars elicit makes Emma blush, and full speed ahead they go. Have you ever seen a bass solo? Because I hadn’t, and Richardson’s was magnificent. They close the set with ‘Impossible’ and we’re cheering for an encore over the screeching guitar left onstage. Back out they come, not a minute after the roadie finally stops the screeching guitar. Matt Hayward sits behind the drums, but picks up an acoustic guitar: it’s time for ‘Honest’. And tonight, Band of Skulls pulls out a special treat, before the penultimate chorus, Hayward sets down the acoustic and picks up his sticks. They rock out the chorus with a special extended riff, and then bring us back down for the final acoustic verse. The last song of the night is the most city appropriate, ‘Hollywood Bowl,’ a song with six lines and a lot of synchronized yelling. Well, this crowd made it an experience to write home about. And here I am, writing somewhere about it. This song probably best encapsulates why Band of Skulls is as amazing as they are, the solid southern rock with an english twist sound, the dueling vocalists, the harmonizing vocalists, and the ability to lift an audience off its feet. Add to that a local familiarity and everyone goes home happy.

-11 Dec

I didn’t post a review of the IO Echo/Florence + the Machine show I got to see at the end of October, mostly because the immense crowd relegated me to the back during Florence, and I didn’t get a proper experience of it. Io Echo still rocked the house, even if they had to navigate around the Machine’s numerous instruments. Io even took to climbing up the rafters at the Troubadour, which isn’t a small feat as those pylons do not look all that stable. Florence + the Machine made the crowd swoon and sway, gave it her all, but when your songs are made for an orchestra, it’s hard to match with four or five musicians and a harp–especially with Troubadour’s notoriously bad mix. Not to mention the poor woman looked beat, I think she’d flown across the pond and then across the country making different stops, no way she wasn’t exhausted. Here’s to hoping I find the green for Coachella this year, lots of groups I’ve written about will be playing.

Moving on to December, I started the month with a surprisingly fun show of Holly Conlon and Lady Danville at the Dakota Live Music Lounge. Danville’s album doesn’t really hit my ear with the right resonance, but they bring a joy and energy to the live show which helps, especially with the UCLA crowd. Conlon was the surprise of the night, bringing both poise and talent to her keys. Her songs tell tales of rebellious aches, but thankfully without the earnest angst. Holly Conlon has a very mellow singer-songwriter dynamic, but with just the right amount of alternation to make the music more palatable to the likes of me. Check out her “New Song” for what I mean.

I’ll try a Band of Skulls write up after I finish out this summary–definitely the best show of the bunch.

I crashed Hotel Café’s Christmas Party on the 18th and saw a few great acts: Laura Jansen, Austin Hartley Leonard, Buddy, and Holly Conlon. And seeing as they’re all friends a few times they gathered onstage to belt out Christmas songs. The highlight of the night, however, was Austin Hartley Leonard’s rendition of ‘Christmas in Hollis’ originally by Run DMC.

Next came the Bootleg Theatre with Kristen Toedtman headlining and Brendan Hines opening. I’m a sucker for Hines’s saloon-bred warbles, but the drive of his verse is reminiscent of Frank Turner, though without the punk rock afterburners. Slow acoustic music tends not to prick my ears, but Hines’s humour and obliviously witty lyrics keep me interested, and wanting more. Toedtman, on the other hand, hits the stage with all cylinders firing: a full band, piano, and chorus to give her show a great production value. Course, the Bootleg Theatre prides its unfinished exposed plywood look, but the sound system is great, and Toedtman’s songs come through clean, crisp, and effervescently. (Note: those are metaphorical fizzy bubbles, not any actual fizzy sound particles.)

January shall get its own review as this is just a bit too long already.

Up next are the energetic pixie-punk tunes of The Grates. The Brisbane-based band is finishing up their wandering US tour. Alana Skyring kicks us off with “Science Is Golden.” Those waiting at the front for Those Darlins are at the very least confused if not dejected. Those crashing the alt country show for The Grates are hopping around as much as complete geeks can hop around. John Patterson’s backup vocals don’t harmonize all that well, but apparently he has pneumonia, so, he’s doing a great job throwing it all out there when most people would lie in bed. His guitar still provides the solid punch which makes The Grates such a quirky and fun sound. By “Trampoline,” the crowd’s confusion is gone: they either hop along with the rest of us or sit at the bar downing whiskeys before Those Darlins. Between the sets, one fan told me that The Grates are just too happy for them, but really, if you dance and scream to Those Darlins, isn’t the point of rock music to be happy? I guess the disaffected intoxicated happy is more romantic.

For “Rock Boys” Patience Hodgson clears out the floor in front of the stage so she can swing her ribbon around as she dances. She does hit someone in the nose, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Before “The Biggest and Longest Adventure Ever,” Patience tries to regale the crowd with jokes, but unfortunately everyone’s running dry tonight. Luckily, the beerfaerie visits them to pass out some bottles of beer. “Do you guys have a special name for Budweiser here?” After some dreadful silence, someone in the back yells “Water!” It works for jokes. “Howl” gets the mood back up towards rock, and they finish with “Inside Outside” getting a few people dancing.

And that’s all Those Darlins want: an energetic dancing crowd. Unfortunately they’re in disaffected Los Angeles, where the inclination is to drink and listen while they occasionally yell, but almost never dance. They kick off with “Wild One” which plays so fast it’s practically unrecognizable from the LP track. It’s a good stage setter for Those Darlins fast paced guitar driven wild at heart shows. The warbling voice mixes well with a slightly slurred harmonizing on “Snaggle Tooth Mama.” WIth a more grooving guitar everyone gets onboard and into the music. They pack a lot of songs into the act and unveil a few new ones: “Legend of Greenback” and “Ride the Rodeo” which both blast the amps out with twanging rock and were apparently written on this tour. For “Hung Up On Me,” Kelley and Jessi swap instruments and croon another catchy danceable tune. At this point, they’re a little annoyed only a couple people are dancing, so they rally people around DUI bonding, except no one in Los Angeles admits to those (or no one got one). Still, it’s a great song and everyone gets into the groove a bit more.

It’s after “Ride the Rodeo” that Kelley notices Nikki’s ridiculous get up: a brown dress with a black fake fur shawl with the face of a dog coming around her shoulder. “What’s that, Nikki?” “They’re called tits.” “No, that.” “It’s a dog on some tits. What? You’ve never seen that before?” And with a laugh they barrel into the next song, “Whose That Knockin’ At My Window?” a semi-serenade full of country references which blows out into a rocking adventure. Soon everyone’s singing along to the crowd favorite “The Whole Damn Thing” and most everyone dances as best we can to “Red Light Love.” By now, Those Darlins are playing and dancing with the front row of the crowd. With their final song Kelley stands on two amps while she plays while Nikki sings the crowd slightly more than into her beer. Those Darlins have a raw energy show, the likes of which should keep every crowd entertained from New York to Los Angeles. Every song is faster, louder, and more savage than on the album, and nearly every song has interlude with an extended jam-band rock out. For the longest time the genre invented by Uncle Tupelo, Wilco, and Son Volt has been “alternative country,” but with the current trend erring more towards Those Darlins, The Ettes, and The Kills, “punk country” is a far more accurate label, especially considering their live shows.

22 October

For this tour they added a guitarist, probably so Coco could get a breather and not have to play the tambourine with her foot. He also adds a few well-placed distorted riffs to punch up a few of the songs. From one song to the next Poni powers them through the set list. Unfortunately the crowd is there for Juliette Lewis, well-known for her onstage antics. Most of them aren’t as into The Ettes form of live music–you know, the type where you play music instead of put on a show. Even so, by the time they get to “I Get Mine” everyone’s moving to the beat of their choosing. The Ettes give you at least three to choose from: the rapid dive-bomb drumming, the swaying, knee-slapping guitar or Jem Cohen’s practically slow dancing bass rhythms. “Crown of Age” with it’s mechanical clockwork drumming in overdrive and energetic guitar closes out the set, complete with an auditorium full of stomping feet and cheering fans.

Juliette Lewis‘s fans bide their time before crowding the stage; this wait seems a bit longer than most. It just serves to make them erupt louder when the curtain finally does lift. Lewis has mirror-ball pants, well, tights, and a feather boa-like neckwear around a clingy shirt. “Fantasy Bar” comes in about four songs into the set when everyone’s finally at ease and involved in the music. Lewis gives us an extended preamble about childhood dreams with balloons and faeries and a declaratory proclamation: “That’s the Universe I live in!” Next, she goes sultry with “Hard Lovin’ Woman” and thanks the audience for the great homecoming show. Lewis delves into a few of her old Licks songs and the show goes full bore into unabashed, unfiltered rock and roll. It’s a refreshing nostalgic sound, but there isn’t a lot of creative spark to it, just female presented testosterone rock. She takes a good six minutes to introduce the band, giving them all their own solos before they segue into “Sticky-Sweet.” Taking another intermission to expound her stream of consciousness Lewis calls for no one to become disillusioned, because “if you don’t have your illusions, you’re concrete.” They close the set with “Suicide Dive Bombers” getting the theater full of people singing “shine a light” along with her.

17 October

Jenny Lee Lindberg’s warm bass driven melody wraps you in a comforting brood, yet the vocals still drive the song. Soon enough, Emily Kokal and Theresa Wayman are dueting from each side of the stage while Lindberg effortlessly sways in rhythm to her strumming bass and Michael Quinn’s drums. Every review of these women tries to come up with a new catch-phrase genre, from “post-rock ethereality” to “an organic experience” “the breath of fresh air that will suffocate you.” Actually, those are all really good descriptions, so let me add mine to the list: with the dueling, harmonizing guitarist/singers and the melodic thumping coming from a amplified bass, warpaint feels like a spider crawling up you body as you sleep–yes, that awesomely creeping feeling is what warpaint evokes.

They thank the School of Seven Bells and the packed audience yells back, “We’re here for you!” I don’t often congratulate the Angelino (maybe I should start, been here long enough), but when it comes to local music, they’re damned good at shifting through the refuse to find the colour. Lindberg takes the starting vocals on the next track, fully showcasing the entire band’s range of talent. The second to last song “Billie Holiday” uses all three frontwomen in an apparent round as their voices and strings bring forth a heart-felt melody which can’t help but sound like the echo of a 50s love song playing over a post-apocalyptic PA system. A dreamy elegantly bleak sound which fills you full of emotion and occasionally forces it all out with very danceable riffs. For warpaint’s final song, they surprise by switching up the instruments: Quinn comes out from behind the drums with a cello while Wayman sets up behind the drums. The one good thing about the intimate size of the Troubadour, the mixing for keys and cellos isn’t as important as it is in massive venues. First thing done after warpaint leaves the stage to raucous cheers? Go buy their EP Exquisite Corpse. These six tracks might not showcase their full talent, but it definitely captures their potential and more.

School of Seven Bells takes the stage after an elaborate tech set up; lots of bells and whistles will be involved. They come out kicking massive bass and flashing a very interesting projector show: looked a bit like footage from Joshua Tree put into a panorama program and made to fish-eye around the stage. It alternated through many different embodiments as they continued to play a type of shoegaze arena rock. Benjamin Curtis stands behind keys and an insane amount of pedals for his guitar and throws out an eerie form of distortion that reminds one more of arena rock than dreampop, while the Deheza twins grove to their harmonious shoegaze sound. It works and pushes out an entertaining sound, but their live show focuses entirely on the show, almost making them a Glam Dreampop band. Overall the sisters play stiffly while Curtis envelopes himself in his many many pedals, knobs, buttons and tasks so that he doesn’t appear to be performing, just playing intensely.

5 October

“Try This At Home” really kicks Turner’s humorous lyrics home:
And there’s no such thing as rock stars, there’s just people who play music, and some of them are just like us, and some of them are dicks.
“The Love and Ire Song” introduction is another great example, “I was an anarchist until I realised I was being a twat then I changed my mind and wrote a song instead of making up my mind.” And he dives immediately into the crowd pleasing bar sing-along diddy. Yes, a diddy about revolution and ire. Perfect with a pint or a dram. At the end of his set, he gets his dedicated fans to teach the rest of us the lyrics and we all scream out along to “Photosynthesis.” Turner takes the stage with a guitar and a microphone, and pulls off a better show than two of the three acts following.

The Loved Ones are up next. Complete with hoodies and lots and lots of attitude. The noise-punk sound dominates without a lot of attempt at melody or rhythm. The lead singer downs a fifth of Jack and invites the 1100 capacity auditorium to his friend’s house party. So, yeah, I think these are the dicks Turner was talking about, but I shouldn’t put words in his mouth.

Next up is a twanging rock act from Indiana, Murder By Death. A band with that name can be three things: a Johnny Cash tribute band, metal, or ironic. I’m not sure they are any. The one cover they play is of “Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down).” They use keys and a cello, so it’s likely what comes through speakers isn’t best for their sound. Still, I want to hear them again, even if they sound like the Old 97′s with a bit less vision.

And finally the main act. They’re tatted up like Alice Cooper but play like Springsteen. Gotta love ‘em. The entire crowd rushes forward, packing half the audience in the front thirty feet. The Gaslight Anthem overwhelms the crowd with their catchy tunes. Brian Fallon exudes passion and what’s even better onstage, fun, while bassist Alex Levine hops around for over an hour long set. Alex Rosamilia sticks in his corner, his hair almost down to his waist as he bends over his guitar and pedals, making the Jersey Shore Sound work just right. Benny Horowitz pounds away on the drums as the die hard fans crowd surf right in front of the stage. More than a few people surf the crowd all the way from the back, once in awhile finding themselves upside down hanging over an unsuspecting fan.

About midway through the show they start playing “Train In Vain” which leads straight into “I’da Called You Woody, Joe.” Around this time my mind, completely blown, has lost base with reality, so I ask my friend if they have anymore hits left to play, as they blew us away early on with huge hits. Of course they have stuff left to play, notably Old White Lincoln, The Backseat, The Ferris Wheel, and half the 2008 EP. Fallon continues to tease the adoring crowd as they pound through practically their entire repertoire. The Gaslight Anthem play so hard and so fast they even tire out the banker douchebags who won’t shut up during the songs standing right nearby. Thankfully, the drunkards do leave, just in time for the encore, which leaves us all drenched in sweat and thoroughly enjoying the night.

17 September