Inhibitions Have NO Place Here.

I need to address something that I’ve been noticing lately.  It has likely been going on for a while, and probably will never stop, but nevertheless… I need to address it.  On Friday this past weekend I went to see some bands play in the lovely city of Minneapolis, MN.  This particular show was the first of what the Guthrie Theater had dubbed the “Cadence Hip-Hop Series” (that is the Onion AV Club article), the following Saturday featuring much of the same.

Now, the Twin Cities rap scene isn’t like a lot of other cities’.  The talent is comprehensive, the all-encompassing spectrum of “hip-hop” — with all its width and depth — is covered and then some.  Rappers often times front full live-bands, bands that rock pretty damn hard (punk is a big influence here, this bleeds into many of them) and are stellar at their craft.  Many MC’s also play instruments; they are perhaps more musically inclined than rappers from other areas are, playing in numerous other bands of differing genres and ability and weight.

Cut to Friday night.  A beautiful, star laden evening atop the gorgeous Guthrie Theater.  The show happening on the top floor, the 9th, with views out to the Mississippi River on one side and the night skyline on the other.  Every single artist, each with one of those full backing-bands I speak of, delivering a magical night of sounds and songs with a looseness typically reserved for the much uglier space of a run-down but charming club.  It was wonderful.  The show sold out, which was a bit of a surprise even though concerts tend to do very, very well here.  Surprising because this is a relatively new venue (especially for a hip-hop show), and the performers weren’t necessarily huge names of the local scene.  The room was relatively small.  A wide stage spans the length, a bar in back, and that’s about it.  So it was tight, especially near the stage.

Would You Drink With This Bastard?

-Would you drink with this bastard?

-Lots of good (FREE) stuff up, and coming up, on Black Lantern Music.  This includes a sharp-witted EP from Tickle (one of Texture’s pals) called “Red River”, and something crafty electronica called Full Blush (I’m pretty sure this is he projects first album; impressive debut, to say the least).  Like I say, the shit is FREE.  You’ve got no reason to not give a quick peek.  I’m very proud of my BLM brethren, seems like every time I swing by the site I’m inspired by something new.

-Decently high-quality recording of an Eyedea & Abilities show from the Twin Cities (rep rep!).  I still can’t believe I’ll never see another show, or hear a new album from this combo.  One of the most pure, battle tested Hip-Hop duo’s ever.  I’ll stand by that.  Big RIP to Eyedea (and to my Mom too).

-Sonny

Beer, Jam, Wake, Bleed.

Is this how it works?  Last night I jammed, today I bleed.  Between stories of keggers and cigarettes out back — the dog running black as night into the darkness — we played hard.  Jesus, that was rough on me.  In the simplest terms, the decibel level gets so damn high you might as well plug a turbine engine straight into ears via some future techno-mod; in complex terms, that sound penetrates not just your ears, but your head as well, scurrying into your brain like a fuzzed-out rat with some drum hits and yelling.  It’s more psychological than one would imagine.  With all that swishing around in there, not to mention thinking of lyrics (sometimes out of scratch), I knew I was either thinking about my missing family member way too much, or not enough.  “Dead Flowers” doesn’t help.  Neither does booze.  Thank God I didn’t partake in whiskey, Irish and aged by 12 long years: my voice woulda been proper fucked today.  Still is.  There was a time where I did that (no-nonsense Rock & Roll for 3 hours or more) at least once a week, typically more.  How?  It’s just so taxing on ya.  Even if you do shake off the bugs and manage to make it to work on time with proper attire and a smile, something’s still off.  The lines in the face crease a little deeper, the eyes darken a little blacker, the throat speaks a little raspier.  And sometimes, if it’s done right (or wrong, depending on where you stand), you’ll wake up the next morning with blood on you somewhere.  Typically it’s the hands.  But like I said, today I came to bleeding: out the nose.  The sonic fury of judgement had judged me, and it sentenced me so much raw sound from an aging Crate w/ no channel switch, an Ampeg, a shitty old hippie named “Shaggy”, a beast of a beast with brand new tubes, a dented in mic, a 70′s PA with balls, and a drum kit falling to pieces… that my frontal lobe couldn’t handle it.  It had to force out something out the nearest orifice.  Blood.  Nose.  Now.

No comics today.  I’ll leave this place with a very creepy picture out of my local-north-of-St. Paul paper:

-Sonny

The Tossers @ the Entry.

After the craziness of the last month — yesterday was a month to the day — I got back to some sense of normalcy by seeing some live music this weekend.  The highlight (they wouldn’t even be a light; they’d probably be an old oil lantern dusty with a bit of that Jameson stick) for me was seeing The Tossers Friday.  Those fuckers can hold a room, man; oh my.  And actually it was very surprising (Saint Patrick day lover leftovers reheated notwithstanding) because the first and only other time I saw them was in their hometown, Chicago, and the crowd was into it then but not this into it.

Like I said, without a doubt some Patty’s Day spill-over.  I learned the hard way one year down in Kansas City (at a great venue called “The Riot Room”; I dunno, Mac Lethal frequents there… it seems to be the place to play in KC; shoulda asked Rob last night) when The Giraffes and Local H rocked my face off right down to the tendons, muscles, and fat.  Even taking that spill-over into account: lots of singing along and an amazing response from a capacity crowd that seemed to know the band inside and out.  “Capacity” being the word curve-ball there.  Anyone who knows — who’s done the shoulder to shoulder stumble through a very dark space, taking sometimes 5 minutes to get 50 feet — knows that a capacity crowd at The Entry, especially w/ copious amounts of drinking like Friday, might feel like it’s going on 3 or 4, but it can’t be much more than 250 people or so.  Okay, just looked it up; capacity in that space is 250.  I wouldn’t be surprised though if there were pushing 3 bills at this show.

DoomtreeblowoutV.

DOOM. The Galaga record upstairs at First Ave. was NOT broken.  The crowd began to fill in and fill in and spill out.  Some bartender was kind of a dick.  Checked my coat, as did a lot of people.  Average age seemed to be 22(ish?).  Breezy and bitter outside.  The curtain dropped.  No openers, kind of a bummer.  I still remember freezing my ass off but not caring watching Gay Witch Abortion jam in a fucking white van out front.  The format: 3-4 collective songs, individual set, 3-4 collective songs, individual set, etc.  I liked it, actually.  They’ve been doing that type of thing for a while now.  Though, at the 3rd Blowout — I think — the self titled was just about to come out so there was A LOT of collective stuff.  The breaks just kept on coming, perfect if you’re a smoker.  I switched over from Red Stripe to standard Diesel.  Lots of laughs where we were at.  A beautiful woman named Aby Wolf came out and sang on more than one song.  We cheers’ed Lazerbeak, who seemed to be having the time of his life.  The “Prizefight” video didn’t work, which also seem to fuck up the rather large telescreen.  Piss.  Cecil Otter cracked a joke about his new slogan is “searching…” ala blue screen of death.  C. Otter played with a badass two piece — distorted bass and a drummer — along with a few samples and no DJ.  Made me want to shove people.  Two very memorable guys were having the time of their lives upfront, very into each and every song.  Twinkie Jiggles, of Heiruspecs (one of the founders, bass player, nice guy), played stand-up bass on Dessa’s set; so was the guitar player from Specs.  Some bartender was as nice as could be.  Mictlan seemed fucked up all night; his set was him all alone, with Paper Tiger and Lazerbeak backing him.  P.O.S. and Sims’ set were exactly what you’d expect: awesome and alotta fun.  The place was near riotous during the last collective songs.  I was called “morally broke”, in all straight-face seriousness, for budging into the coat line.  I told these guys, “look, if no one’s gonna do anything to me beyond heckle, I’m staying.  So start shoving me or shut the fuck up.”  I’m such an asshole sometimes.  Went to the after party.  Cecil Otter took off early; I don’t think Lazerbeak was there either.  Jimmy 2 Times and Plain Ole Bill were sweet.  All I remember was Jim pointing something out to Bill on his laptop as a joke.  Sure enough, next thing to get mixed in is Madonna‘s (love how Wiki calls her an “entertainer” not “musician”) “Like a Prayer”.  More beer.  Lots of dancing and fun and partying.  Went up close and got a pick of the pair.  Smoke break.  Dessa felt all bad for stumbling and kicking a beer bottle into my shin.  She’s very polite.  Mictlan told me he “loves a whole lot of people.”  They did this big ass freestyle jam thing with about 10 people up on stage.  Some better than others, all pretty neat.  Shook POS’ hand a lot it felt like.  I didn’t see/talk to Sims at all.  And like that, it was done.  TREE.

-Sonny

Farm Animal Food For Thought.

I’m pissing at the urinal at First Ave; actually it’s more like a trough.  As Dotson Rader says in Up Against the Wall! someone’s scrawled “fuck Grayson Kirk” across the stucko in front of me.  It is dark, like any old nightclub’s privy I suppose.  The opening band’s version of familiar post 2000 “rock” is seeping through the walls.  Louder only for the split second when the door is open.  Muffled.  Then blaring.  Muffled, then blaring.  In a mess of bumbling steps and twisting guts I hear the noise of two drunken idiots blasting their way through the all-dude crowd behind me.  “Here we go… Jesus…” I’m thinking.  Little does Mr. Busier-than-shit-Green-Print-Hoodie know he’ll be tossed out in about 20 minutes from now.

Flashing forward. I’m standing outside smoking with familiar faces when he and his drunken friend are arguing with Security.  Can’t hear exactly what’s being said.  I think the asshole who throws around the term “sell-out” like candy is allowed to re-enter; Mr. Green-Hoodie is not, however.  Time will tell if they split the chains tying their hips together like farm animals.  Time I don’t have, because my cigarette is done and it’s cold as hell outside.

Back to the pisser.  These two come plowing their way in through at least 3 or 4 18+ males who don’t even utter an offended “what the hell?” back.  Stand up for yourself man.  One kicks open a stall door, I only hear this, don’t see it.  He can’t hold his liquor.  Either that, or he’s come down with a dreadful headcold and stomach flu since entering the building.  Now, this guy’s vomiting soul is drowning out the better than shit, but still not good, post-2000 “rock” music.  Until the door swings open, then the power-chords of “Cold Hard Nights” finally reclaim their territory; only to lose it quickly again.  His friend is thin as hell, shaved head, sickly face.  The kind of guy who gets away with fucking under age girls because he’s not fat and middle aged.  And pens in the ears.  Pens in the ears probably helps.  He squirms up next to me, wobbling like a full-bodied bobble head figure.  He stares into the Green First Ave. flyer taped to the wall.  One of many.  Scrolling down, his eyes must have been glancing for the first band to talk shit about.  Not only because he’s just that type of guy (he probably hates more music than he enjoys), because he wants to prove some sort of drunken point to me and the other three guys emptying the beer/water/whiskey/milk out of our systems.  Finally he see’s his chance.  “Atmosphere… aagghh.. (belch).. Atmosphere fuckin’ sucks”.  He looks to his left, away from me, at another guy while he says it.  His target simply stares straight ahead.  “Do you rhyme?”, I ask immediately.  Not much to think about with that Q, it’s either a yes or a no; but he still thinks HARD about this for some time.  He finally replies with a straight “no, I don’t”.  I told him if he did he’d get absolutely murdered by Sean.  He doesn’t necessarily disagree with me.  I ask what type of hip-hop he likes, he says he doesn’t like any other stuff; which is when his grand fuckin’ statement to the world comes out in a desperate manner: “I used to listen to Atmosphere.  Until they started… sellin’ their shit at Target.  Fuckin’ sell-outs”.  At this I could only laugh and polish off my tall Red Stripe.  Ha!  Immediately after his statement he turns and walks out, I’m pretty sure without zipping up his pants.  Wow.  And you’re not a “sell-out” because you’ve got pens in your ears; is that how this whole thing works?  And someone who’s refused to make more money by denying offer after offer from numerous major labels is a sell-out?  Someone who runs their own local label, with their friends, to put their own records out themselves is a sellout?  “Wait up!”, his puking buddy exclaims as I’m putting my shit away.  He runs after him like a toddler catching up to his Father.  Sometimes all I can do is laugh.

-Sonny

Artheuser-Buschella.

From The BBC:

Bottles of Stella Artois and Budweiser gleam as US beer giant Anheuser-Busch, which brews Budweiser, agrees to a $52bn take-over by Belgium-based InBev, which makes Stella Artois.

-Sonny

H In Fargo and Maplewood.

This past Thursday and Friday I saw one of my favorite bands play back to back nights. I was a little hesitant to go to Fargo, but in the end you-know-who won out and eventually we were holed up in the Hojo off 3rd St. After some messing about I desperately needed to get OUT of that room; it was beautiful outside. I went down to the front desk to ask where the nearest liquor store and pizza place reside. The young clerk sported a blonde mustache and an obscenely polite demeanor. This is the type of kid you couldn’t piss off if you tried. He directed me towards “Steve’s Packaging”. It didn’t sound like the name of a liquor store to me either.

So I strolled up to the next block, and went north. This building must’ve been a different business entirely 20 years ago. The neon sign out front was gigantic, and true to Mr. Blonde’s words, it was called “Steve’s Packaging”. But this building was old. Really really old. It was relatively hot outside, and they didn’t have any AC, so I started to get little beads on my forehead immediately. We were gonna go to the show in about 30-40 minutes; I didn’t know what to get. Soon enough, I was walking out of “Steve’s Packaging” with a 40 oz. wrapped in a brown paper bag in hand.

On my way back, especially because it was getting gradually less cold, I opened it up and took some swigs. And what type of cliche happens next… a train stops me in my tracks. So now I’m drinking this 40 out of a brown paper bag right next to the railroad tracks watching this train go by. This thing was completely full of tags. I kept on looking for the end down the tracks to my right. I kept not finding it. I kept drinking my 40. Later rather than sooner it did finally pass. Across downtown (3-ish blocks away) I heard some live bands playing in the street. I just briefly walked past and gave a gander (from a few blocks away); there was a little block party outside. Everyone was drinking beers and chatting and listening to music. Awesome. I started wondering if this was just coincidence, or if this kind of thing happens often on summer weeknights in Fargo.

I came back to the hotel and slammed the majority of my 40 oz. Then we went off to get some food before heading to the venue (which was across the street from this pizza place). The place was pretty damn small. The opening band hadn’t even started playing when we arrived. Fairly empty at this point. We drank some beers and went outside for a smoke (even though we could’ve smoked inside, this IS North Dakota. Force of habit I guess, being from the TC’s and all). We saw a lone Scott walking (from his hotel?) across the street to the venue. He said “Hey” to us, then walked inside. We returned to a crowd that had at least doubled since before. The opening band started playing and they were pretty fucking cool. They were called Empire Builder. I talked to one of them after the show and he seemed pretty passive/nervous about the whole thing. They had a sort-of Plastic Constellations vibe going on, minus the gigantic fake plastic swords in the audience. I was pretty buzzed when Local H hit the stage, and the place filled up real quick. It was shoulder to shoulder in this venue. Which sat atop a bar, and probably housed 200 max. The opener of “Taxi Cabs” surprised the hell out of me. I wasn’t expecting it at all, but that song is 4X heavier when it’s played live. I was doing a whole lot of jumping around and head banging the whole show. Leaffoot claims she’d never seen me act that way before, I disagreed with her. The crowd seemed like a good one, and I think the band had plenty of fun playing. One guy who decided to flip off the band got drenched with beer. Which was fucking hilarious, and even he was laughing about it. All in all it was a great time. I met some great dudes (no girls, at least I don’t think). Here’s the setlist:

• Taxi Cabs
• All Right (Oh Yeah)
• “Cha!”, Said The Kitty
• Cooler Heads
• 24 Hour Breakup Session
• Hey Rita! (with some Beatles in the middle)
• Fritz’s Corner
• BMW Man
• Eddie Vedder
• Blur
• Back In The Day
• Summer Of Boats
• Hands On The Bible
• California Songs
• Michelle
• Bound For The Floor
• Wolf Like Me

After a drive that seemed a whole lot longer than it should’ve been (I have a woman who almost caused a free-way crash to thank for that), we finally got home to WB at a reasonable hour.  My neck still hurt quite a bit from the night before.  But the good news was that my ears weren’t ringing at all!  Still though, I felt like an old man.  An old man who now pays the price for head banging at all!  Our friend came over around 6 or 7 to hang out, drink some beers, smoke a little before heading out to Maplewood (next suburb over) for the show.

We drank some beers and smoked a bowl while I threw on the ORIGINAL singer’s live version of “Blue Suede Shoes”.  I’m talking of course about Carl Perkins.  His version pisses all over Elvis’ version as much as Big Mama Thornton’s version of “Hound Dog” pisses all over Elvis’ version.  This was the opening track off the Johnny Cash & The Carter Family at San Quintin CD.  Country music before country music sucked.  Sorry, I’m forgetting about Garth Brooks’ alter ego… how fucking dumb was that shit.  He even hosted SNL, and played as Chris Whatever and hosted as Garth Brooks.  Lame.

We drove up to a place called Nickelby’s to have some beers before the show.  Reason being: at this venue in Maplewood, it’s called “The Rock” (the place is as lame as the name is), they DO NOT let anyone leave and come back inside.  Horrible.  So in order to be able to smoke again before the show, we figured it’d be a good idea to get more sauced at this Nickelby’s place, and not the Rock.  We met some folks there and drank all by ourselves.  Looking back, we were the only people in this place.  Wow.

We smoked one more on the way to The Rock, and used these fucking passes to get into the show.  Which, turns out, made the show FREE.  Sweet.  The Rock wasn’t nearly as full as the Fargo show, but there were still more people there.  The crowd went fairly far deep into the floor, although a lot of that was the mosh-pit.  They played another solid, long set, but this time they also played an encore.  Some of the crowd was lame as fuck, and some of the crowd was rowdy as hell.  Which made for a very strange feeling inside the place.  Overall, it was a decent crowd, but the one in Fargo was probably better, not sure why.  I broke up a fight during the second or third song, which took me a while, and no one else helped me.  The opening band sucked (Season Of The Fly) but Local H rocked.  Here’s the setlist:

• The One With ‘Kid’
• Michelle
• Lovey Dovey
• White Belt Boys
• Simple Pleas
• Hands On The Bible
• Buffalo Trace
• Taxi Cabs
• Half Life
• Cooler Heads
• 24 Hour Breakup Session
• How’s The Weather
• All The Kids
• Fritz’s Corner

——————

• No Problem
• Bound For the Floor (with Toxic thrown in the middle)
• Wolf Like Me

Great two shows back to back.  I had a blast.  I probably won’t see this band for a while, but that’s ok.  I’m surprised me ears aren’t still ringing.

-Sonny