Howdy folks! It’s your loyal, intrepid Bonnaroo correspondent Ric Hickey. Once again I am pleased and honored to be covering the big festival for CityBeat. We’ve been on-site for barely four hours and already this is shaping up to be one of the best Bonnaroo experiences that I have ever enjoyed.
This is the midpoint of MidPoint, the second of the three holy days of September. A day of great adventure and great potential for misadventure that exceeds the anticipation of Day 1 and the inevitable denouement of Day 3. A day to love. But first you've got to get there, and an even longer drive down I-75 this afternoon meant that I was forced to miss Izzy & the Catastrophics (Note: Izzy and Co. rescheduled and play today at 6:15 p.m. on the Midway AND at Japp's at 12:30 a.m.) on the Midway and on the Midway and American Royalty at Washington Park. And my teeth are considerably flatter. Tomorrow I take my chances with the surface roads.
First up on the agenda was the third band on my Friday schedule, my beloved Black Owls at the Grammer's stage. With their brilliantly hallucinatory film projection playing out on the tent ceiling just above their heads, the band clicking with shambling precision and frontman David Butler in the middle of a 10-day cleanse (Five days without beer? Madness, I tell you, madness...), the Owls roared through a set that offered plenty of familiar favorites and a couple of brand new tunes slated for their imminent fourth album, Wild Children, the first to feature input from the full quintet.
As per usual, the chiming guitars of Ed Shuttleworth and Brandon Losacker offered glammy tribute to the gods Hunter and Ronson, while the intuitive headkick of rhythm section Sammy Wulfeck and Brian Kitzmiller ran like clockwork, if the clock in question is Big Ben. And David Butler continues to serve as vocalist/ringmaster, a perpetually compelling stage presence combining witty banter ("We're your Black Owls, supported by your tax dollars..."), kicky athleticism and a vocal presentation that thrillingly suggests Ian Hunter's mournful croon, David Byrne's artful warble and the jittery wonder of Jerry Casale. The only thing better than seeing the Black
Owls is seeing them again. They will be returning to the Northside Tavern in December; give yourself the gift of the Black Owls this holiday season, won't you?
I hung around and talked with the various Owls and their various lovely wives while Secret Colours provided a pulsing Psych/Space Rock-meets-Classic Rock soundtrack. Flecks of The Doors and Velvet Underground filtered through kaleidoscopic blotter tabs of the Brian Jonestown Massacre and The Dandy Warhols turned up to a Spinal Tappish and completely satisfying 11; that's the stock-in-trade of Secret Colours. A lot of the subtlety of their sophomore album Peach gets shaved off in their live presentation (although the melodica was a nice touch), but the band ably replaces it with a muscular and voluminous vibe that reverberates in your chest like a second heart.
From there, it was a brisk walk down to The Drinkery to catch The Kickaways who were using their MidPoint show to officially launch their sophomore album, Show Yr Teeth. It's an appropriate title since that's exactly what the band does on their latest effort, amplifying and refining all the elements that defined their 2011 debut, America! America! Although frontman Charlie Lynn played some guitar on Show Yr Teeth, he made the conscious decision to set it aside in The Kickaways' live configuration. That boils the band down to their charismatic lead vocalist and a tight-as-a-gnat's-ass power trio, a formula that worked pretty well for The Who, Led Zeppelin, Queen and Black Sabbath.
Last night, it was the latter that seemed the most potent reference point, as The Kickaways seemed to be channeling Ozzy and the boys circa Paranoid but with the swaggering ethic of a great Psych-tinged garage band. Up front, Lynn was garage glamor personified, with leather jacket, a plaid shirt tied like a skirt at his waist and several layers of T-shirts, the top one reading "It Girl." No longer pinned down by guitar duty, Lynn was a singing dervish, occasionally banging a tambourine but generally flying around the stage and howling with mad but precise abandon. Guitarist/vocalist Remi Glistovski largely kept his head down and focused on producing riffs of Richter Scale proportions while Jacob Ittle inhabited his role as bassist with the mindset of a rhythm guitarist and drummer Adam Lambchop literally moved the air with his punishing skills, banging his kit with the authority of a skinny John Bonham. The Kickaways are more than ready for their Big Time close-up.
I reluctantly bailed on the end of the Kickaways' set to head up to the MOTR Pub to bask in the Pop/Rock splendor of Cincinnati's Tigerlilies. Pat Hennessy has been working this corner since forming the band in 1989 and while the band has gone through a few guitar partners (renowned and beloved oddball William Weber, former Lazy guitarist Steve Schmoll, guitarist-turned-producer Denny Brown) and several tweaks to his Power Pop concept, the Tigerlilies' core has always remained Hennessy on vocals and guitar up front and the durable rhythm section of brother Steve Hennessy on hammering drums and Brian Driscoll on thundering bass. Hennessy's latest guitar foil may well be the best in a long line of great six-stringers; Brendan Bogosian has an impeccable resume (TheWoos, Cash Flagg, Kry Kids, among others) and his razor-sharp skills and Pop/Rock nuance make him perfectly sympatico for Hennessy's punky take on crunchy Power Pop. Tigerlilies' just-released In the Dark may well stand as the best work in their excellent catalog, and this version of the band is clearly the reason as evidenced by the wall of sound emanating from the MOTR stage last night.
From there, it was a long walk down to Arnold's for the ecstatic blister of Cincinnati's Heavy Hinges. The band may have started out last year channeling the spirit of old Gospel 78s and Alan Lomax field recordings but they have graduated to an electric church service that pumps like an oil derrick with a swing sweeter than Ted Williams. It's Blues with a touch of Jazz with a heart needle full of adrenaline. Guitarists Dylan Speeg and Jeremy Singer can go from textured nuance to hot Jazz/Blues riffmongering in the blink of an eye, frontwoman Maya Banatwala works a lyric with the dramatic/comedic flair of a 21st century flapper (and bangs that ukulele like Betty Van Halen) and the slippery rhythm section of bassist Andrew Laudeman and drummer Brian Williamson establishes the ever shifting heartbeat of the band with intuitive brilliance.
In the Hinges' hands, "Ain't No Grave" sounded like it had been arranged by Carlos Santana, but it's the band's originals that stick in the mind and danced-off-ass the longest; "Mean Old City" offered up the band's patented thump-and-grind and "In My Dreams" showed their flair for electric Flamenco or something just like it. Banatwala noted that she doesn't celebrate Christmas, so MidPoint is her Christmas (Merry MidPoint, Maya!), and Speeg was at his cheeky best between songs ("The women in here tonight look like they were picked by Lenny Kravitz …"). If there's a more accomplished and diverse band in Cincinnati than Heavy Hinges, it's a safe bet that they're not half as entertaining. I could be wrong or drunk or both, but I don't think so.
And then it was midnight and time for my overall MidPoint pick, The Technicolors from beautiful Phoenix, Arizona, an area not necessarily known for its music scene. I had picked them to preview on a whim and listening to the music they I could find online absolutely floored me. In the preview blurb I namechecked Cheap Trick, Big Star, The Kinks, Led Zeppelin, Oasis, Todd Rundgren, Kula Shaker and Nada Surf. I stand behind any and all of that, but after witnessing their live assault, I can honestly say that it all comes together as The Technicolors, which now seems like a perfectly apt name.
In the studio, The Technicolors are formidable alchemists, transforming their influences into buzzing, crunching gold that becomes more appealing with each successive listen. On stage, the band taps into that primal sense of elation that occurs in the earliest moments of teenage discovery, when music is new and the vistas of what to explore next seem limitless. The Technicolors possess the aforementioned sonic reference points to be sure, but what they evoke as a band funneling all those sounds into their astonishing singularity is a return to that viscerally magic moment in personal history when one loses one's cherry to music.
Last night at the uberfabulous MOTR Pub, The Technicolors were a force of nature, the furies of Rock unbound. The twin guitar attack of frontman Brennan Smiley and Mikey Farizza were like David Copperfield's giant buzzsaws; potentially dangerous but ultimately entertaining. Bassist Mike "Nico" Nicolette looked as though he was having more fun than the audience as he joyfully bottomed the sound with a sinewy and insistent pulse, which was further anchored by drummer Kevin Prociw's purposeful bashathon. And tour keyboardist Troi Lownei (he appears on a couple of songs on the band's exquisite album Listener) added a dash of Radioheadness to the proceedings (if Radiohead had jumper cables attached to their undercarriages).
Their studio version of Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" supplants the original's icy cool detachment with a passionate embrace but in the live arena, the band plays up the sense of impending doom inherent in the "I don't want to fall in love" theme. And "Sweet Time" may simply be one of the best live translations of an already powerful song that I've been lucky enough to witness in four bloody decades of standing in front of bands.
Are The Technicolors the future of Rock and Roll? I wouldn't hang that albatross on any band, particularly one I love. The Technicolors will make you feel things about Rock that you haven't felt for a very long time, and that should be more than enough to recommend them.
• As Black Owls frontman David Butler was explaining his cleanse — his wife Amy is supporting by joining him — which features 10 beerless days, he noted that he's never felt better and his voice has never been stronger. Goose frontman Jason Arbenz aptly observed, "He's going to turn himself into some kind of superhero." I think he may already be there, dude.
• It was great catching up with the Owls and the Mrs. Owls (Amy Butler, Carrie Losacker and Sarah Kitzmiller). The ubiquitous King Slice, the barometer of all that is cool, was in attendance as was former CityBeat worker bee Sara Beiting, a pretty decent hipness indicator her own bad self. And Mark Houk from Sohio confessed to chills during the new Black Owls song, "Gasoline." I predict that's going to be going around soon, my friend.
• As I walked into The Drinkery, I was met by the whole of Alone at 3AM. They weren't hanging out in a bunch like The Monkees, they were getting ready for their imminent set after The Kickaways. Chris Mueller put a Yuengling in my empty hand and filled my empty head with joy. Brandon Losacker appeared to be handing me a beer during The Kickaways set but he quickly disabused me of that notion; it was meant as a toast. Note to everyone: if you look like you're handing me a beer, I'm going to look like I'm accepting it. Brandon did drop a shot of Jameson's in front of me, which will earn him a plaque upgrade in the Hophead Hall of Fame.
• On my way down to Mr. Hanton's (who now has a brick and morter store on Calhoun) to get a wonderful and nutritious Handwich (which is a hot dog as big as a Cuban cigar … I recommend the Smokehouse), I vaguely thought I heard someone yell my name, but I've been hearing voices lately and they seem to know me, so I gave it the same attention I reserve for car horns in parking lots which now go off for no other reason than someone locking their door. Luckily the hailing party was not part of my drug-fueled hallucinogenic past but the flesh-and-blood person of Ready Stance guitarist/vocalist Wes Pence. We vowed to meet at the Tigerlilies gig and did. Another way I knew he was real. I'm fairly sure.
• Also taking in the vast Power Pop beauty of Tigerlilies (and while I have the internet's attention, no, you overbearing suggestion Google dicks, I do not mean Tiger Lilies, I mean what I fucking well typed) were damn near all of Culture Queer — Jeremy Lesniak, who produced Tigerlilies' In the Dark, Dana Hamblen and Sam Womelsdorf, Fairmount Girls' Melissa Fairmount, the aforementioned Wes Pence and a couple of guys who remembered me from my Short Vine days in the late '80s — except they thought I was Jimmy Davidson. I told them I worked the counter at Wizard Records, but I don't think they believed me. I could have badly played any guitar in the joint to prove my identity, but it was just nice to be remembered.
• Sara Beiting was also hanging at Tigerlilies, along with perpetual MPMF and raconteur Jay Metz, who brought along Shuggie Otis' brother and drummer, Nick Otis. We had a brief but nice chat, got some pictures together and bid adieu. Shuggie had already left for a gig in Toronto, but Nick and some of the band stuck around to catch some MidPoint sounds before a 5 a.m. flight. Yargh. Hope they made it on time this morning.
• Brian Kitzmiller and his lovely wife Sarah also dropped in on the Tigerlilies. Brian actually bought me a beer but I didn't catch up with him until I was on the sidewalk outside the MOTR and was on my way down to the next thing. Sorry I stuck you with two beers, dude. I'm pretty sure you took care of it. While I was apologizing for making Brian appear to be a two-fisted alcoholic, Sarah pointed out a guy dressed in what seemed to be tin foil Post-It notes, which may have been advertising or just an odd fashion choice. If you'll recall from this space an almost unbelievable five years, Sarah, a first grade teacher, went to Staples to buy Post-It notes and actually had some stuck in her hair. Brian had told me the story, and the next night at Arnold's, I met Sarah for the first time. When Brian introduced us, I excused myself, reached into my pack, pulled out a handful of Post-Its, stuck them in my hair and shook her hand. So Post-Its are kind of our thing. And I was glad she pointed out the tin foil Post-It guy, because I saw him as I walked out the door but I chose to ignore it, just in case it was another alcohol fueled flashback to the acid days of yesteryear. As long as she saw it too, it was all good.
• Right on cue, King Slice strolled into the Heavy Hinges gig and anointed it as the cool place to be at 11 p.m. on MidPoint's second night. And so it came to pass. Also making an appearance right before I was ready to hit the sidewalk was former Buckra guitarist and ever-present MPMF staffer Jacob Heintz, checking out his old bandmates and hanging around waiting for the next emergency, which I hope never came. It never seems like a complete MidPoint experience until I've had a chat with Jacob, so now it is.
• Plenty of folks in attendance at the Technicolors soiree back up at the MOTR, which I hope I had at least a little something to do with. My pal Paul Roberts was there to buy me a fabulous beer from the MOTR's endless taps, with his buds Big Jim and Little Stu in tow. Stu even had a hat made with his name on it so I'd bloody well remember that his name is Stu. If he had said, "My name is Stu, how do you do?" that might have been perfect. The hat was pretty awesome at any rate. If I forget Stu now, it will be evidence of drug backlash or a stroke. Just so you know.
• I spied former CityBeat editor John Fox in the MOTR crowd so I headed over to say hello. As I have explained in the past, I owe John an incredible debt of gratitude for recruiting me for CityBeat nearly 20 years ago and for insisting that I write features for him rather than reviews. It was literally a life-changing conversation, and I can't begin to thank him enough for the opportunity he gave me in the beginning and his faith and guidance in the subsequent years. Once again, he left before I could get that beer into his hand … I'm clearly going to have to drive the truck up to his house. The only thing is I don't know where he lives; his faith in me, it would seem, had limits, which I completely understand. Thanks again for everything, John, you gave me a chance to be a part of something special. My current status as a poverty-wracked, free-beer-swilling hack is all on me.
• I tried to get down to the Mainstay in time to see some of Bella Clava's set because their appearance at The Drinkery last year was one of the festival's highlights for me. Sadly, they had just finished when I pulled up, but I did get a chance to chat with keyboardist Caitlin Dacey and guitarist Steve Suttie as they loaded out. As it turned out, the band is staying with Honeyspiders frontman Jeremy Harrison, whose new outfit also played on the evening's Mainstay bill. Honeyspiders is clearly a band to keep on the radar; the limited recordings they've shared to date are potent evidence that something big is going on there
When The Afghan Whigs announced late last year they would be reuniting for a pair of appearances at All Tomorrow’s Parties in London and New Jersey (since grown to a full blown European tour of summer festivals and clubs), music critics and fans rejoiced.
For years, interviewers probed lead singer Greg Dulli about the possibility while he promoted his successful projects The Twilight Singers and The Gutter Twins. The answer, when it would come, was usually a firm "No" — everything that needed to be said with the Whigs had been said. Disappointed fans had reason to mourn — in the ’80s/’90s, Whigs' live shows were legendary for their one-two punch of cathartic anthems and ass-shaking grooves, with the alpha male voodoo cast by Dulli.
Unlike scores of other bands who get back together for all the wrong reasons — an embarrassing reality television moment or ill-conceived package tour (“Grunge on Ice!”) — The Whigs embraced this reunion on their own terms. It's been well covered in the press that all parties involved in the Whigs' camp said that the time was just right for this rendezvous. No hatchets to bury, no compromises to make and no million dollar title sponsorship necessary — the schedules just worked out and, by all accounts, everyone was in the right place, personally, emotionally, professionally.
That wasn’t the case in 2001 though, when the group cited physical distance as a prime reason behind their curtain call as a band. Two newish tracks momentarily reunited the band in 2006 for a career spanning retrospective, but no decision to re-group was made until bassist John Curley and guitarist Rick McCollum quietly got together with Dulli in New Orleans late last fall to test the waters. Obviously, they were pleased with what they heard.
Flash forward to this past week, halfway into their first live show in over a decade at the Bowery Ballroom in New York. Any concern that Dulli considered the band's reunion shows as some sort of middle-aged victory lap was put to rest as he traded quips with a heckler who apparently hadn’t got the memo about Dulli's legendary run-ins, on and off the stage with audience members who couldn’t resist being a part of the show.
Without dropping a beat, Dulli offered the fellow a cautionary warning before returning to the music at hand: “You know, I will fuck you up.”
Your attention please, indeed.
The Whigs still take their music seriously. In the month leading up to the somewhat surprise of a show at the Ballroom in New York this past week, the Whigs holed up in Cincinnati at Curley’s Ultrasuede Studio to give their entire catalog a work out. But hometown anonymity gave way when the band arrived in NYC to a New York Times proclamation that their sold out show in the Lower East Side was the “most sought after ticket in the Northeast.” Fitting perhaps as well that the Whigs first show back would take place in the city where they played their final show in 1999 (unbeknownst to anyone).
That Tuesday, the Whigs' fired their own opening salvo with their first television appearance in over a decade on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. It takes balls to play your first live gig in 13 years on TV in front of millions of viewers — not to mention performing a relatively obscure R&B tune (“See and Don’t See” by Marie “Queenie” Lyons) instead of one of your hits. Business as usual for the uncompromising Whigs.
Since Uptown Avondale's track by track Soul homage, the Whigs have been notorious for unearthing and reinventing old school R&B tracks. This time around, the Whig’s recorded a fragile interpretation of Lyons’ song, which was released online the week before. The tune got the Whigs' Chamber Rock treatment on Fallon with a string section and The Roots' ?uestlove joining in on drums while a nattily attired Dulli coolly plead his case. Later, after Fallon signed off air, the band recorded a bonus track for the show’s website, ripping through a caustic, muscular version of “I’m Her Slave.” Hopefully viewers at home didn’t miss the moment immediately after the song where Dulli and the usually reserved Curley quickly traded wide, shit-eating grins, obviously pleased with what the band just dropped on millions of viewers, many of whom had probably never had the opportunity to see the Whigs on their first go around.
If the Fallon appearance was the peek behind the curtain, the sold-out show at the Bowery Ballroom the next night was the full on Angelina-leg-bearing reveal. The band wasted no time, dipping heavily into Gentleman and Black Love, including a reprisal of “I’m Her Slave” and a dizzying “Conjure Me” from Congregation. The Whigs also visited a few tracks from their final full-length, 1965, before adding a couple of covers — the Lyons' track from Fallon and a spooky, piano-driven take on Frank Ocean’s “Lovecrimes.”
Presumably left for later in the tour was anything from the band's Sub Pop debut, Up In It. The band did, however, go six tracks deep from their noir epic, Black Love, including show opener "Crime Scene Part I" and the set-ending epic trio of “Bulletproof,” “Summer’s Kiss” and perennial show closer “Faded,” with the little coda from Purple Rain tagged on for good measure. But it was the reintroduction of the title track from Gentleman that brought the house down.The song had seemingly been shelved for live sets post-Black Love, it's rumored because of the heavy-hearted toll delivering the scathing lover’s reproach night after night took on its author. Whatever the reason, Dulli was back on better terms with his signature song, playfully pointing fingers and shaking his ass while the rest of the Whigs powered through the song’s metallic groove.
The reconvened Whigs are more light and nimble on their feet than the expansive 1965 final tour that saw the group supported by a cadre of excellent back-up singers and support musicians each night. This time around the trio is augmented by long time Dulli sideman, guitarist David Rosser, multi-instrumentalist Rick Nelson and drummer Cully Symington. Even without all the extra hands on deck, the resulting sound still allows for moments of fragile beauty amongst the riffs thanks to Nelson’s cello and piano playing.
It’s worth noting that Dulli apparently gave up smokes over a year ago and his voice might be exhibit A for you kids contemplating taking a puff for the first time. He’s refined his aching falsetto and added some harmonic high notes to his trademark whisper-to-a-scream howl that showed no signs of letting down during the near two-hour show. Dulli acknowledged his new smoke-free existence, referencing the now legendary mid-show light ups where he would hold forth on baseball, shitty cover bands or how your girlfriend was flirting with him the entire show while the band would play bemusedly (or not) on. During his heckler beat-down at the Bowery, he even worked in a belated apology to mates Curley and McCollum for their patience during his soliloquies all those years — then accepted a goodwill drag off an audience member’s joint.
Unlike a lot of bands who play Reunion Roulette and lose, if national reviews of the show are any indication, this year’s model of the Whigs arguably sounds better than they did during the ’90s when they first broke on the international scene with their addictive mash up of Midwestern Punk, Rock and Soul.
Dulli said it best after a punkish wind-sprint through 1965’s "Uptown Again," when he offered a heartfelt thanks to the crowd for coming, adding, “It feels like we never left."
Full setlist from the Whigs' Facebook page:
Greg “Tex” Schramm, former drummer for local faves StarDevils and Catalog Cowboys and current time-keeper with western swingers The Sidecars and Roots music masters Magnolia Mountain, steps up to the mic with his first solo album, Greetings From (credited to Tex Schramm and His Radio King Cowboys). Schramm’s debut suggests he’s paid studious attention behind the drum kit when he’s been playing with some of the area's finest Roots-oriented bands. But Schramm’s songwriting and execution is so impressive, it’s clear his talent is inherent.
Gifted Hip Hop/Funk/Rock/Jazz ensemble Eclipse is set to release its second studio effort, the long-player Around the World, this Sunday at the Southgate House in Newport. Also performing at the 8 p.m. release party are two groups with members who guested on the new album — turntable crew Animal Crackers and funky horns-driven group The Cincy Brass. Click here for tickets and more details.
Around the World is a fantastic representation of Eclipse’s wonderfully eclectic sound. A live Hip Hop band needs to be ultra-tight and Eclipse certainly lives up to that requirement and then some. While your everyday Hip Hop album might contain carefully layered horn or string samples, Eclipse does it live, so the performances have to be flawless. And they are.
Before I get into to the nitty-gritty of the A$AP Mob, Schoolboy Q and Danny Brown show at Bogart's last night (Oct. 4), I’ve got a couple of bones to pick first.
Bogart’s, what the hell is up with searching your patrons 90 times before they're let in? I mean, I know it’s probably scary having blacks, whites, Asians, and Latinos all in the same place, consuming copious amounts of drugs and alcohol, but I thought the presidential campaign event with The National was at The Emery Theatre downtown and not in Corryville. I appreciate your high standards for keeping the venue safe, but next time I go out to smoke a cigarette, trust me when I tell you I’m not going out to get my 9mm.
Secondly, Cincinnati Hip Hop heads, what’s up with your lack of punctuality? We finally had an awesome lineup of up-and-coming Hip Hop artists come to one of our bigger venues and you guys can’t show up and support them? I get it, alcohol is expensive at the venues, you can’t do your drugs there and you may have just bought the ticket to see A$AP Rocky. But next time, show up for the openers. Maybe you’ll find a new artist to know and love.
Anyways, that’s enough bitching; let’s get down to it.
When I first arrived at Bogart’s, it only took until 7:38 p.m. before I got that first aroma of Mary Jane, which not only got more prominent as the night went on but was the perfect precursor to opening act, Danny Brown.
Danny Brown started in a timely fashion (right at 8 p.m.; kudos for actually starting on time, dude) but, unfortunately, it was to a sparse crowd. Though the place wasn’t filled, Brown played to the audience like it was a sold-out stadium.
In his unfairly short 30-minute performance, Brown blew through 12 songs, including fan favorites like “I Will,” “Piss Test” and “Monopoly,” ignoring the fact a lot of people didn’t know what to make of his abstract approach to hip-hop. With his bottle of Hennessy in hand, Brown closed his tight set with the smoke session banger “Blunt After Blunt," which had most everybody in the crowd, fan or not, sparking up and chanting the chorus.
After Brown, member of the Black Hippy Hip Hop group and T.D.E. star Schoolboy Q took the stage. I have been a fan of Schoolboy since I first heard his mixtape, “Habits and Contradictions,” but seeing him live totally change my perspective on him as an artist. He’s got this calm cool on stage and this subtle charm really won me over throughout the set.
Surprisingly, his show was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster. His heartfelt song “Blessed” made me want to cry, his need for an inhaler halfway through his performance because he is “sicker than a motherfucker” made me laugh, and cuts like “There He Go” and “Nightmare on Figg St.” made me want to do the crip-walk (don’t worry, I didn’t do it, mostly because I don’t know what it is.)
Although Q ended on a new, bass heavy club-banger, he promised us it wouldn’t be the last we’ll see of him, quieting the hushed moans and groans from audience members waiting to hear his hits “Hands on the Wheel” and “Brand New Guy,” both of which feature headline act, A$AP Rocky.
It became abundantly clear to me that everyone was there to see A$AP after the crowd nearly doubled in size before his performance, especially when I went outside and saw people were still buying tickets (who spends $30 for an hour of music?)
Anyhow, I feel a bit torn as I write this because I truly do enjoy A$AP’s music and found his show to be really fun and energetic. But I ended up being really disappointed by a lot of it. Tracks like “Purple Swag” and “Wassup” got the crowd bouncing and were choice show-starting songs, but there was just too many weird fillers awkwardly inserted in his show. Between his obscure pre-recorded spoken word interludes, his “cockiness dance” inspired by D-Generation X wrestler X-Pac, the excruciatingly long time that A$AP Mob was on stage and handing the microphone out to random fans, it just seemed like he was trying to waste time or something.
Don’t get me wrong, it was really cool that he referenced my early childhood hero X-Pac, gave the fans a chance to speak (one kid even spit a pretty sick verse when he got the mic) and let his crew get some air-time (A$AP Twelvy killed it, by the way) — it’s just not what I paid to see.
But the performance wasn’t all bad. The high energy of his set and appearances by openers Danny Brown and Schoolboy Q gave the show a whole new element. Especially when Q and Rocky were trading verses on “Brand New Guy” and “Hands on the Wheel,” which easily became the highlights of the night.
When A$AP Rocky finally took the microphone back from his exponentially less captivating crew (again, minus A$AP Twelvy; think Odd Future but slightly less talented), he brought some “phonk” to the end of his show by playing drug-induced southern style tracks like “Trilla” and “Peso,” steering the entertaining but peculiar night to a close.
I thought the concert had a terrific atmosphere and you could tell there was a lot of love between the fans and the showmen, making it a wonderfully intoxicating time for everyone.
Now if A$AP Rocky just cut out the filler by playing more of his solo tunes and security at Bogart’s took a couple hits off the chronic (the crowd was smoking and chilled the fuck out), everyone would have had a better time.
At one point during the show Rocky said, “It’s OK to dislike things, it doesn’t make you a hater, you’re just human.”
This really sums up how I feel about the night; I’m not trying to be a hater, Rock, there’s just room for improvement.
There’s no such thing as “just another day at Bonnaroo." This morning I was in attendance for a mesmerizing performance by Nashville AltCountry siren Tristen in the press tent that barely ended in time for me to race over to This Tent for a performance by Black Joe Lewis & The Honey Bears that shook me to my very soul. Their raging Funk and Soul revue literally had the crowd jumping and screaming for the duration of their 60-minute set.
The 4 p.m. press conference didn’t pack nearly as much star power as the one held earlier in the day, but it was loaded with much casual insight about the inner workings of Bonnaroo and the different artists’ experience playing at the festival. The second press conference panel of the day featured Hayes Carll, Ben Sollee, Jessica Lea Mayfield, and members of The Sheepdogs and Phosphorescent.
As is always the case, I am both mildly devastated and slightly relieved on the last night of MidPoint. I love the energy of this weekend every year, but my personal energy gets used up fairly quickly as the festival progresses. And the recharging stations that dot the landscape typically involve really delicious food that comes out of a truck window and is eaten while walking, and bars whose life-sustaining water is typically served with gin or hoppy and carbonated from the brewing process (which is, in fact, as it should be).
The beginning of the MidPoint's last night is always exciting; the end is always bittersweet.
First on the docket were the early shows at Washington Park, an almost too-good-to-be true Saturday lineup; new local (and soon global) sensation Tweens, venerable crowd teasers/pleasers Wussy (filling the slot for Foxygen, who cancelled due to either Sam France's broken leg after a stage fall in Minneapolis or a feud with bandmate Jonathan Rado or both) and The Breeders, touring on the 20th anniversary of the release of Last Splash and playing the album in its entirety and in sequence.
Tweens proved to be better than the hype surrounding them, blowing through a fast-paced set that perfectly presented their hyper-caffeinated hybrid of '60s girl-group Doo Wop Pop and blazing Punk. Vocalist/guitarist Bridget Battle attacked her instrument with an unbridled fury while finding the melodic core of every song, particularly in evidence on the band's cover of "I'm Gonna Steal Your Boyfriend" from Cincinnati girl group The Teardrops. Meanwhile, Peyton Copes was charging through his bass runs like John Entwistle on meth and Jerri Queen was doing his best Tommy Ramone impression, his drum kit seemingly jumping off the stage.
Since I interviewed the band in April, Tweens has signed with Frenchkiss Records and Bridget mentioned after their set that they're headed to New York to record their label debut with Girls Against Boys bassist and renowned producer Eli Janney. The album likely won't be out until early next year, and with more shows like their Saturday MidPoint slot, they'll have a legion of slobbering fans clamoring for it.
Next up was Wussy, coming in to save the day for (or perhaps from) the Foxygen situation. There were the requisite number of Wussy moments; after soundcheck, where Chuck Cleaver instructed veteran soundman Steve Girton to go heavy on the vocal reverb ("Make us sound like we're in a cave …"), the set's launch was delayed while Mark Messerly left for what seemed like an epic Tom Hanks League-of-Their-Own piss and Lisa Walker entertained the waiting crowd with an Afternoon Special story about Skinny and Fatty on rope day in gym class. With Messerly sufficiently drained, Wussy offered an amped-up set of favorites — Walker introduced a slinky version of "Airborne" as "an old Curtis Mayfield song," and a stretched out "Yellow Cotton Dress" as their "new Bossa Nova song … you can also do the Pony."
There were a couple of new songs sprinkled in the mix, presumably from the album the band is currently working on, and all of it was accompanied by former Ass Ponys guitarist John Erhardt on pedal steel. What wasn't typical was the absolute brilliant noise emanating from the stage; Wussy has played shows both monumental and desultory that have either been short-circuited or made worse by shitty sound. On Saturday, Wussy sounded like the world-class Rock band we all know them to be.
Finally, it was time for Washington Park's main event for the evening, The Breeders' 20th anniversary presentation of Last Splash. After a soundcheck that included a blistering version of Guided By Voices' "Scalding Creek," which Kelley Deal and the Buffalo Killers had done for the Sing For Your Meat tribute album, The Breeders took a breath before ripping into "New Year," the opening volley on the album that Pitchfork Media cited as the 64th best album of the '90s.
The assembled multitude, and there was a multitude of them, roared their ecstatic approval after each song, particularly the album's avowed hits, "Cannonball" and "Divine Hammer." After finishing up "Flipside," Kim Deal noted, "That was the last song on the first side," to which everyone under 30 in the audience must have noted, "The first side of what?," and after a blazing take on the album's longest song, "Mad Lucas," Kim shouted, "Take that, Symphony!," likely a reference to the fact that the band had to be done by exactly 8 p.m. for the start of the CSO at Music Hall to avoid incurring a hefty fine for MidPoint organizers.
The band was sharp and tight, Carrie Bradley was on hand to provide necessary violin and keyboard accompaniment, Josephine Wiggs laid down her massive bass groove and even switched places with master basher Jim MacPherson to reprise her turn as drummer on "Roi." Wiggs may have provided the sweetest moment of the night; after Kim noted that coming to Cincinnati was like coming home for the band — the Deals and MacPherson both had family contingents in the crowd —U.K. native Wiggs told the faithful that the amount of time she’s spent in Ohio was minimal, but the love she felt for and from it made it feel like home for her as well, which resulted in a rousing response from the audience. With the last strains of "Drivin' on 9/Roi (Reprise)" hanging in the air, the call for one more had to go unfulfilled because of the Music Hall start time. But given that this was the second Breeders show here this year, it won't be too long before they'll be back with a complete set and — dare we think it? — maybe some new songs.
After a bit of hanging around, I headed down to Grammer’s for the screaming punkmeisters from the Great White North, ETZ. Sweet holy mother — one minute it's three soft-spoken Canadian boys thanking the crowd for their support, the next they're suddenly thrashing out a triple-digit-decibel explosion that buries the needle so far into the red you'd think the meters were broken. If they weren't, they are now. Guitarist/vocalist Alex Edkins plays like he's wearing jeans made of fire ants and sings like Henry Rollins in a bathtub with a live toaster, bassist Chris Slorach does his best impression of a rhythmic jet approaching the sound barrier and drummer Hayden Menzies attacks his kit with samurai ferocity and precision. METZ is Punk reborn, and it's a kicking and screaming breech birth.
Next up was perhaps the weekend's highlight for me, the appearance of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. Every moment of a BRMC show is an exultant tribute to the power of Rock, a pulsing prayer giving thanks to the heavens for electricity, wood, wires, skins and tubs and the ability to turn those raw elements into some of the most bone-rattling music on the planet. Deftly switching from electric to acoustic guitars without losing a decibel of impact, BRMC varied the pace of the show only slightly, replacing quick tempos with slow, surging power. As Peter Hayes and Robert Levon Been orchestrated the guitar ballet up front, Leah Shapiro offered up a tribal drum clinic at the rear of the stage, pounding out a throbbing beat so primal and palpable that airport traffic should have been rerouted around it.
The band didn't concentrate too much on their excellent new album, Specter at the Feast; less than a third of their set was devoted to it. Certainly one of the high points of the set was the inclusion of The Call's "Let the Day Begin," done up in classic BRMC style as a tribute to Been's late father Michael, The Call's powerful frontman and a producer/live sound engineer/mentor for BRMC until his tragic fatal heart attack in Belgium at the band's 2010 Pukkelpop Festival appearance. Much of Specter at the Feast is melancholy, but the band's live shows now stand as a loud and triumphant affirmation that BRMC is committed to going forward with a vengeance. That stance was more than cemented when the band followed their soaring take on "Let the Day Begin" with a blistering spin on "Rival" from the new album and a razor sharp run through Howl's "Ain't No Easy Way." Black Rebel Motorcycle Club left it all on Grammer’s stage Saturday night, and we were only too glad to soak it all up.
In retrospect, it might have been a better course of action to stay with BRMC until the end, but I'd really wanted to hit the end of Cincinnati band The Ready Stance’s set and wish Wes Pence a happy birthday, but Randy Cheek's blown bass amp fuse cut their set short by one song. After wishing Wes many happy returns, I drifted up to the MOTR to catch Wild Cub, but the club was absolutely packed and seemed populated with a higher than normally allowable per capita percentage of asshats. I'm clearly getting too old for push-your-way-in-regardless-of-who's-already-there crowds, and I got the fast fuck out of there.
After that, I wandered. I checked out a couple songs by Cincy’s Sun Country, who seemed like they were on the way to an exceptional set, but I suddenly found myself a bit on the light-headed side, so I figured a run over to Mr. Hanton's would do me some good. Proof that I was nearing the tipping point came when Mr. Hanton's dog didn't make me week with joy. It wasn't any different than the Smokehouse I'd had the night before, it was just my body starting to rebel.
I ran over to The Drinkery to catch a bit of Nashville’s Sol Cat, which was joyfully boistrous and plenty loud to chase away any end-of-MidPoint blues. Their sound mixes groovy Psych Rock with amped up Nashville Soul and it's a powerful and smooth cocktail on a hot Saturday night, and the packed audience they drew howled their appreciation.
I bailed as Sol Cat's last song was ringing in The Drinkery's rafters and headed down to the Know Theater to catch Johnathan Rice's set. I thought it would be a chill way to finish up the evening, thinking that he would be doing a solo acoustic thing. But Rice came loaded with a full band and they proceeded to crank out a sound that seemed reminiscent of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and The Jayhawks in spots, very much in keeping with the vibe of his quite excellent new album, Good Graces. He also cranked out a track from his 2012 Jenny and Johnny release, I'm Having Fun Now (a collaboration with his girlfriend, ex-Rilo Kiley spark plug/successful solo artist Jenny Lewis), and touching on his previous solo albums, 2005's Trouble is Good and 2007's Further North. My personal favorite part of the show was when a woman was desperately trying to drag her guy closer to the stage, presumably to dance, which he was having none of, apparently. Rice noticed the situation and said, "Let the man be. He's fine." Well done, Mr. Rice, just like your all too brief set, which happened to be a perfect end to a perfect weekend.
SATURDAY NOTES:• Washington Park was a crazy scene on Saturday. First up was the not-very-ubiquitous Mike Breen (who was suffering from some mutant military flu, so no Iron John hugs for him), who happens to be my immediate superior (and probably my superior in many other ways) and writer Gil Kaufman; we were quickly joined by former CityBeat mahout John Fox. After a bit of a chat, I offered to buy John one of the several dozen beers I owe him, but he deferred until later.
• Then it was Paul Roberts, Big Jim and Paul's sister, whose name continually escapes me. It's Paul's fault; he constantly refers to her as "my sister." It was the same problem with his buddies; "You know the guys." I'm old and I require constant reinforcement and I'm too embarrassed to ask and I'm usually drunk. That's not true; I'm always stupid and I'm occasionally drunk. Anyway, she's a wonderful person and bought me a beer, so she's in the Hall of Fame on the first ballot, no questions asked. Except the obvious one.
• Then I happened into one of my absolute favorite guys on the planet, Mr. Kip Roe, bassist extraordinaire and truly one of the best human beings you can hope to encounter (at least as far as musicians hanging around Rock shows are concerned). He was squiring his young sons around Washington Park; not surprisingly, Kip's sons are every bit as smart and personable as their dad. We had a good long talk about a whole lot of life, and I can tell you this without hesitation or doubt — my personal existence and the world as a whole is better because Kip Roe is in it.
• John came around for the Wussy show so I fetched him the first down payment on the buckets of brewski that constitute my longstanding debt to him. Of course, if he'd paid me better, I could have gotten a start on this a lot sooner. I'm just saying.
• At some point during The Breeders' set, a woman came up to me and said, "You look like a music writer." Then she smiled really broadly. And I stood there exactly like the enormous dope that I am. First, she had black rimmed glasses and her hair pinned up and she looked like Lisa Loeb, who I did not see on the schedule this year. Second, I have actually gotten that "You look like a music writer" thing from people in the past (typically when I'm listening to music and writing), so I was processing that response. Third, I had only had one beer, so clearly I was not nearly intoxicated enough. It turned out be Amy Firis, boss Breen's super nice squeeze, who is always incredibly lovely to me but who looked nothing like I remembered her in that moment. Maybe it was the glasses (no, I think she had those last time), the hair (hairstyle changes confuse me; I once had carnal thoughts about a woman walking down Clifton Avenue when I realized it was my girlfriend in her newly tinted and shortened do, which was great because I figured I had a slightly better chance with her than with the hot stranger I thought she was) or the question. At any rate, forgive an old dufus, Amy. You disappeared before I could formally extract my hoof from my piehole.
• After Josephine Wiggs' admission that Ohio felt like home for her, the next most Hallmark-y moment came when Breeders guitar tech and uberbooked local producer Mike Montgomery (who performs as R. Ring with Kelley Deal and was nearly unrecognizable in his newly shaven look) gave Kip Roe's son Ben the band's set list from the stage, which Ben and his older brother Kip took backstage and got signed by the whole band. When Ben caught up with Wiggs and violinist Carrie Bradley, he told Bradley that he wanted to play the violin too and that seeing her play with the band was the best part of the show for him. Bradley looked like she was on the verge of tears. Me too.
• Jay Metz was at the METZ show and was trying to scrounge up the scratch to buy a METZ T-shirt, because who wouldn't do that? If a band is ever desperate enough to name themselves Baker, I'm getting that shirt, bet your ass.
• There were a whole lot of humans at the BRMC set. It was asshole-to-elbow under the tent. Almost immediately, I ran into Mark Houk and his lovely girl Jesi and they immediately set about the business of getting a beer in my hand. How do I love thee? Let me count the beers … I mean ways. You're in the Hall, dude. Brian Kitzmiller showed up about the time I was ready to make my move into the tent, and who should I run into but that gauge of all things cool, King Slice, who was clearly digging BRMC. A few songs in, I noticed a rather tall guy in a rather dapper vest trying to navigate his way into the Grammer's sauna tent who turned out to be tall, dapper local singer/songwriter Josh Eagle. See above description of Kip Roe; copy and paste here.
• I ducked out of BRMC to head down to The Ready Stance gig, since it was the effervescent and superlative-worthy Wes Pence's birthday. We had crossed paths at the end of The Breeders' set, but were headed in different directions so I figured to catch up with Wes (copy, paste again) in his less ephemeral state at The Drinkery. I got there in time to see their next to last song, which turned out to be their last song when Randy Cheek blew a fuse in his bass amp. If you've got to blow a fuse, it should be like that, I suppose. Here's a question; can a band of guys as nice as The Ready Stance make it in the cutthroat music business? God, I hope so.
• Ran into CityBeat/MPMF chief Dan Bockrath and his girlfriend Martha on my way down from the Wild Cub debacle. Dan actually apologized for not being in a position to buy me a beer. Apologized. Yet another princely move from a guy who's already seriously Hall of Famed. You don't have to buy me a beer every single time we meet, Dan. Every other time will do just fine.
• Moments later, it was Kelly Thomas on the sidewalk. Is there anyone in the scene right now who cares about it all as much as Kelly? I think not.
• By the end of Johnathan Rice's excellent set, it was 12:30 a.m. and there were a handful of bands I could have stuck around for, but I was done it at that point. My back and knees were screaming at me like Adrienne Barbeau in Swamp Thing so I knew it was time to go. I ran into Big Jim on the sidewalk, who had taken time out from MidPoint to see Sarah Jarosz in Hamilton, and he was headed to Below Zero to catch a shot with Paul. For a fleeting moment, I considered joining him but my brain sent me a message through the normal channels that if I deviated in any direction away from walking straight to the car, I'd drop like Michael Cera in a bar fight with Floyd Mayweather. I bid him well and headed for the car and home.
• Rewind: I crossed paths any number of times with the always incredible local band/event manager Venomous Valdez, and somehow she managed to skate right across my frontal lobe in the previous two postings. There are a handful of people who do some fairly impressive things for the local music scene and bring an almost single-minded passion and drive to the pursuit of exposing local artists to this community and to the world at large. And they'll have to work a hell of a lot harder just to see Venomous disappearing on the horizon ahead of them. Like McCabe, we are lucky to have her in our midst.
• Rewind again: Ran into Jeremy Springer of Cincinnati’s The Sundresses at Arnold's on Friday night, doing the Lord's work of making sure that food and drink multiplied onto every table in the courtyard. e noted that The Sundresses were headed to Detroit for a recording session and that the resultant album would be imminent shortly thereafter. It can't come soon enough.
• Once again, apologies to anyone who feels slighted if they didn't see our MidPoint interaction detailed here. The constraints of writing this thing in a timely fashion for posting on the CityBeat website necessarily means some things go in, most things are left out. The better part of my life is on the cutting room floor, so don't feel bad. Maybe next year you'll do something even more outrageous and quotable and you'll wind up in the embarrassing position of my providing written evidence that you actually hung out with me for a proscribed period of time. Then you'll be sorry.
• Another fabulous MidPoint in the books, and while we were without the essential presence of my pal Matthew Fenton, there plenty of absolutely brilliant folk to take his estimable place. First and foremost, as always, A huge tip of an oversized cap to Dan McCabe, the spark plug that fires up this engine year after year. We cannot thank you enough for the superhuman dedication you put into booking this amazing event (you would look smashing in a cape). And to whoever posted the tweet about turning MidPoint into a semi-annual deal, March would probably be a good time. Dan will still be hibernating then, so the author of said tweet should probably get started now on putting that together for all of us. Let us know how your breakdown turns out.
• Endless thanks also to the tireless (but probably extremely tired) volunteers who carry this thing on their capable but seriously overtaxed backs for three days every September. You are the true heroes of MidPoint. And of course, thanks to the venues who host the music, to the bands who make a supreme effort to get here (especially the ones who are already here) and to the mostly cool people who come to support them. See you all in some form or fashion in 2014.