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April 19, 2005
GRAYSKUL/ATMOSPHERE 4/13
ICE GORILLA:
"I've never seen this many fourteen year old girls in my life." It's the first thought that popped into my mind as I stumbled up the stairs of the Roseland Theatre last Wednesday night for the Atmosphere (Slug, Mr. Dibbs, and Ant) show. They were everywhere. Canoodling in corners with their pre-pubescent, mesh hat sporting boyfriends. Skulking around the edges, sneaking cigarettes they probably stole from their parents. Just fucking everywhere.
It did nothing to ease the apprehensive bubble that had been flip-flopping around my stomach for the majority of the day. This had the potential of being a damn good show. Slug is always, at least, a talented emcee. He has an uncanny knack for bouncing from songs about depression and drug-induced suicide to poignant political roasts to self-depracatingly autobiographical tracks with nary a flinch. Cuddle that right alongside his boundless energy and ridiculous cadence and you have the makings of a rap virtuoso.
Somewhere in the back of my head though I sensed a bad moon rising. In recent months, due to the breakout popularity of his recent Seven's Travel, he's become, to a certain degree, MTV fodder, a reliable alternative to the more mainstream qualities of say, Eminem. And I'm happy for the guy, it is always nice to see a deserving underground artist reach some level of popularity. But what does it mean for his live show? Is he going to suddenly pander to the masses and just crank out shit for an hour, drop a single for his encore, and then disappear? That's what worried me - I just didn't know.
The opening act, Grayskul (JFK and Onry Ozzborne with Rob Castro on bass guitar) really got me nervous. Picture Linkin Park but with a pony-tailed Asian guy growlin' and howlin' on EVERY song. Instead of head-nodding and fist pumping I felt like head banging and throwing elbows into my neighbor's lower back. Three or four songs into their overly long set I felt like popping some Vicodin to kill the ache that was quickly building in my head. These guys were trying too hard. They so wanted to be the Black Sabbath of hip-hop it came off as laughable, and laugh I did.
When Grayskul had finally pounded out their last rock-rap mash-up and skittered off to perform dark rituals and bite the heads of sheep, I was left with fifteen minutes to digest what had come before and make a final prediction on the fate of this show. My pre-show checklist: squadron of Abercrombied pre-teens? Check. Painful goth-rap opener? Check. Inability to ease pain with alcohol because of long lines of fratboys and douchebags? Chiggity-chiggity-check.
This show was going to suck harder than a back-alley colonoscopy.
If I have ever been as wrong about anything in my life I cannot recall it. Slug stepped onstage backed by a full band (including the most rockingest keyboardist of all time) at around eleven 'o' clock and proceeded to pound the living shit out of the audience for the next two hours. He stalked around stage like a lion hunting prey. Every song I'd ever heard from Slug or Atmosphere was processed through the presence of a live band and each was a musical masterpiece. Boom-bap became jazz, jazz became hip-hop power ballads, everything was tweaked and altered to make it beautifully fresh. Husticious turned to me and whispered, "I feel like my mouth is hanging open." It was just that fucking good.
And you know what? The fourteen year olds that so chagrined me at first added a whole new aspect to the show. To my shocked surprise these weren't just MTV-fed single-horders, these were seemingly die-hard fans who could rap along to every word of every song. Slug didn't need "When I say this, you say this" he could just stop rapping and the crowd would fill in the missing words. It was a spectacle worth fifteen dollars in itself.
Come twelve-thirty I was exhausted. Husticious and I, both weaving on our feets, wandered downstairs to the less crowded bar and watched the remaining parts of the show from semi-uncomfortable seats. Slug had drained us. His inexhaustable reserves of energy had sapped me dry and he was still going. Prowling across the stage, screaming lyrics at the top of his lungs. It seemed he could go on until the ends of eternity.
When the lights finally came on and the surly white-haired women gruffly told us to leave, I couldn't have been happier. I had set my expectations so low and been so amazingly blown away.
I tell you this: next time Atmosphere comes to town, buy a ticket early because that shit will sell out before you can blink. And if it does sell out, trade a kidney, turn over the deed to your house, hell, give away one of your children, just see the show.
DRINKS CONSUMED: One four dollar Budweiser that Husticious bitched about for twenty minutes.
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HUSTICIOUS:
As I am wont to do when it comes to hiphop shows, I entered Atmosphere's show based entirely on the recommendation of Ice Gorilla, who knows his rappers. I do not. However, I had heard many reports of Slug of Atmosphere's legendary lyrical prowess, which was more than enough to get my ass through the door. Also, the tickets were free, which is always a bonus.
After enduring the terrible goth-rap of openers Greyskul (replete with strobe light, a steam machine and a ponytailed Asian man howling at the moon like a coyote) I was ready for something cool, and Atmosphere delivered beyond anything I could have expected, even if I was familiar with his music. Slug's live presence is other-worldly; he gestures and articulates with terrific speed and precision, and paces around the stage like a caged animal. The energy trying to get out of him is a palpable thing--you can see it in his eyes and in the cords on his neck. He could be absolutely terrifying, but behind the power is this vulnerability that--sorry to be so cheesy--reaches all the way into your heart. The first thing Slug did when he arrived on stage was yell at two kids in the crowd who were fighting. He hadn't busted a single rhyme and already I could sense he was a good person. He went on to rhyme about women who had betrayed him, and to wax poetic about trying to stay true to his roots having achieved MTV-style popularity. At one point he told us all not to buy his records at the merch table because he was doing just fine--instead buy Greyskul's stuff and other local acts' stuff that are still struggling just to make a living at their art. It was amazing, and he was delivering this message without a trace of irony to a concert hall full of frat idiots and teenyboppers. They all cheered with gusto. In addition to entertaining me immensely, Slug lifted my spirits--here is an artist who is mesmerizing, powerful, masculine, fiercely intelligent, and by some miracle, kindhearted. I want him to get more popular. I want him to get bigger than Jay-Z. I want this because I can see it actually happening--Slug has the talent and charisma to do it, and once he's there he has the integrity and kindness to use his position for good, and not for evil.
Posted by H & IG at 10:43 PM | Comments (3)
April 13, 2005
PSEUDOSIX/RADAR BROTHERS 4/12
ICE GORILLA
I'll be honest: I walked into the Doug Fir last night an hour late knowing absolutely nothing about The Radar Brothers. Hell I was only expecting two things: one, Jim and John Radar, the aptly named Radar Brothers, and an evening of Portland's bread and butter - indy rock.
I was half-correct.
The tambourine shaking family band, ala The Partridge Family, I was prepared for were nowhere to be seen. Instead, a group of mopey-looking forty somethings, OBVIOUSLY not related, were strumming out pleasantly dischordant melodies on the Doug Fir stage.
My issues with the idea of live indy rock, at least the live indy rock I've seen, came to the forefront during this show. The balding forty year old who was either dinking out chords on his electronic keyboard, or churning out crunchy melancholic rhythm on his gee-tar, was undoubtedly a talented musician. His voice had an interesting variety, when actually varied, to it that brought substance to the otherwise hokey sounding lyrics (the majority of words I could actually make out seemed related mainly to rosebuds and various garden animals - I could be wrong). Everything sounded great, but a question burned in my mind:
What the hell is the audience supposed to do during a show like this?
I've been to a lot of concerts in my short life, and different genres invoke different crowd reactions. Rock equals sweaty men running into each other. Rap equals, at least in Portland, white hipsters nodding their heads and trying to look cool interacting with the emcee. And so on and so on. But standing in the Disneylandish (I would call it Log Cabin Land) setting of the Doug Fir listening to The Radar Brothers I couldn't figure out a damn thing that the audience should be doing.
Husticious told me, "people come to admire the craft." After thiry minutes of admiration, the length of the show with encore, I was ready to admire ten or fifteen beers to force me on the road to Sleepytown. Eventually it came to me though, the people around me were almost all couples. This was like a high school dance for hipsters, hell at one point I even saw people slow dancing. People came to this show to cuddle with their significant others. This was a fucking date function.
Now I understand the connection between music and romance. I've turned on a little G & R "November Rain" when trying to seal the deal with some cheeky young lass, but romance at an indy rock concert? I don't know about that. A live concert should get your heart pounding to dance or shake your fist, not hold hands with Betty Sue Nobody. Live music should make you want to swing your hips and gyrate your torso, not whisper saccharine romance into your gentleman lover's ear. I guess though with music this enjoyably soft and non-offensive, it's really the only course of action presented.
When the show had softly trickled to its end destination, and the lovers around me had disappeared into the shadows to sip overly-expensive cocktails and ogle each other through thick framed glasses I had figured something out: I would never need to see The Radar Brothers perform live ever again.
That's overly harsh. It's not that the show was painful to listen to, I've said it already, these guys are talented musicians, there was just nothing to their live show. They said two words to the audience, drudgingly plowed through nine songs and then waved their goodbyes. I stood in the same spot the entire time, uninspired to dance, uninspired to even shuffle. The band just made no effort, partly because of the mellowness of their musical choice, to connect with the audience. Each member seemed so absorbed with playing each song with their eyes closed, obviously totally "in tune" with the music (especially the drummer, who either loved drums more than Jesus, or had been on a heroin binge for the last three days - he was that into it), that they seemed to forget that an audience was even listening. They could've been strumming this music out in John and Jimmy Radar's basement and it all would've sounded the same.
Maybe I just don't know enough about live indy rock. Maybe I'm just not "hip" enough to "appreciate the craft," but I left the show unimpressed and happy that I had gotten in for free. I'm not shitting on this band, their music was pretty and I'm sure if I was trying to "get my freak on" or read the dictionary this music would fit nicely in the background, it just doesn't fit as a live show. Perhaps next time if they had a clown on stage, or a midget riding a horse, than I would be a little more entertained.
One final note: I missed out on Pseudosix, but Husticious's friend said the lead singer was "cute". Take that as you want.
DRINKS CONSUMED: three icy cold PBRs and something that made me tired like codeine, oh wait that was the music.
HUSTICIOUS
Calm down Ice Gorilla, calm down. Not all music events can be hiphop shows or Dave Matthews concerts. And categorizing the Radar Brothers show under "live indy rock" (I think it's actually "indie rock") is misleading; yes, the Radar Brothers are examples of independent music, but so are many, many other bands whose concerts are a decidedly different affair than what we saw Tuesday night. For every "indie rock" band like the Radar Bros. whose live performance is slow slow slow, there is an "indie rock" band like the Thermals, whose live performance is fast fast fast. Writing off all "indie rock" shows because of one slow one is a mistake, namely because you're going to miss out on some cool shit.
The show: I don't think the Radar Bros fans in attendance were expecting anything less, but even so, the band sounded and looked like they barely had the energy to stand, let alone play their instruments. The only chipper member was bassist Senon Williams, who eventually announced that it was he and his wife's one-year anniversary. "Yay," managed lead singer Jim Putnam, his face chalky, his combover brightened by an unhealthy sheen. Meanwhile, drummer Steve Goodfriend appeared to be working off about 10 hits of ecstacy; either that or he was just really, really high on life. A friend yelled at me once for comparing the Radar Bros to the Flaming Lips, but I stick by that statement—the Radar Bros' melodies swell and shiver and Putnam sings in an eerily beautiful croon. The Lips do the same thing, but it's kind of ironic, or at least hard to take seriously; the Bros however, are quite serious, and their lyrics reflect it—haunting images of death, murder, grief and loss profligate.
So yeah, I like the Radar Bros, always have, and though I maintain that no fan was surprised by their performance, I also agree with Ice Gorilla that this show was very, very slow and boring. And though I disagree with certain sentiments of Ice Gorilla's post, a show such as this does force me to wonder why I don't just listen to the band's album on disc and save myself the trouble. Though I disagree that a concert should always make you want to shake your booty and your fist or whatever, I do think that live performers, no matter what the medium, should at least try to have a modicum of charisma and energy. They're getting paid to perform after all. Yes, there's something to be said for the craft of music in and of itself—it is really hard to play music really well in a live setting, and in the end that's what bands are all about, theoretically: the music. A band can't be blamed for being all about the music (which the Radar Bros clearly are, as their music was excellent), and yet a band should be aware that the majority of their audience doesn't even know what the sound check is for. In short, a very small percentage of concertgoers are experts in the field of concerts, or even music for that matter; most go because they like some of the band's songs off their most recent album, or even more commonly, because they're simply lookin' for a fun night out. There's nothing wrong with having a little fun up onstage. Nobody expects the band to throw their hands in the air and wave 'em like they just don't care, but being completely morose and uncommunicative, unless the music is just amazingly gripping on its own, is dismissive of the people who paid good money to get in, and who don't know any better. The Radar Bros. could have indulged in some friendly banter with each other, for instance, or Putnam could have told some stories about the songs he was playing. It's cool when bands offer insight into themselves and into their music. As a non-music expert, I have no interest in seeing a band play exactly what they do on the record I already have. I want to be reached out to—I want a dialogue. I'd rather sit in a bar and drink and play Scrabble than sit in a crowded club and watch somebody do what I've already heard a hundred times. This is what the Radar Brothers did, and because they did, I will not go to see them play again (though I will continue to listen to their awesome records). "Indie rock" bands can play as slow as they want live, but they are not allowed to do absolutely nothing at all.
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Posted by H & IG at 12:54 PM | Comments (0)