These horns, they do not wink, my son

So a couple weeks ago I saw 3 Inches of Blood at the Knit with Early Man and Bad Wizard.¹ Bad Wizard won hands down, and they went on first. Go figure.

Bad Wizard occupy some beer-stained grey area between late-90s stoner rock and early-2000s garage rock, mostly the former. The rhythm section swings hard and fast; the riffs are all uniformly simple and repetitive in that bloozy kinda way; and the lyrics seem almost exclusively concerned with sex and weed. None of those statements are criticisms, by the way. The frontman was terrific, not too showy, just a guy who seemed completely at ease on stage, like if you met him elsewhere he'd seem like the kind of guy who ought to be on a stage somewhere; not at all in an off-putting way, just very comfortable. He'd shout out semi-intelligible intros between each number like, "'S one's called 'Natch'l High' y'all know'm talk'n'bout" and the band would launch into some variation on the previous song. Awesome.

Then came Early Man. Problematic.

Heavy metal is the only genre I can think of that simply has no place for irony. I used to dig acts like Beck and Pavement, who would wander from genre to genre without ever pulling their tongues from their cheeks, finding goofy thrills in whatever sounds they stumbled upon. Styles like hiphop, hardcore, country, etc, could withstand these jokers because it's possible to rap funny lyrics badly and still pull off a killer tune if the beat's funky enough.

Metal's a pretty delicate house of cards; you have to play it like you mean it, or it doesn't work. If you try to put it in quotes, it just sounds lame. Part of the underlying appeal of metal is that no matter how extreme it gets, those playing it sound like they believe in it 100%. The best metal bands thrash like their lives depend on it, like they'd go to war for the right to bang their heads. As a listener, I need this in order to buy into it.

Metal is fantasy; adolescent, masculine fantasy, whether it's about battling evil sorcerers or chopping up bodies. It's powerful, ultimately kind of silly, a lot of fun and a terrrific release. But if the performers acknowledge the absurdity of it, the illusion fails.² So when Early Man got up there and started playing a bunch of riffs that essentially said "Hey, we're a 'heavy metal' band, get it?" it let all the air out of their admittedly tight-as-shit playing³ from the first number. Yeah dude, we all know metal's kinda dorky, you don't need to play the cool card for us. Afraid to look foolish by letting yourself get too into it? Play math rock. Metal's ridiculous enough on its own; it doesn't need your help.

Vancouver's 3 Inches of Blood⁴ tread dangerously close to just-kidding territory, but play with just enough conviction to pull it off. They're one of those bands whose lyrics are actually about heavy metal, so they come off as kind of a minor league Man-O-War. What's interesting about them is that they have two singers: one guy for the high-pitched screams and falsetto wails, another guy doing mid-frequency Cookie Monster shrieks that sound more like static from faulty equipment than a human voice.⁵ The audience was into them, there was a lot of synchronised fist-pumping, and soon I was swept away with the crowd. Kick ass.

Tangents & Clarifications
1. Best shirts (and you know metal shows are all about the shirts): blue ribbon goes to the Early Man shirt with the skull-faced unicorn; runner-up goes to the Bad Wizard one that just lifted the Oakland Raiders logo wholesale with "BAD WIZARD" written across the top (can't find a picture, I'm afraid; bonus points for not even being from the Bay Area; everybody knows the Raiders are the discerning headbanger's sports team of choice; I mean, their fans dress like KISS auditioning for a Mad Max sequel). [Return]
2. Exhibit A: the Fucking Champs, a band noteable almost exclusively for their song titles. Come to think of it, Don Caballero, another band whose chops far exceed their listenability, also have some pretty terrific titles and rarely live up to them. Same goes for Anal Cunt. And some of these newer dress-up punk bands like Panic At the Disco are starting to gravitate towards more and more elaborate titles as well. Theory: humour of song titles is inversely proportional to quality of music. Discuss. Actually Anal Cunt's not bad. But not as good as their titles, either.[Return]
3. Early Man, by the way, have no bass player. Not only is this detrimental to their sound, but the resultant two-guitarists-and-a-drummer lineup serves to remind one of the John Spencer Blues Explosion, a more than apt comparison. They're also on Matador Records; coincidence? [Return]
4. Man, they're just beggin' for it with that name, aren't they? [Return]
5. This guy aroused my suspicions upon initial entrance due to his short hair (a serious red flag for irony-metal), but those doubts were cast aside when I heard him speak between songs and detected a European, possibly even Scandinavian, accent. When it comes to metal, Europeans do not fuck around. [Return]

A hip-swing down memory lane

My high school philosophy teacher Karl Meyer¹ once posed a question to the class about his favorite golf club. It seemed that every other year he had the grip replaced. Once, after a particularly errant swing, he had knocked the head clean off, and had to have it replaced. And another time, following another bad swing, he had snapped the shaft over his knee in frustration; this too had been replaced. His question to the class: with none of the original parts remaining, was it the same club? Is there a single element of the club that bestows identity? Or does each new part become absorbed into the intangible whole of the club?

More recently, I blew out the motherboard on my computer. The warranty period had passed, but I'm apparently still entitled to tech support over the phone for as long as I own the machine. But having already replaced the hard drive and the operating system, in addition to several other upgrades, was it still the same machine? Rather than trying to have it repaired, I simply bought a new CPU, motherboard and chassis, then built a new machine using parts from the old one (memory, disc drives, PCI cards, etc.). Or did I simply replace those three parts (keeping in mind that one of them is the case, for heaven's sake) on the old machine? Is it still the same machine? The original memory chip, CD-ROM drive and other parts mentioned above have all been replaced. The only part remaining from the original machine is the 3.5" floppy drive. More to the point, am I still entitled to that eternal tech support?

Believe it or not, there is a point to all this. Last month I purchased a ticket to see a live performance by a band billed as "Guns N' Roses". Perhaps you remember them. And whom, might I ask, do you remember exactly? Surely you recall bilious frontman W. Axl Rose. And of course that perpetually shirtless lead guitarist known to the world only as Slash. Dishevelled rhythm guitarist Izzy Stradlin'? Ex-punker bassist Duff McKagan? Perhaps your memory even reaches back far enough to conjure up traces of drummer Steven Adler, the first of the original lineup to be unceremoniously dismissed, presumably for possessing a recognisably legitimate first name.

Exactly one of the aforementioned individuals appeared onstage at New York's Hammerstein ballroom on the night of the event. Which begs the question: what constitutes Guns N' Roses? What constitutes any band? Is it the music or the musicians? The people onstage or the sounds they make? If the replacement parts play the old songs in the same style as their original counterparts, and the band sounds essentially the same, is it the same band? Bands such as Radiohead and U2 have evolved to create music in a style that differs so drastically from that of their earlier work that one could not possibly have predicted how their later work would sound based only upon evidence of the earlier. And yet no one questions whether they are actually the same band, as the members themselves haven't changed. "Guns N' Roses", as it were, currently include one original member, but they play the same songs in the same style as the old lineup. Steven Adler currently plays in a Guns N' Roses tribute band² called Adler's Appetite. They too play old Guns N' Roses songs in the same style as the old lineup, and have just as many original members as "Guns N' Roses" (i.e., one). Are they any more or less Guns N' Roses than the band I saw the other night? How close is Mr. Brownstone to being Guns N' Roses? The have just one member fewer than the band I saw, and sound pretty much the same. And just whom exactly did I see on the night in question? Guns N' Roses? Or Axl and His Employees?

Setting aside for a moment the band's burning identity issues³, the music was just as you'd expect it to be: tight, energetic and above all professional. He's Axl fucking Rose, for God's sake; the man doesn't work with hacks.

The real standout was Robin Finck, charged with the unenviable task of filling Slash's size-50s. He apparently used to tour with Nine Inch Nails, and did a stint with Cirque du Soleil(?!). His obligatory solo turn⁴ was an unexpectedly spare and rootsy little number that bore more than a passing resemblance to Neil Young's work on the soundtrack to Jim Jarmusch's Dead Man, and none of the sub-Eruption histrionics one typically expects from such spotlight moments⁵. When the rhythm (third) guitarist, whose name I didn't catch and can't be bothered to look up, had his solo moment, he was joined by Finck for an instrumental rendition of Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful", easily one of the evening's highlights.

Rounding out Finck's hat trick of good decisions, he played the solo in "Sweet Child O' Mine" pretty much note-for-note, demonstrating his inherent understanding that it's one of the finest and most unfuckwithable guitar leads ever composed, and best to treat it with the reverance it deserves. The rest of the solos, for the most part, he made his own, but respect was paid to Slash when it counted. Bravo.

As for Axl himself? Well, his goatee looked sad and dated (anyone care to bet on whether there's an extra chin or two hidden beneath it?), and his trademark auburn mane, while unfortunately still bound by those ridiculous cornrows, remained tied back in a nice conservative ponytail for the show's duration, preventing, as you can no doubt imagine, any truly authentic headbanging⁶. Hair aside, he seemed to have at least bothered to work out this time, enabling the appearance of the old Axl dance we all remember so well, to the obvious delight of the crowd. His voice sounded fine, perhaps not quite as menacing as in the old days but certainly better than I'd been led to believe by recent reports, and he sounded like he was hitting all the notes.

Good heavens, man, never mind the technical commentary, you gasp from the edge of your seat, tell us about the new material! Briefly: four new ones, the only one I recognised ("Chinese Democracy") saved for the encore, and with good reason. Not only was it far and away the most well-known of the new songs, prompting a roar of recognition from the crowd as Finck teased the riff, it was also the only good one. The others I can't remember so well, other than to report they do not bode well for the new album⁷. Before the show, I figured I would have been perfectly happy to hear an entire set of new material⁸. This is different band, I reasoned, let's hear their music. But having heard the cream of it I think sticking to the classics was a good call. Regardless of who exactly that band was up there playing them.

ADDENDUM 4 JULY 2006: Worth noting that one of the two keyboardists present on the night in question was none other than Dizzy Reed, official GN'R keyboardist for the Use Your Illusion albums and, if you count it, The Spaghetti Incident? So the new lineup had maybe one-and-a-half original pieces? Beats Adler's band by a nose, anyway.

ADDENDUM 3 OCTOBER 2007: Re: my computer, the monitor died and I bought a used one off craigslist for $10. The spacebar on the keyboard started getting squirrelly so I just broke down and bought a phat new keyboard with a backlight, LCD display and macro keys. Only the 3.5" floppy drive remains from my original Gateway purchase. I'm actually not entirely certain that Gateway is still in business, which would render the whole question moot.

Tangents & Clarifications:

1. Carl Meijer, perhaps? I have no idea how it's spelled, actually. One of the best teachers I ever had at any level of schooling, by the way. Wonder what he's doing these days? Still golfing his way through retirement, I hope. [Return]
2. And if that ain't rock bottom, I dunno what is. Ah, what the hell, I'm sure he's having fun. [Return]
3. And I'm sure they're just as concerned as I am, particularly when Axl's handing out the paycheques. [Return]
4. Oddly, while all three guitarists took solos, no one else did. I mean come on man, no drum solo? That's Brain up there! Nor was there a bass solo from punk legend Tommy Stinson (resplendent in a red plaid suit), but I'm not sure we missed out on much there beyond the potential morbid-curiosity-value of the whole thing. [Return]
5. These were left to new guitarist Bumblefoot, a recent replacement for the departed Buckethead, and whose contributions led me to believe he was chosen largely for his name. [Return]
6. Worth noting that Axl was thoroughly outheadbanged by "surprise" guest Sebastian Bach, who showed up for an enthusiastic duet of "My Michelle". Bach sounded absolutely terrific, and did not appear, from our seats, to have aged so much as a single hour since the heyday of Skid Row. It's enough to make one wonder whether there lurks a classically-styled painting of a portly, bald and wrinkled Sebastian in some dark corner of the attic of casa Bach. [Return]
7. This sentence appears to imply a belief on my part that said album may in fact ever be released, an impression it is by no means my intention to give. [Return]
8. At least up until a good long encore. I'm not crazy. [Return]

Eddie wins!... What, exactly?

Saw Art Brut a couple weeks ago at Southpaw in Park Slope, good times all around. While I consider the band to be part of a rather worrisome larger trend¹, I find their music amusing and enjoyable.

Frontman Eddie Argos surprised me with his friendly, inclusive persona. Based on the band's generally arch demeanour, I went in expecting² an arrogant, confrontational prick and found quite the opposite. He seemed genuinely excited to be there, and reveled in the crowd's appreciative response.

Between songs, he would chat a bit, announce the name of the next one, then just before counting off would turn to his bandmates and enthusiastically ask, "Are you ready, Art Brut?" At one point near the end of the show he ordered everyone in the crowd to go out and form bands ASAP, promising that the next time he came to New York, he would track each and every one of us down, confront us individually, ask whether we're in a band, "...and if you're not..." At this point one would reasonably expect him to say something like "I'll kick your ass³," but no, he instead threatened, "I will be very, very disappointed!" He's not a bully, just your goofy drinking buddy.

During the closing number, he led the crowd in a rousing chant of "Art! Brut! Top of the Pops! Art! Brut! Top of the Pops!" This led to a few shout-outs for the opening acts ("Rogers Sisters! Top of the Pops!") before devolving into a string of cheers for a few decidedly non-sequitur bands ("Biohazard! Top of the Pops!"). While at first it seemed unclear whether Argos' desire to appear on the long-running British Top 40 show is a product of genuine pop-star ambitions or simply a form of Sex-Pistols-y gatecrash-the-mainstream rebellion, upon further reflection I have come to the conclusion that Argos neither sees any difference nor cares to. He's simply a guy in love with the idea⁴ of being in a band, and he wants us all to share in the fun he's having.

The highlight of the show and, for me, the moment that summed up Art Brut's appeal in a nutshell, came near the end of the show during a spirited performance of "Emily Kane". The song is one of the band's standout numbers, so they probably would have played it eventually, but the timing was determined by audience request (at least that's the way Argos portrayed it; perhaps it happened to be next up on the set list anyway). Argos asked the crowd if they had any requests, and someone quickly yelled out "Emily Kane", to which Argos responded with something along the lines of "Oh OK, sure, we'll do that one." Charming, really, whether it was genuine or not.

The song is a tale of puppy love told in Argos's typically direct syntax and AABB rhyme schemes. Sample couplets:

I was your boyfriend when we were 15
It's the happiest that I've ever been
Even though we didn't understand
How to do much more than just hold hands

He goes on to say that he's never quite gotten over the loss of Emily, and that every girlfriend since has failed to measure up the impossible standard she set so long ago. The song reaches its pathetic nadir when he sings

I don’t even know where she lives
I’ve not seen her in
10 years, 9 months, 3 weeks, 4 days, 6 hours, 13 minutes, 5 seconds

During the performance that night he abruptly stopped the band upon reaching this line. He then explained to the crowd that this was the part of the song when he would normally give an updated count of how long it had been since he'd seen her as of that night's show. The line, however, was no longer relevant. Emily Kane, the real Emily Kane, had heard the song and contacted him. A roar came up from the crowd as we shared in Argos's romantic victory, and it was truly thrilling.

It turned out he had spoken to her more than once, and that the first time she had declined to provide him with her number, apparently fearing that his obviously unhealthy obsession with her could quite easily lead to a stalking habit. But, Argos assured us (and, presumably, her), this was not to be, as, in contacting him, and in transforming his divine memory into mere flesh, she had effectively stepped down from her pedestal. You see, once he was forced to see her as a person, a complex and ultimately imperfect manifestation of his Platonic form of girlfriendhood, Argos realised that he had never really been in love with her in the first place; he had been in love with the idea⁵ of being in love. And at such an early and impressionable age, who could blame the young hopeless-romantic-in-training?

Does it spoil the song? Not for me, no. Never really getting over your first love is something to which a lot of us can relate, and the fact that he finally did completes the story with a happy ending and makes it that much more poignant. Maybe even triumphant. Now it's a song about learning to leave the past behind, about growing up and getting on with the rest of one's life. Victory; roll credits, as it were.

But here's the part that really gets to me: Argos, who may or may not even realise it, has fulfilled the rock n' roll dream in a way that few if any others⁶, even among the mightiest of rock's figureheads, ever have. He has resolved the desire behind the aboriginal urge to be in a band, to perform, to get famous, to rock. It's an age-old cliche that the only reason any boy ever picks up a guitar is to get girls⁷. In many cases, many a boy has picked up a guitar in order to impress a specific girl. If I could just write her a song, he thinks. And then sing it to her, perhaps outside her bedroom window. If only she could see me up onstage, driving the crowd into a frenzy. If I could get famous and get a song about her on the radio, well she'd just fall right into my arms, wouldn't she?

You gotta figure this fails well over 99% of the time. Meet the exception. Argos had his heart broken and it never quite healed. So he grew up, started a band, wrote a song about her and she heard it in some sort of public forum. Either she heard it on the radio, or a friend told her about it, who knows, maybe someone who didn't even realise she knew Argos, thought it was a funny coincidence, or whatever. Point is, he pulled it off, and it worked. She called him! She called him! Game, set and match, Eddie Argos.

And how did this victory, for which generations of boys have futilely yearned, feel? A bit hollow, apparently. A bit of a letdown. He finally got what he wanted, what so many others before him wanted and so many countless more will want for as long as there is music to be made, and he realised it wasn't really what he wanted in the first place. Perhaps it is a sad song after all.

Tangents & Clarifications:
1. Said trend being this new wave of British acts who seem to value clever lyrics over all else. Art Brut and the Arctic Monkeys are the most obvious examples. The melodies aren't particularly catchy, the bands are average RnR bashers, and there's little to no love of pure sound guiding the music. This leaves nothing but the singer's charisma to carry the band, a task that Art Brut frontman Argos carries off with aplomb, mind you; but a questionable trend nonetheless. One of the things I've always liked about British bands, particularly the ones from the Britpop era, is their eagerness to decorate their songs with all manner of sonic embellishments, to use the studio as a playground where they can gleefully spend their label's advance on frivolous accoutrements like string quartets, horn sections, vintage organs, etc. And weren't the listeners so much luckier for it? Go listen to Blur's The Great Escape back to back with that triumphantly mediocre Arctic Monkeys record and see if the latter musters the slightest sonic impression in the wake of the former. Even Oasis took the time to record 50 tracks of guitars (all playing the same three chords, but the effort still shows in the results). [Return]
2. And by no means dreading, mind you; I rather like a good snotty frontman, particularly if he's British. [Return]
3. (or "arse", as the case may be) [Return]
4. Note the emphasis, by the way, and keep this concept on the back burner. [Return]
5. Ta-dah! [Return]
6. Richie Valens springs immediately to mind, but that's about it. You know, "Oh Donna"? [Return]
7. Whether or not this is actually true is completely and utterly irrelevant; just go with it. [Return]