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Twin Town High (vol. 8) |
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'Round the Dial: Hang the DJ
Wednesday 07 March @ 15:47:11 |
 by TOM HALLETT
QUOTE OF THE WEEK: "Seeing death as the end of life is like seeing the horizon as the end of the ocean." – David Searls
SONG OF THE WEEK: "Tugboat" – Alejandro Escovedo
Though it still feels like winter--the ice gripping the earth tenaciously and the snow seeming eager to dump from the skies in the skip of a heartbeat--the truth is that spring waits just 'round the corner, the days grow longer and somewhere under that dirty corner snowbank lies a waiting crop of fresh greenery eager to push its way into the wavering mid-April sunshine. Mebbe now would be a good time to follow the way of the bear, using alcohol instead of nuts and berries, and just hibernate for the next six or eight weeks, until the last cruel vestiges of nature's annual (and I must add, increasingly longer) period of rest has passed.
But for such an endeavor, one must gird oneself with the requisite playlist with which to pass those long hours of bottle-induced slumber, so I'll refrain from taking my long pre-spring nap until after I've gotten these next couple of rounds worth of reviews out to ya'll. Then it's time to strap a diving board to a bottle of schnapps, tape on a pair of headphones and take that long, much-deserved week or so of nothing but sweet, dream-free sleep ...
Buffalo Killers
Self-Titled
2006
Alive Records
Formed from the ashes of Cincinnati's Thee Shams, this pared-down outfit (we're down to a nasty, squirrely three-piece for this lineup--brothers Andrew Gabbard on lead guitar, vox and piano and Zach on bass, vox and guitar, with brutal skins-man Joseph Sebaali handling beats and piano) seem to have lost none of their former guttural grit but also to have gained a keen, deeper insight into their songwriting abilities.
Though technically you could dub this outfit a garage band with shades of The Black Keys and The Black Crowes and even Black Sabbath coloring their mighty aural palette, in doing so you'd be missing out on the intricate, interwoven layers of axe-work, true-blue lyricism and absolutely hypnotic keyboard runs that shudder and shimmy their way through this genuinely eclectic batch of tunes.
Album opener "San Martine Des Morelle" simultaneously recalls the dirty early work of rhythm & blues-era Stones and the electrified psychedelia of barely post-Syd Barrett Pink Floyd, the entire track riding a dangerous, razor-sharp edge. "SS Nowhere" (yes, there does seem to be an ocean/ship/water theme here, doesn't there?) is reminiscent of Rubber Soul-period Beatles with maybe a dollop of mod-flecked early Who tossed in for good measure. A slithering, writhing keeper of a pop nugget.
"The Path Before Me" struts out on a bad-ass bass riff, Gabbard yowlping "I can see behind your sunglasses / Your cocaine smile," as the rest of the band digs in and shovels heavy black rock coal on the fiery blues-based romper they're channeling; "River Water" is a clean-sounding, almost country-rock track that contains shades of Buffalo Springfield and finds the band combining their vocals in a haunting, beat-happy bopper of a ditty. Kind of like Tommy Bolin's solo career but without the purple feathers and the dope.
"Children of War" is a laid-back, growling antiwar (and anti-antiwar) ballad of the highest order, Gabbard pleading with this generation to "forget about the '60s" and try new ideas and collaborations in an effort to garner worldwide peace. "Fit to Breathe" almost sounds like it was recorded underwater, a ringing, clammering slice of backwoods boogie woogie that would either send the wildlife running like the wind in the other direction or directly draw the wolves, bears and mountain lions to the shack like a long-lost human-to-animal signal.
Album closer "Something Real" finds the band taking a complete left turn, tumbling out on dire keyboard runs and Gabbard actually singing instead of howling; a cut that's closer to the Zombies than it is Howlin' Wolf or The Stooges. But then, all real rock and roll comes from the same place, it's just in its channeling we find our own differences--hell, Ozzy thinks he sounds like John Lennon, so who's to quibble? Hands down, a spiffy album and a worthy addition to your collection. Check 'em out at buffalokillers.com.
For the past few months, I've made numerous references to my side-job--DJ'ing in various pubs and dives around this tiny burg I'm spending the winter in. While it's a unique and sometimes supremely rewarding task (and beers on the house don't hurt, either), there are, from time to time, people, songs and moments that make me wish I was sitting at home around my old beat-to-shit card table, quaffing Old Milwaukee and sharing stories with my colorful group of (mostly musician) friends back in the Cities. Don't get me wrong--having the chance to play Johnny Horton's "When It's 40 Below (It's Springtime in Alaska)" back-to-back with The Sundays' rendition of "Wild Horses," then pushing balls to the wall into a rare live Stooges cut does have its ups--but a brief list of the worst, or most irritating aspects of the job makes for much more fun writing--and hopefully, reading. So without further ado (and to be continued next week), here's ....
Round The Dial's Top 10 Irritating DJ Moments:
1) Prog Rock Guy: This dude usually hovers around my booth for an hour or so, coolly sipping on one expensive beer the entire time, eyes flitting towards myself and the sign that says, "All Request DJ!!" Finally, he gets up and shambles over to me and begins to run off a litany of bands that even Robert Wyatt would scratch his head at, then settles for "Roundabout" by Yes. Now I know why stocks were such an integral part of ancient village squares.
2) Angry Older Lady Who Wishes the Eighties Had Never Ended: This woman sits at the bar, preening and frequently checking her thick make-up in a pocket-sized mirror, slurping down Jack and Cokes like they were going out of style. Finally, she has to head to the bathroom, and has to pass my booth to get there. She eyes me suspiciously, as if afraid I'm going to bust out in a raucous Men Without Hats or Cyndi Lauper tune while she's away from the bar. When she does finally make a request, she wants the one Hall & Oates song I don't have, settles for "Rich Girl," then wobbles back to the bar without tipping. Later, the cab driver will find her square on her ass in the icy parking lot outside. I'm not too upset.
3) The Know-It-All Indie Rocker: Usually, I get along pretty well with these folks, because I have a decent selection of Modest Mouse, Ani DiFranco and Pretty Girls Make Graves tunes. Sometimes, though, they like to pull up a stool next to me and regale me with tales of all the great bands I'm missing out there, and end up offering to bring his/her iPod in the next week so they can plug me into the future. I usually play something like Tiny Tim doing his version of "Stairway to Heaven" to end this particular bad-breath-a-thon.
4) The Repeat Requester: These characters come in several different models, the most common being the ones who shout out for Hank, Jr., David Allen Coe, or Waylon/Willie songs and then expect that's all we'll be hearing all night. I'm sorry I felt like throwing Doug Sahm or Roky Erikson or even The Decemberists in there, but it just FELT right, dude! The other type is the one who talks so loudly and causes such a ruckus in the joint that they actually MISS the song they requested and insist on hearing it again, sometimes two or three times. That's OK if it's a Minor Threat tune or an Op Ivy out-take, but once you get into "The Legend of Woolly Swamp," I have to, in all good conscience, take matters into my own hands. Blame yourself that you're hearing a cut from the very first, non-mastered version of The Stooges' Raw Power now, pal.
5) The "I love everything this/that artist ever did" person: These cats act like they're the literal fount of knowledge about people like Bob Dylan, Van Morrison or Delbert McClinton, but when I play something fresh from one of those artists, they're stymied, irritated (or both) and wonder why I'm not playing a dusty, overplayed clunker of an album by their self-proclaimed "Favorite Artist" that they already know. Don't you monkeys know by now that if your favorite artists didn't keep making new albums (and new bands and artists kept making new music) that rock and roll and its ilk will become even more DEAD and CORRUPT than it already is? Christ! And I'm only getting started--tune in next week for the conclusion of this jolly little list.
That's all we've got space for this time out, gang. Tune in again next time out for more rants, raves and reviews. Until then--make yer own damn news.
If you have local music news/gigs/CDs you'd like to see listed in this space, or you'd just like to offer up a copy of Jethro Tull's Thick as a Brick for my DJ collection, send replies to: Tmygunn77764-@yahoo.com. ||
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