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"Maintain the Rock... Don't Stop the
Rock"
I'm
not sure who issues that order on the seven-MC tag-team remix of
"Scenario"
that graces the latest
and last A Tribe Called Quest album, a song which has recently
been in heavy home rotation. Thusly commanded, I've attempted to
witness as much music as possible over the past two weeks and bring
it all to you (dearest and most beloved of readers) in one convenient,
if frequently digressive, package.
Now, this comes with a caveat. As perhaps you might have noticed,
I am, well, kind of a bitch. To be specific: I'm antagonistic, bitter,
cynical, possessed of a short and violent temper; and many of those
who know me are actually somewhat frightened of me. However, I witnessed
the spectacle that is the Black Sabbath reunion tour and it made
me, well…nice. People dropped by my apartment expecting the usual
round of sulking, chainsmoking, and peeling the label off the bottle;
they found me drinking champagne, baking chocolate-chip cookies,
and blasting the Shangri-Las.
Even remarks that my khakis made me look like a Gap swing
dancer only evoked giggles and James
Brown knee-slides rather than the usual tongue-lashing or bitch-slapping.
Lost wallets, malfunctioning faucets, hostile
Allman Brothers fans, wack metal, Valentine's
Day—all were treated with a patience and benevolence anathema
to Lissa, She-Wolf of
the LES. The same warmth for humanity will punctuate the following
narrative. I hope this happy
happy joy joy shit doesn't last much longer or they'll take
away my punk
rock license for sure. I guess Lucifer is more powerful than
we thought….
Black
Sabbath/Pantera/The Deftones
I cannot improve upon my
boy D.X.'s stellar description of this event, but I will add
a few points of my own. Nearly two hours before the first band hit
the stage, the tailgate parties were in full effect, despite persistent
security patrols—i.e., no drinking in the parking lot. Upon
entering the Continental
Airlines Arena we found no drinking inside either. No beer for
all those Black Sabbath fans? And I thought we were out of Giuliani
town. Just how much damage did they think the crowd could do? More
damage than could be covered by the $6 Budweiser profits at a heavy
metal show?
Still, the Deftones
were colossal, although not quite as earth-shattering as I've seen
them in the past (no biggie, though, they had a bad slot on
the bill and their bass sub had only been in for a week or two).
Pantera was, well, Pantera—it's just not my thing. But then,
ah then, was the dawning of the Sabbath.
Let me put it this way: Think of all the times you've waved el
mano cornado, the horned hand of the devil, in the air and shouted
"Oz-zy!" for no particular reason. Now imagine the Blizzard of Oz
actually being present to receive and return you adulation. Then
imagine laughing
yourself silly for about an hour-and-a-half while the dry ice
rises, the razor-tipped chandelier descends, and Ozzy
grimaces and hops around like a toddler
with soiled pants. God—I mean, Satan—I can't tell
you the last time I had so much fun (I mean, I remember, I just
can't tell you). Back in NYC, a number of those who went (or wished
they had) hooked up at a bar and everyone instinctively knew that
all salutations of greeting or farewell were to be replaced with
spontaneously air-guitaring
the opening bars of "Iron Man."
Rocket
from the Crypt
Since this involved crossing state lines, I corralled my crew somewhere
on West 14th Street, only to find that a) two were already stumbling
drunk, and b) two (not the same two) were wearing costumes, specifically
British
schoolgirl replete with tie and pleated skirt and pimp
resplendent in pinstripes and gold. (Amazingly, they claimed not
to have conferred on this beforehand.) So we hauled collective ass
all the way to the quaint Dutch village of Hoboken,
where we watched Hobokenites in traditional costume churn butter
and dip candles before partaking of some traditional Hobokenian
music-making at Maxwell's.
Sure, Rocket from the Crypt never
disappoints, but this show was particularly, as Mr.
Diva says, delightful. The wee, tiny, miniscule back room of
Maxwell's was packed to that special density where if anyone breathes,
the entire room knows it. Or, as one of the gentlemen of the band
pointed
out afterward, "People were smoking shit out there, huh?"
(That's why you was standing on the edge of the stage and peering
into the audience, hon? And I thought you were just looking for
the soundguy.) The set was heavy on the old hits and indie-released
stuff—a seemingly endless "Killy Kill" and a version of "Sturdy
Wrists" that hit like a playground beatdown (which pleased me immensely
since it had been resting heavily on the home playlist as of late);
the whole show just kicked ass in the best and most basic sense
of the phrase. Speedo obliged us with a lot of amusing, highly-polished
patter, uttering the phrase "Ladies and Gentlemen" more in one night
than Presto the Magnificent
does in a whole two-month run at the Sands.
I even retrieved someone's keys from the floor of the
pit—I wasn't in it, mind you (too small, not violent enough),
but I went over and got them anyway. Upon turning them in, I found
two of my companions, who had been quarreling for over a year, actually
letting bygones finally be bygones. If that isn't a touching demonstration
of the power of rock 'n' roll, I dunno what is. Then, of course,
it's also the power of being in the hometown of Frank Sinatra (yea
and nearly the very manger in which he was birthed) that did such
wonders. But y'all already know how
I feel
about Frankie.
Groop
Dogdrill/50 Tons of Black Terror
I was going to attend trashy Brit garage night even if there wasn't
an open bar beforehand but, praise be to Jesus, there was. And free
drinks improve the sound of any band, especially Groop
Dogdrill is when you've had a few. I mean, damn, they
loud. (And I know loud: When I was 12, I once spent an entire
Kiss concert with my head
in a speaker.) They've got that grinding "vrrooom" sound
on the guitars, like a V-8
engine flying by at 105 mph, and the bass and drums have a real
nice nonstop dual-attack mode. That, and the lead singer duct-taped
a police radio to his face during for one entire song so he could
sing into it while playing guitar. That's job dedication for ya.
50
Tons of Black Terror was more like 10 pounds, 50 pence black
terror: sort of a blues-punk-garage thing, not bad, but nothing
particularly interesting, either. That, and I hate it when the lead
singer walks on stage and immediately hits the ground and starts
flailing like Iggy—you
need to build up to falling down, people!
Post this, we moved on to a nearby bar,
where I tried to explain what we'd just seen by making the "vrrooom"
sound, but everyone seemed more interested in getting me to repeat
the noise, which was apparently very amusing—probably more
like a hemorrhaging Teddy
Ruxpin than Dale
Earnhart on his victory lap. As an associate showed us his newest
tattoo (it says,
"Mom"—apparently Mom had been nagging him to give her props
since he got his first one), I dug into my backpack to procure myself
a cocktail and found—well, I didn't find it because my wallet
was gone. But somehow, between the post-Sabbath bliss and the goodwill
generated by rescuing someone's keys, I wasn't concerned. So I let
everyone else crawl around with flashlights and console me with
pint glasses of Southern
Comfort and didn't bother my head none.
And I needn't have, because on President's Day I got a call from
the bartender at Brownies, who had found my wallet—stripped
of all cash down to the pennies, but otherwise intact. So I celebrated
President's Day as King's
Day, Elvis-style,
namely with Quaaludes,
a cheeseburger,
and a kung
fu movie. Then a friend stopped by with his new copy of the
Misfits' "Collection
II," and we took turns shoving each other away from the stereo to
put on our favorite "jumping up and down" song. (His was "Last
Caress," mine was "Devil's
Whorehouse," since "I
Turned into a Martian" isn't on that album.) Then I tested my
pharmaceutical tolerance by riding his BMX
all over the neighborhood in a skirt and heels. And I didn't
stumble once. Am I fucking blessed or what?
Varmits
Athletic Fund Benefit Featuring Cibo Matto, Sean Lennon, The Xecutioners,
The Jungle Brothers, Kathleen Hanna, Joan Jett, The Rock Steady
Crew, and The Arsonists
Yet another reason for personal glee, the
Knicks' winning streak was rolling onward as we hustled
(the door) and shoved (the crowd) our way into Brownies
just as Cibo Matto
kicked off their
set. The band had its usual effect on me: amusement slowly sliding
into annoyance. I admit I've never been a huge fan of the ironic-cutesy-Japanese-sampled
music thing. I don't hate it, but it leaves me rather cold; it seems
like some sort of doubly synthetic entity—a ripoff version
of something that's already made of recycled bits. It's functional
and fun, but utterly disposable. What I really was not into
was Sean
Lennon. He stood up there with his powerless trio and played
the wackest, wackest, did I say wackest Nirvana (yes!) knockoff
I've ever heard. He probably wasn't even trying to do Nirvana; I
couldn't figure out what he was aiming for. But, mercifully, it
was brief, and the less said the better.
Finally the mighty Joan
Jett stepped up to the mic, but all she did was introduce the
girl power trio—Kate
Schellenbach, Josephine Wiggs,
and Kathleen
Hanna jamming on some big 80's tunes. All well and festive,
but we awaited the return of Joan, and things began to look somewhat
perilous when Kathleen had to pull out a lyric
sheet for "We Got the Beat" before bursting into a distressingly
pep rally-esque version of "Rock & Roll, Part II." Ms. Jett must've
sensed the potential disaster, because she finally got up, strapped
on her bass, and proceeded to drown out the entire crowd during
the call-and-response section. She is just so fucking cool.
There's no other way to say it.
Some weirdos came out and pogo-sticked to the "Rocky"
theme while dressed up as Evel
Knievel—but again, just as we rounded the curve from amusing
into annoying, salvation appeared in the form of the Jungle
Brothers. They rocked: peering over each other's shoulders,
diving into each other's flow, pulling in the crowd with skills
tighter and more polished than a teenaged swimsuit model's airbrushed
ass. The JB's made a lot of appearances during the fall and have
another gig
coming up, so let's hope they keep up the high profile. They weren't
on nearly long enough, but fortunately we were consoled with the
quick materialization of the Rock
Steady Crew, whose moves
herked, jerked, and wild
styled all over the stage like it was 1979—leading smoothly
into the entry of the Arsonists.
The
Arsonists started bombing the subways with their stickers about
two years ago, and recently became Matador's
first rap signing, but this was the first time I'd seen them. Five-member
squad employing a "circle of death" maneuver—rather than just
stand around the stage waiting to rap, they form a circle with their
backs to each other and rotate, like bullets in a revolver with
the mic as the chamber. Smart choreography aside, the Arsonists
are clearly a crew we'll be reckoning with in the future. They're
all very sharp rappers, terrific on the fast flow and strong on
the slow stuff too; although if they could get a little more give
and take between the individual parts of the whole, it would be
even better.
Cold
Crush Brothers Featuring Grandmaster CAz, Supernatural, Charlie
Brown, and Q-Tip
Welcome, kids, to Hip
Hop 101, with your hosts, the Cold
Crush Brothers—part summer school and part family reunion.
After some opening spinning and shout-outs, Grandmaster CAz got
down to the business at hand, as he delivered a brief lecture on
the history of
rap, illustrating his points by digging in the crates for the Treacherous
Three, the Funky Four (+1), the Furious
Five, and a bootleg of the legendary Crazy Wizard Masters. (Actually,
the Jungle Brothers played a show during CMJ
under that name—shit just goes in circles, don't it?) Then
CAz—who, as he kept reminding us, was recently voted in as
#11 in The Blaze's
"50 All-Time Best Rappers" list—flaunted his own skills,
rapping and scratching at the same time, trading rhymes with two
tables, and generally breaking shit down.
Another member of the family drifted on, still in coat-and-tie work
drag to throw around a few lyrics—it was hard to catch names
with all the coming and goings. One name I wish I had gotten was
that of a fellow in white who delivered a lengthy, harrowing narrative
on how his rhymes took him to the top of world until the
rock put him in the gutter. It was a rare display, combining
verbal agility with obvious personal pain—when he lost the
flow for a moment and took a breath, we all held ours, and the sweaty,
rambunctious Wetlands
crowd was dead quiet. We were with him the whole damn way and, whoever
he was, no one there will forget him anytime soon.
Another memorable performance came from Supernatural, an MC whose
primary skill is the freestyle, and a super Shaolin
kung fu skill it is. He asked the audience to pass us items and
he would "bless them" by freestyling on them. So he rhymed on cigarettes,
sunglasses, my flask, my friend's mirror—which inspired a funny
and fresh "Snow
White" "mirror, mirror" segment—anything you
handed the guy, he could spin off on for miles. He threw down a
vicious and pointed Amadou
Diallo rap, incorporating anything the audience could shout
out, and launched into several impressions, the finest of which
was his Biggie
Smalls, during which he actually seemed to expand in size.
But where's Q-Tip? The crowd kept mumbling, people kept wondering.
They promised us Q-Tip. Charlie Brown—now known as C. Brown—of
Leaders
of the New School stepped up and threw down a few rhymes, culminating
in a hoppin' yet Tipless "Scenario,"
at which point my companion, who loves, worships, adores the Tribe
and all its members, got very bummed. As an associate pointed out
later "Jonathan doesn't stay out late as much anymore," but damn,
Tip, why didn't you say so beforehand? You
broke my girl's heart.
But, after all this activity, I've had to call a brief moratorium
on staying out late so much—which means three or four days
a week instead of six or seven. In closing, I'd like to thank all
the bands for showing me such a goddamn good time and I'd especially
like to give a shout out to the many people who aided me, abetted
me, accompanied me, and who I just plain bumped into on my journeys—Daniel,
Lake, Concetta, James, Jeremy, Zane, Mike, Jalil, Carl, Lizzie,
Jim, Eric, Jason, the guy who found my wallet, and all the rest.
Michelle, lady, we missed ya.
Thank you, and goodnight.
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