The World/Inferno Friendship Society has taken their circus act across the globe and in the twelve years I have been listening to them, seeing them come full circle in the Ancestral Homeland of New Jersey brought a new perspective to the cult-like cabaret. Walking in, a few first impressions were evident. Compared to the crowds of old, I found the Lanes to be emptier than I would expect for a home show. I have followed the Inferno far and wide and have found this current line up to be lack luster in presence. Although the music is still sharp, full of raucous energy and poignantly executed by the ever-charming Jack Terricloth, the band itself felt like a bunch of day players behind him. They played the fan favorites, from the classic opener “Tattoos Fade,” “Zen and the Art of Breaking Everything in this Room” and “My Ancestral Homeland New Jersey” to newer songs like “Thumb Cinema,” which is chock full of punk rock staccato momentum, and “Pickles and Gin.”
Despite the small crowd and more reserved band of players, The World/Inferno still delivered to an enamored audience with the heart of an army. Jack was his chatty self, providing history lessons and anecdotes alike in between lyrics that never seem to lose their steam. I have always loved the interaction between band and crowd, as a night with the World/Inferno Friendship Society is so much more than just the music; it’s an experience meant to be shared in by all who attend.
This year Finch decided to embark on a 10th anniversary tour in honor of their breakout album What It Is To Burn, which seems to be all the rage with bands of their variety. While most bands use this type of show to bring their careers to an end or put an era of music behind them and move on, Finch however used this opportunity as a rebirth. Over the last few years, Finch had fallen off the radar with lackluster albums sales, unsuccessful tours and dreaded lineup changes. When they first announced this tour only two dates and locations were given, one being LA and the other London. I jumped at the opportunity to see them in their home town and purchased tickets immediately. With the overwhelming response and immediate sell outs, Finch added more shows. My friends and I decided to make a vacation out of this and also see them in New York and Philadelphia when they made their way to the east coast.
We arrived in California a few days before the show with enough time to catch up with friends and prepare ourselves for this highly anticipated performance. I’ve always wanted to see a show at the Glass House in Pomona, CA. As an east coaster, I’ve seen this venue on the tour itineraries of my favorite bands. On Friday February 1st the Glass House was electric; this hometown venue was alive. As soon as the lights dropped and the first notes of “New Beginnings” rang from the speakers, the place exploded. Finch took the stage with such vigor, like a band hungry to prove something. The thing is, What It Is To Burn Speaks for itself. They have nothing to prove, except maybe to themselves. The songs still sound fresh ten years later. The band sounded tight and the sound quality was great. With a long time to prepare for this night, I would’ve been seriously disappointed if the sound wasn’t on point. The lighting and production was the best I’ve ever seen Finch have and commemorative screen printed posters were a nice touch. I was very excited for Grey Matter and they did not disappoint. The energy was high and, with a fresh voice, the guttural screams were brutal. “Stay With Me” was as fun to hear and jump around to as it was when I was 16. All of the songs sounded phenomenal but a true standout for me was “Ender.” I nearly cried. “Ender” is a beautifully crafted song and not the typical heavy post hardcore sound. It’s a soulful ballad that anyone can relate to. It brings you to a time when you are fighting for a loved one, whether it worked out or not. They ended the show with “What It Is To Burn,” obviously. By this point of the show, I was exhausted. I hung out in the back and just enjoyed the final few moments of what was an incredible night.
Fast forward a little over a month later, Finch made their way to my neck of the woods. I decided to attend their second night in NYC at the Gramercy theatre. The Gramercy is a smaller, more intimate venue with what I feel is a better setup than Irving Plaza, where they played the night before. When I walked in, it felt like I was attending a local VFW show on a Saturday afternoon. There was no one there. When the opening band The Almost took the stage there was no more than 150 people inside. The only thing I could wrap my head around was the fact that the night before was sold out and this show wasn’t nearly as promoted as the previous night. I didn’t mind though because I had a fantastic spot to view the show from. When Finch took the stage, the placed filled up but not to capacity. This show was good but didn’t have the energy that the Glass House did. There was no action in the pit but people were singing along and looked generally pleased. The band was obviously a little intoxicated and joked about it onstage. Some of the songs were a little sloppy, especially the ones with intricate picking patterns like “Post Script.” The band also seemed a bit tired, possibly from not being used to the life cycle of a touring band. The lead guitarists’ effects were also not set properly which also did not help the overall sound of the show. I mentioned these things to my friend who doesn’t play an instrument and she didn’t even notice. I was a little more critical of this show because the last show stellar. The set was exactly the same and we left a little early because working people can’t stay out late on week nights.
Two nights later, I drove down to Philadelphia to catch Finch play at the Electric Factory. The Electric Factory is a great place to see a show, especially if you are of legal drinking age because the balcony bar has great sight lines and a wide selection of beers. The Almost opened this night as well and had a little bit better of a reception than they did at The Gramercy. I was surprised at the lack of response for The Almost. Given that they had two videos on MTV2 from when they still showed videos, I would’ve at least expected a nice amount of cheers, but alas lackluster to say the least. I enjoyed them and thought they had great sound and band chemistry. Finch took the stage in the same fashion as at The Glass House, apparently sober and hungry to show that they still have it. The crowd was feeling it; sing–a-longs, hugs and high fives were abundant. The sound on the floor wasn’t so good, but the energy of the band and the crowd definitely made up for it. “Awake” and “Three Simple Words” were especially tight and a true gems of the evening. Once again I realized that I’m too old for the pit and headed to the balcony with my cousin. We watched the remainder of the show, from “Ender” on, from the balcony with fantastic seats because some other folks decided what I did the night before, to bounce a tad early. Finch ended the show with “What It Is To Burn” and we made our way into the Philly night to make drunken messes of ourselves on Saint Patty’s Day weekend.
I’m glad I went to all three shows. No band is perfect and every show won’t be a 10, but 2 out of 3 isn’t bad, and who can argue with that? It was nice to see the band having fun and you could tell they were from the banter on stage. For a band that teetered on the edge of self-destruction several times, it seems like they put the past behind them in an attempt to move forward. I mean the bad past not the good past which is What It Is To Burn. That flame will burn on way into the future whether they remain a band or not.
One day, not long ago, I fried some eggs, walked from the kitchen into the living room and turned on NBC’s The Today Show. This was a bad move to begin with. But then I heard the following:
“Jong su ke bo wi ji man nol ten no nun yo ja/I te da shi pu myon mu ko ton mo ri pu nun yo ja.”
The fork was halfway to my mouth when I stopped and looked at the TV, tilting my head to the side like a dog that gets confused by unfamiliar sounds. The eggs slid off my fork, and the fork followed, slipping from my fingers and dropping onto the plate. And then it continued.
“Eh, sexy lady/op op-op-op/oppan Gangnam style.”
It was apparently some sort of song, and it had come from the maw of a stocky South Korean man who flopped about on stage like an inebriated cowboy on the back of a horny stallion whose ass was on fire. He wore sunglasses for no apparent reason and was done up with a black bow tie and a tuxedo-like jacket that was roughly the color of the retch you’d expect to see on the floor had you overindulged on vodka and guacamole and then failed to reach the toilet.
My eggs and I had both grown cold as I watched this man pump his pelvis in grotesque ways. I presently became sweaty and short of breath, my skin got cool and clammy, and I had numbness in my right hand.
I thought I might be having a stroke.
But no: This was my introduction to Psy’s “Gangnam Style.”
I wiped some egg from my lips, put my plate aside and continued watching, listening. This man resembled most any jackass who wanders drunk after leaving a costume party after midnight, only to stroll into a nightclub about 15 minutes before last call, order a round of shots and begin dancing like an asshole.
His song follows suit perfectly. It jerks, it grinds and it breathes stench all over innocent strangers. And in that vein, it attempts to copulate with listeners using worn-out strategies: the same obnoxious gyrations, tired four-beat measures, bland instrumentation and other wishy-washy, synthesized horse hockey typically discharged amid your standard evening at the club bumping to generic house music. Listen to this and you may think of Los del Rio’s 1996 dance craze, “Macarena.” And then you’ll vomit.
Whatever. The motherfucker ruined my breakfast and left me feeling ill, so I thought I would look into the matter further.
Psy is a South Korean singer/songwriter who, just before Christmas, became the first person in YouTube history to pop the 1 billion cherry, luring this many viewers (and more) into the backseat of his van with promises of candy and making him the most-watched sideshow in the wild circus of online musical absurdity. And in achieving this high-water mark, he brushed back the likes of Justin Bieber, Katy Perry and Lady Gaga from the upper strata of the web.
“Gangnam Style,” which to me sounds like some sort of either perverse or extremely wonderful bedroom experiment, was released in July as the single on Psy’s sixth studio record. It debuted at No. 1 in South Korea, peaked at No. 2 on Billboard’s Hot 100 last fall, and has putrefied there for 27 weeks, holding now at No. 27. It’s been widely covered, parodied, remixed and in various ways regurgitated in numerous genres. And it’s topped charts in more than 30 countries, which, after doing the math, is approximately 30 too many.
And while decimating the eardrums and searing the retinae of some, Psy has reeled in all manner of high-profile folks who don’t seem to mind it. I’m talking folks like the President of the United States, the British Prime Minister, the mayor of London and the Secretary General of the United Nations. You know: them kinds of folk.
“They’re cooler than I am,” President Barack Obama told People Magazine recently, speaking of his daughters and explaining how he does Psy’s bizarre horse dance around The White House to embarrass them. “There are things I like that they think are cheesy, like ‘Gangnam Style.’ I love that.”
Obama is the only person I will not take to task for enjoying this song. Everyone else is culpable.
Psy is actually a 34-year-old man named Park Jae-sang, now the face of Korean-Pop, or K-Pop, a popular and longstanding movement that basically includes nearly every musical concept: pop, dance, rock, electronic, hip-hop and R&B, among others. He hails from the affluent Gangnam District of Seoul, South Korea, an area that he’s likened to Beverly Hills, California, and that is the subject of the song.
But as he told CNN last summer, “Gangnam Style” is actually more comedy than bling, as it mocks people who are not from the lavish Gangnam District yet pretend to be, as no one who is truly “Gangnam” ever boasts that they are; it’s only the imitators who are the braggarts. So he’s basically a Gangnam poking fun at non-Gangnams for being overly flashy in pretending to be Gangnam … I think.
Either way, I didn’t initially get the thrust of the song, since I don’t understand Korean. What I did understand in seeing and hearing Psy is that he bends and twists like an unusually flexible sea turtle dressed in various sequined outfits. He yawps more than he sings, peacocks more than he dances, and then force-feeds the upshot into the hearts and minds of listeners left weak and frail after years of shit radio.
And then he ruins people’s breakfasts.
But Psy isn’t some sudden east-to-west transplant. He attended Boston University and the Berklee College of Music (also in Boston) in the late-1990s, yet received degrees from neither school. Not coming away with big credentials, he upped the ante: He returned to South Korea to pursue a pop career and then busted out like a hell-hound bent on melting the brains of blameless people like British Prime Minister David Cameron and London Mayor Boris Johnson, both of whom apparently shamed themselves recently by doing Psy’s “inebriated-cowboy-on-the-back-of-a-horny-stallion-whose-ass-was-on-fire” dance.
The two British officials had met at Chequers, a mansion in southeast England that has long served as the country residence of the British Prime Minister. They later ate at a nearby pub. God only knows how many pints they drank, but I guess they had a fine time.
“After the lunch,” the U.K.’s Daily Mail reported in October, “the men returned to the house in relaxed high spirits. Mr. Cameron then whipped out his iPad and started playing the Gangnam video in the hall of the historic pile. To whoops of delight from their wives, and cheering from their children, he and Mr. Johnson aped Psy’s famed ‘horse-riding’ dance moves, complete with reins-holding and hands-on-hips routines.”
When I thought of the person currently residing at 10 Downing Street doing the Gangnam dance, and when I reconsidered the idea of the person currently residing at The White House doing the same, I suddenly had to hit the bathroom. I spent ten minutes in there; my memory is blurred, but it had something to do with intractable vomiting, heavy sweating and double-vision.
“Oppan Gangnam Style.”
Now, I understand that this is a viable dance song, and that Psy is a competent and veteran songwriter who has simply hit a winning lotto ticket. I also know that it’s catchy, well produced, finely choreographed and a fun thing to have thumping paint off the ceilings of bars and into the hair of frisky young adults. And sure, a deluge of club rats are riding on the backside of this romp.
But that doesn’t make it okay. Yes, it’s currently the flashiest sneaker in the stinking footlocker of contemporary music, yet it’s also the one most apt to cause injury due to untied shoelaces. In a year, I expect this song will go the way of the Reebok Pump, which swiftly attained commercial triumph and then died just as quickly in the early 1990s.
“Oppan Dodo Style.”
The English translations of the song (and there are disparities among them) roughly illustrate a man who is essentially trying to capture the interest of a high-class girl who’s really into coffee, like he is, and who’s both modest yet all about getting wild. Psy paints himself as an adoring and intelligent (yet covetous) fellow who wants to chase the biscuit as opposed to having it fed to him. Nothing we haven’t heard from Axl Rose.
The actual translation of “Oppan Gangnam Style,” according to The Wall Street Journal and ABC News, is, “big brother is Gangnam Style,” with Psy referring to himself in the third person. But there is some cloudiness about this, as some English translations have it as “Oppa is Gangnam Style,” which may have to do with the Korean-to-English translation of “oppa” and “oppan,” where “oppa” is apparently a term used by Korean women to refer to older male friends or siblings, while “oppan” is an abbreviated form of the noun phrase “oppa-neun,” a contraction suggesting that a more accurate translation might be, “Speaking of oppa, I like Gangnam style.”
By the way, I just discovered that I have a rogue nipple hair nearly half the length of my pinky finger. I took care of it, though. I also found a nickel in my shoe.
Sorry. Anyway, going back to Guns N’ Roses, the bulk of Psy’s official video is simply the same sort of butt-sniffing claptrap that some of us recall seeing every afternoon, back in the days when kids came home from school, grabbed some Ho-Hos and Fruit Roll-Ups, turned on MTV and actually witnessed music videos and not a phalanx of hormonal 16-year-old girls bitching about how they had accidentally gotten pregnant.
But let’s not forget the sins of Vanilla Ice, MC Hammer, New Kids on the Block, the Backstreet Boys, etc. Certainly, Psy is only the latest in a long line of blessed mediocrities sucked into and spat out of the same revolving door from which too many foul specters have emerged like wet belches (courtesy of such awful music deconstructionists as Simon Cowell), only to assail young innocents and leave pockmarks across their souls for eternity.
And sure, there are some dubious scenes in the Gangnam video. For instance, in the opening, he’s filmed clad in short pink shorts, his legs spread widely apart in some kind of come-hither fashion as his face seems to indicate that he’s having a major orgasm. All the while, he’s hanging out in some playground, where little kids are dancing around him.
“Oppan Gangnam Style”?
Well that’s neither here nor there. In the video, Psy mostly sticks to his dances. I mean, this guy just loves to dance! He dances under a bridge, he dances with very attractive and scantily clad women, he dances in a horse barn, he dances on a boat, he dances in a parking garage, he dances next to a carrousel, he dances in wind tunnels, he dances through busy intersections, he sits in a steam room while another guy dances next to him, and he even tries to dance in a pool.
Hell, I can’t understand why this guy sells! I mean, it’s not as though he’s drawing interest for the same reasons that exotic birds keep binocular sales booming. He’s not all that fascinating to watch, is he?
No, he is. And I suppose it just comes down to human habit: What people see, people do. Need I mention monkeys?
I must point out, however, that YouTube views of the inauguration of the nation’s first black President currently stands at 5,161,571, while views of “Gangnam Style” now stand at about 1,446,917,453. Now, to anyone interested in numbers, this means that Psy is about 231 times more popular on YouTube than the man who won the most historic presidency in the United States since George Washington. Of course this doesn’t surprise me: Many people simply love to chase things that move.
And speaking of this, I spent a painful time recently imagining this guy trying to come up with his signature dance, alone in his bedroom before a full-body mirror. He must have done this at some point. I considered these thoughts for a few moments, and then escorted myself into the woods, where I threw myself to the ground and beat myself unconscious with a slab of raw meat. I always carry beef when I walk in the woods, in case I have to redirect the attention of a coyote, or a disco horse-man.
After knocking myself out, I woke up later with a nosebleed, freezing, exhausted and missing a shoe. But I got up, stumbled back to the house, warmed up and fell fast asleep. I then had a dream, however, and it had something to do with fog machines, perfume, vodka, tight pants, heavy cologne, slutty women and the sort of insufferably repetitive bass beats you’d expect to be shot like stink-darts from the foul end of a sleek DJ set on making oatmeal of your brain.
Now, despite that this song has infiltrated the skulls of certain people currently holding the offices previously held by certain other people, like John F. Kennedy and Winston Churchill, do we need further evidence that “Gangnam Style” has become some curious form of black death?
Oh, we do? Okay, here: Psy was even lauded by the United Nations’ Secretary General Ban Ki-moon, who, according to Reuters, told him in October on a visit to the U.N., “You are so cool; I hope that you can end the global warming.”
“Fuck me!” I said as I read this. “I agree with the Secretary General! I also hope that Psy can end the global warming!”
“Oppan Cuckoo Style.”
But it’s not just powerful world leaders. Heidi Klum, at the 2012 MTV Europe Music Awards, called Psy the “undisputed king of pop.” Now, maybe I’m cuckoo style, but I thought we already had one of those. And as if belittling the spirit of our dear king of Motown wasn’t enough, the refrain, “Oppan Gangnam Style,” was entered into The Yale Book of Quotations as one of the most famous utterances of 2012. This is a publication that has for years authoritatively quoted the words of folks like President Abraham Lincoln, Groucho Marx and President Bill Clinton.
All this adds up to why I’m so gun-shy about touching the radio dial. It’s like walking by dark alleyways in bad neighborhoods: You never know when someone might throw a poison dart or slice your throat. Or it could be worse, in that someone might make your ears eat the musical upchuck of a short, chubby man who acts like he’s ordained to be musical gold, yet whose disposition suggests he would be more aptly placed entertaining at a kid’s birthday gala or as a fool in the court of some monarch.
Were the sovereign to behead him after a poor performance, however, I’m betting some crazy bastard would snatch Psy’s stupid sunglasses and sell the fucking things on eBay. I would.
Look, the current estimated world population is about 7 billion, and again, for anyone interested in numbers, this means that roughly 16 percent of the planet Earth has been exposed to this ass-stink (not accounting for repeated hits by individual viewers, of course). So I’m betting plenty of folks have heard it.
But for the few people who haven’t, I’d offer the same warning I received in the third grade from a good friend. He told me never to stand before a mirror in the dark and repeatedly say “Bloody Mary,” as this might conjure up a horrifying ghost. As such, I’d advise anyone that, if you listen to “Gangnam Style,” even once, you might summon a dreadful pop apparition that may thrust its junk at you and cause you to try pulling parts of your brain from your ear with a pair of tweezers.
I know this from experience. So please, be careful.
Anyway, after the performance ended on The Today Show, I shook off the sick and regained my appetite. I warmed up my food and tried to pretend that I hadn’t just dry-heaved for the last five minutes, and that the whole thing had been a bad dream. But it was no use. I looked at my eggs, and in the yolks, I saw the face of Psy. His mouth hung open, all orgasmic and smiling, and his neck moved as though it did not contain bones. He still wore big sunglasses, and he looked a bit like an ant or a housefly.
So I gave up and put my breakfast in the fridge. In the meantime, however, in my state of dismay and sudden lack of hunger, I had an epiphany. The music industry is like any living creature we tend to: It gets hungry, we feed it, and while it only makes us smile sometimes, it’s our job to try to nurture and clean up after it. This may mean we’re sucked into and spat out of the revolving door. But who isn’t?
I’ll say this, though: If any of us are the custodians of music’s current state, in that music is a plant or animal we’re nourishing, we ought to feed it wisely or not bitch when it tastes sour or grows to be petulant. There can be no generous output without generous input, right? So here’s how I see it: Hit radio has been hardily fed since its inception, yet for the last 15 years (with few exceptions), we’ve hardly fed it anything even approaching decent. So what has it been pooping?
On February 9th, 2013 Maryland natives Ballyhoo! brought their eclectic mix of punk, pop, rock and reggae that refuses to be pigeon-holed into one genre to NYC’s Gramercy Theater. They’ve been associated with names such as 311 and The Dirty Heads, and earned some chops on the Van’s Warped Tour, giving them a well-deserved spot among some awesome infusions of rock and reggae.
As I stood in a crowd buzzing with friendly energy and the lingering scent of cannabis smoke, anticipation for the group gaining momentum and doing it themselves, grew. A feel-good band with a light heart and soul, Ballyhoo! engages their audience from start to finish, often feeling just as comfortable as listening in your own living room. Howi, Mista J, Blaze and Big D put on a great show, playing a variety of songs from their three albums; two of which were self-released. Musically, they were tight as a military band, possibly even sounding better live than some recorded versions. The guys have a great stage presence and really know how to engage the crowd, ensuring everyone can sing along even if it’s their first time seeing the band.
They kept banter short, unafraid to launch into the next song with charisma and confidence. In doing so, the crowd was entertained the whole set through; a sea of bodies could be seen from all angles moving and dancing along with the rhythms. I really admire their overall performance. Even though the music is what everyone has come for, the band offers a well-rounded experience. Despite the venue’s set up and size, Ballyhoo! effortlessly and cheerfully adapts, engaging their fans to be a proactive part of the show’s experience which guarantees a fun show no matter what night you get to see them.
Though it’s an understatement, fun really is one of the core elements of their live show. Never boring, it’s easy to tell the guys love what they do and want to share their passion, which keeps the fans moving from start to finish; eager to jump as high as they can each time they’re told to do so.
Overall, Ballyhoo! put on an unforgettable experience, even playing two new tracks to delight their New York listeners. None the less, older tracks like “Cerveza” and “Cali Girl” were noticeable crowd favorites. Easy to listen to, great to dance to and definitely music to take with you on a long trip or a cruise to the beach, Ballyhoo! did not disappoint and I recommend feasting your senses on all they have to offer as often as possible.
When you think of New York City, you might find it hard to imagine a haunted house experience to rival any you’ve had before, nestled neatly on the second floor of a building on Varick Street. Being somewhat addicted to anything Halloween-flavored, on February 16th, Nevermind the Posers checked out Blood Manor’s Bloody
Valentine’s Weekend. A tradition usually reserved for the fall, Blood Manor provides an epic haunted house to scare the bejesus out of you year-round. With a Valentine’s Day special, screw the chocolate and the flowers…we wanted to see a little blood, mayhem and zombie pin-up models!
Zombie pin-up models you say? Yes, the models from Gorgeous and Gory were in attendance signing their 2013 calendar with, can you guess what the theme is? Calendars are still available for purchase!
Walking through these rooms of horror, one of the most terrifying was the pitch black room. Once you walked in, you couldn’t see anything but knew that you were not alone. Voices guided you “left” and “right” until you found your way into the next room. One of the most stand-out segments of the twisted walking tour was the 3D hallway maze by the master of 3D Stuart Smith, where black-lit, neon paint literally leapt off the walls – and the actors who were also splattered with the paint – courtesy of 3D glasses passed to you steps before you enter by one of the actors.
The cast of demented characters that break any sense of the safety you enjoy when watching horror movies at home, really sell the terror. There is no fourth wall, there is only…zombies who appear over your shoulder as you shudder from what you hear going on ahead of you, maniacs wielding bloody weapons your way as you scream on by, and Hollywood level special effects guaranteed to leave a memorable impression on anyone lucky enough to survive! We will definitely be going back to Blood Manor.
Check out these videos to get an idea of what went on inside, their attention to detail in each room was great!
Hunter Valentine have been at this game for nearly a decade and have finally given their ever-growing fan base their third full length studio album to hold and cherish. Collide and Conquer offers eleven tracks of the progressive alternative rock Hunter Valentine is gaining popularity for. If you’re new to the group, I highly recommend Lessons from the Late Night as an introductory record with a follow-up of their latest rock morsel.
Upon first impression, I noticed opening track “Liar Liar” right away. It hits you with a guitar riff that hooks you within the first five seconds. By ten seconds in, the gravel of singer Kiyomi McCloskey drops, begging of a broken promise. All the while, the listener is slowly becoming hooked by the growing integrity of the kick drum. Definitely a good way to supercharge anyone who’s excited to dive into this album.
The album as a whole twists and turns, varying from heavy distortion to up-tempo pop hooks and melodies. Some of the songs, such as “Lonely Crusade,” “Crying” and “The Great Canadian Love Song” left me with a serious impression of unrequited love. When she sings she feels like crying tonight, I imagine we all just have nights where we feel like sobbing. I’ve never been the type to enjoy the sounds of emo boys whining over past lovers, but her admission of wanting to cry manages to avoid any whining and actually feels like that relationship many of us have had where one person thinks things are great and the other person has rehearsed break up speeches for 3 days. “This Bull Rides Tonight” opened up with Somer Bingham performing a melodic keyboard intro but was probably my least favorite part off the record. It was slow and the music did not stand out as anything attention grabbing as I had experienced on earlier tracks. However, that doesn’t mean the song is garbage all together. This would be the part in the set where the crowd lends their voice and joins in a choral sing-a-long, spilling their collective hearts on the floor.
On the contrary, we have songs like “Gates of Hell,” “Priscilla,” “Ted’s Collision” and “Little Curse (Shit Happens)” which bring a different momentum to the music. I enjoyed the guitar work on “Little Curse (Shit Happens)” coupled with a few throaty screams in the verses. Laura Petracca’s bass line adds a tight, punchy edge to this song that is so important in communicating the sentiment screaming over top.
“The Pulse” was a particular favorite off this record. It opened with minor tones and an ominous set of lyrics depicting a future waking up beside a deceitful lover and being awfully bitter about it. As I listened, I began to imagine a woman scorned but behind her is hell-fire not a river of sadness, as the song titles might have you believe. “The Pulse” also threw me for a loop as it crescendos into a chorus that has a funkier groove, only to slip quietly back into a brooding state. I also noticed when Kiyomi belts, “I’m gonna catch you,” her pledge of getting even one day, the music takes on a major tonality. As a result, it very creatively stays within the theme of the song; angry at being burned but not getting mad, just getting even with all sorts of confidence.
But it seems to be a recurring theme with this album; dark, distorted tones and heavy drums segue into a powerful pop-type of explosion. It threw me at first, expecting the heaviness of the verse to get even thicker come chorus time, but this routinely was not the case on Collide and Conquer. Each song was musically interesting and different from the last track before it. My only qualm with this piece would be closing track “The Great Canadian Love Song.” The song states, “it’s just another love song/but it’s mine” and is most certainly a longing ballad. For what it is, it’s nicely executed, just not my cup of tea. But more importantly, I felt the album could have closed stronger. For all the listener goes through lyrically as he or she ventures through the tribulations of the heart, I was left wanting something more from the closing seconds of this story. I would have liked to have ended on the classic high note, but I do appreciate the lyrical honesty of the artist. Maybe they chose to close out the album with that track because this love story hasn’t reached a high note yet. Perfect for anyone bitter about love this upcoming Valentine’s Day.
English alternative Brit-poppers Maximo Park descended on Philadelphia, bringing their style of gruff, synth laced pop-punk to the legendary World Café Live for the next stop on their US tour in support of their latest release The National Health.
The evening started out with Indiana based Stagnant Pools, charged with attempting to set the pace of the night. However, it’s a tough job to prime up a crowd with their shoegazer/punk style of space rock. Each of the songs played gave not too subtle vibes from older bands (and probable influences) such as the Jesus and Mary Chain or Failure, where any one of the tunes would have sounded right at home within their sets. Although they were a good band aesthetically, it was a bit difficult to connect with the music/lyrics when you could understand them. Not bad, but definitely a poor choice to open up for a more energetic band such as Maximo Park
The next band was Zambri and was sonically a better choice for an opening act, with their heavily atmospheric blend of what could only be described as pop-tinged new wave/experimental rock engulfing the stage like a mist. It’s rare that bands with Zambri’s sonic complexity are good live, as the singer(s) and the band are often unable to stay on the same page. Thankfully, this was not the case with Zambri. The slightly rough, yet powerful dual vocals of sister singers Cristi Jo and Jessica went wonderfully hand in hand with floating electronics flowing through each song. Cuts like the darkly menacing “All You Maybes,” the robotic oddity of “Carry” and the sharp static beat of “ICBYS” are the best examples of their magic, not to mention being the highlights of their set. Being something of an electronic purist, the only issue with the set was that it felt like there was something lost in the translation from studio to live…something which happens often in the cases of bands using heavy electronics. Although they were fantastic live, the intense textures and percussive smashes that drive many of their songs simply weren’t as attention grabbing. That blame can be centered mainly on the house board mixer, who arguably might not have much experience with a band using such a staggeringly complex array of lush textures. They are a fantastic band live but ultimately, a lot of their sonic personality was lost in the mix.
This brings us to the headliners, Maximo Park. Although their music is much more fun and upbeat, (they sound something like an anti-Bloc Party) it wasn’t much easier to the get into their songs than it was to get in Stagnant Pools an hour earlier. As is often the case with bands that have more Brit-pop leanings, you either like it or you don’t. Which is not to say that they are a terrible act, in fact the highly melodic pop of “Going Missing” and the manically catchy and danceable “National Health” speaks largely to the contrary. It was obvious that the audience members were rocking out and having the time of their lives, it was just a bit hard to understand why. The set list never seemed to achieve the pacing that would completely grab hold of your attention and hook the melodies into the brain. For every dance track like the synth-led pleaser “Hip and Lips,” came subtler, more mellow rock songs like “The Coast is Always Changing” and “Take Me Home” (described as a peachy kind of lust for the 16+ by the singer), which knocked their momentum a bit off-balance. However, they did manage to end on a high note, bringing the set to a close with the rousing “Apply Some Pressure.” Not a great showing from MP, but they are definitely worth giving a second look to in the near future.
“Don’t Let Me Fall Behind” is a perky pop ditty by indie rockers Jukebox the Ghost, though the upbeat piano and catchy hook belie more melancholy subject matter. The video is a wonderful accompaniment, exploring the yearning for a former love. One of the best visual flourishes dappled throughout is a film projecting onto falling sheets of paper, creating the image of pieces of memories cascading to the floor. – Daniel Edward
Since the 1970’s Midge Ure has been mucking about the music scene in the UK, dabbling in everything from pop to glam rock, punk and eventually hitting his nitch in the new wave scene. He hit the peaks of success after joining established band Ultravox, where he swiftly handled their transition from experimental electronics to a more commercially appealing new wave sound. Taking them as far as any band could go, he branched off to more success by launching a popular solo career (mainly in the UK) that carried him well into the 90’s. With a rumored Ultravox world tour gaining momentum this year, it’s only fitting that Midge Ure help to lay the groundwork for such a reunion with a visit to the US for a solo tour, making a stop at one of the greatest music venues around, World Cafe Live.
Right the Stars
Opening the night on a low-key note was Los Angeles, California’s Right the Stars, a band described by their website as “Paul Simon meets Keane backstage at a Phoenix concert.” The description couldn’t have been more accurate, as they delivered a slightly restless and uneven set. It felt like a rotation between the time signatures that the three previously referenced acts often work within. Slow and sleepy tunes worthy of Paul Simon such as “Train to Glasgow,” paired up with the gentler pop rock of Keane in choices like “Give It All,” meeting at the Phoenix concert in tunes like “Best Days of Our Lives” and “We Got It All.” And yet, even though it was a bit hard to get into, the set stayed strangely cohesive. They were definitely a talented band that played a tight set, just one that is not really my style.
Greeting the audience in a smartly tailored suit and an adoring smile, Midge Ure coolly slid up to the mic and made himself at home. With Right the Stars providing fantastic double duty as his backing band, Ure launched into the spirited Celtic-laced “I See Hope in the Morning Light” from his solo album Pure. The evening provided a well layered mix of the expected, popular Ultravox tracks including a wildly energetic version of “Love’s Great Adventure,” a guitar heavy rendition of “One Small Day,” which played along his more sugary solo cuts such as “Dear God” and “Answers to Nothing” evenly balanced with a surprise cover of Tom Rush’s “No Regrets.”
One of the more notable moments of the night occurred relatively early on. As Ure was having the usual musician’s banter with the crowd, he chose to embrace a moment of honesty about his vocals. For the majority of his career, Ure was well-known for his vocal strength, delivering consistently passionate performances that ventured into the higher registers with ease. However, 20-plus years of performing can do a lot of damage to vocal chords, even in the best of singers. There aren’t many artists that can humorously address a slightly diminishing vocal capacity, but thankfully Midge was one of them. As he stated, when one gets older it becomes harder to hit certain pitches, “so if you see tears rolling down my face at times, then you know why.” Although it drew a lot of laughs, there wasn’t much of a reason to warn the crowd, although it was an obvious preemptive strike on his part.
Over the course of the evening, he did visibly stain on a few key Ultravox and solo hits such as “Dancing With Tears in My Eyes,” “Vienna” and “If I Was,” songs that in the past relied heavily on his seamless ability to sing lower notes which quickly swung into the highs. But it didn’t really matter, as his 59-year-old voice still carried enough power and enthusiasm to carry the music well past the tears of struggle he warned of earlier in the evening. In fact, his grittier voice added an unexpected depth to many of his set choices, in particular 1982’s “Fade to Grey” (written as part of Visage). It added a more soulful atmosphere to what once was a robotic minimal new wave tune.
When it came time for an encore, Ure chose to close the show on a somewhat unexpected note by playing an acoustic version of his ultra-cheesy 1984 Live Aid composition “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” Thankfully, the paired down cover lost all of its shiny 80s luster and became a more heartfelt, personal tune. It was a song that he basically had to play.
Nevermind The Posers 