Tyvek Mutant Love
Doubles Tapes 2011

“In mythic Detroit you can buy a house for $120 and multiple stab wounds, as long as you can stand American manufacturing rotting at the end of your block…” My review at FFWD [link fixed]

Weeks later, I’m posting this here instead of where it was going to show up. “I don’t know what I just read or attempted to edit.”

I walk into Whale Tooth’s press-kit-clear pub rock at the Horseshoe on Thursday, December 1. They’re stomping with seductive force; any cougars reduce themselves to torn hosiery and running mascara. The “we’ve-heard-of-punk” pop rock is tight, but drips with a naive, “we’re a real, hard-working rock n roll band” ardor that’s more deluded than gritty. It’s telling when singer Elise Legrow complains that the mall has Christina Aguilera on repeat. Are you the teen tearing into obvious targets, as if Britney’s decades of airplay are the last obstacle between you and your Joan Jett fantasy?

Do you have any other boring opinions? What gets Whale Tooth off? Facebook says: the Beatles, Bob Marley, Mother Mother, Tegan and Sara, Dylan, Pink Floyd—all the sophistication of supplementing your dad’s CDs with the smoother side of college radio circa 2005.

Am I out of touch or is everyone in those crowd photos tasteless? Whale Tooth is recommended for your friend’s mom who casually repeatedly mentions that she saw Heart when she was eighteen.

Crystal Stilts lurch onstage, Stooge decrepit, and blanket “Sycamore Tree” and “Through the Floor” in all the records’ somnolent reverb, but somehow even more exploding plastic inevitable. The friendly psychedelic backdrop doesn’t shake the feeling.

The set leans on the songs they’ve rehashed since 2008. Crystal Stilts have a mood and sound bred by balding men haunting the boutique record shop where you found that White Light / White Heat import. The low, bored vocals are drawn out through standing still impressions of her losing control. They have synth figured out. The swirling screeches marry phantom feedback and tape disintegration on the rhythm section’s loose leash. Are they the last refugees of ‘80s Velvet imitation chic, surfacing a quarter century late? Re: the lights: “They’re never supposed to see you sweat.”

“Love is a Wave” comes 11th, a playful pick me up after ten cuts of copacetic lethargy. Notes fade and everyone leaves the stage, amps left on.

The crowd that chanted for an encore from Whale Shit assembles scattered mumbles into enough noise for Crystal Stilts to “OK, we’ll play some more. Someone had a great compliment for us: ‘I checked you out. Some of your songs are really short.’ We’re going to play the CCR version of ‘I Heard it Through the Grapevine’.” Instead, the bass starts blending the building, and everyone starts swaying and nodding, pace, direction and intensity uncoordinated. It’s the appropriate, polite response, until the second song’s grinning misanthropic climax hits, the guitar juts out, synth fucks in circles, and feedback disrupts the comatose junk vibe. Nothing as conceptual as walking with Jesus, just guys listening to good records.

Crystal Stilts, Whale Tooth, and Doledrums at the Legendary Horseshoe Tavern, December 1, 2011

Unlearn Unlearn
Deranged Records 2011

“Unlearn’s see you later, we’ve moved on finale is an emotionless attack of transistor fuzz…” My review at FFWD

Total Abuse Prison Sweat
Post Present Medium 2011

“Ignoring ambitions to grow as musicians, Total Abuse spend their third LP revelling in the mess they’ve thrown across the room, scolding listeners with a squall of faulty wiring and feedback stripped of hardcore’s please-the-kids sentiment….” My review at FFWD

Love Cuts’ new 7” is out now on Nominal Records. While the postal strike holds mail order hostage, you can download five tracks of Beat Happening cuddling with UK DIY, unless the internet finds a way to have a labour dispute too.

The Anne Hathaways got me foaming at the mouth when I saw them in Abbotsford last summer. That chaotic exuberance falling over Screeching Weasel pop-punk and Killed by Death covers had to be falling apart to be noticed, and as far as I know, it did collapse.

Then, a couple months ago I heard that most of the Anne Hathaways recorded a cassette called I Know Nobody Likes Me (since renamed Burger Flip Anthem) under the name Jelly Boyz. It’s really good adolescent pop-punk that says, “we don’t care what you think is cool,” and then adds, “fuck the Black Lips,” but their mom might be around so they don’t actually swear. Eight minutes of teens yelling in a garage about homophobia and break-ups, and having more fun than I have in months.

Today another EP went up on BandCamp. Doodle. Buttons. Antonioni. Television is only polished next to Burger Flip. You can piss and moan about it not being as raw (and I liked Jakob Knudsen’s production too), but it’s still primitive, and lets you see that the magic isn’t just in the messiness. It makes me want to put on Boogadaboogadaboogada! except I’d rather just listen to this.

Please keep playing music, and pass it on to good-looking friends.

jellyboyz.bandcamp.com

I’ll never get to a show on time. Instead, I’ll catch Siam Cat do the Black Lips bob for four songs. There’s two tambourines and people look afraid of the stage. The guy singing is only guesting, a shame, since he has a voice. They’re leaps past Indian Wars, but not as fun as Dead Ghosts. They are just another Black Lips band, but when they kick into double time and start feeding back, or when they’re ripping off 60’s pop, it’s genre-bending compared to the strict reverence that the formula usually gets.

Planet Creature’s minimalism is admirable, but there’s still too much happening for how little is going on, or maybe it’s the other way around? There’s none of the space or atmosphere you’d hope from the simplicity. It doesn’t achieve much pop-wise, but it also doesn’t have the creepy shapelessness of early Devo. While the music limps around, trying to figure out what post-genre it wants to be, the vocals go for some sort of inoffensiveness, wailing scared to be pop, but still leaning in that direction.

It’s indecipherable, you don’t even feel the beat, even though the drumming is fine. At the poppier edge it gets better, but they won’t let themselves go there. Watch Me Now is along the lines of the Fastbacks, or maybe the Primitives with Joy Division progressions thing that Vivian Girls already exploited. The playful indulgence and lack of ambition serve them a lot better than the rest of the set did.

How long does it take to set up? I know you’re forty, but you’ve got that irresponsible haircut and leather vest. The drums work and we still don’t think you’re cool dad. Red Mass isn’t a fashion band, but they do have age-inappropriate outfits… and an oscillator. Apparently you need a dozen pedals to play washed-up garage rock. I’m an asshole, I haven’t even heard these guys yet, and I’m enabling them with my $7 at the door and $5 at the bar.

Red Mass really does know how to rock. They’re better than I worried; a bunch of dad-agers who got together to jerk off. Watching people show off at one speed isn’t interesting, and then they get spacey, and its just embarrassing. it’s all redundant… capes over cow-skin over dress shirts, the oscillator and the synth, the drummer and the percussionist taking turns. In fact, that miscellaneous guy can go, I don’t care if he’s your old friend who just wants to be included, his impassioned yelling and beer gut crumpled over his silk-covered mic stand, it’s unbearable. I’m leaving.