Another Spectrum Culture writer and I attended this year's LouFest in St. Louis.
Take a read and enjoy the pictures here:
http://spectrumculture.com/2010/09/loufest-2010.html
Showing posts with label St. Louis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label St. Louis. Show all posts
Friday, September 03, 2010
Friday, February 05, 2010
Concert Review: The Rural Alberta Advantage - 12/9/09
February 3, 2010 8:42 AM
It was fucking cold in St. Louis on this particular Wednesday night. With temperatures hovering in the single digits and a large segment of the local population raiding grocery stores as if Thursday morning would bring with it a new Ice Age, the chance of a poorly-attended show at Off Broadway was a strong possibility. Yet despite the usual panic-inducing weather forecasters begging people to stay the fuck inside, enough like-minded indie souls braved the elements to make The Rural Alberta Advantage's second show in St. Louis in 2009 respectably attended.
Mixing songs from the somewhat-underappreciated Hometowns with several new songs and one truly bizarre yet sublime Survivor cover, the trio played a spirited, ramshackle and altogether too brief 45-minute set. The band's setup was rather minimal, as members Nils Edenloff, Paul Banwatt and Amy Cole set up in a straight line toward the front of the stage with only a couple keyboards, an acoustic guitar, small drum kit and various pieces of percussion.
In this live setting the tracks from Hometowns were performed rougher and more aggressive than their more polished album counterparts, suggesting the current critics' depiction of the group as dreamy-eyed, nostalgia-filled Canadian indie-popsters isn't entirely accurate. Most noticeable was the contrast between Banwatt's precise and frenetic drumming and Edenloff's slowed-down vocals on "Don't Haunt This Place" and "Drain the Blood," a juxtaposition that exists on the album but was more noticeable in concert. Cole alternated between keyboards and percussion, sometimes hitting a tambourine set atop a drum or just the drum, adding an extra kick to "In the Summertime" and most other songs. Edenloff's vocals were far-ranging and expressive without coming across as overly emotional, overblown or derivative - enough with the comparisons to Mangum and Meloy already - on slow burners like "The Ballad of the RAA" as well as the blistering, set-closing "The Dethbridge In Lethbridge." Even a take on the goddawful and nauseatingly insipid "Eye of the Tiger" - one of the lowest points in the history of shitty 1980s music - somehow worked, as Edenloff transformed it into something more meaningful and relevant than the bombastic Balboa-recalling original. It wasn't quite as implausible as Richard Thompson singing "Oops!... I Did It Again," but it certainly came close. Three new songs were performed with very little introduction from Edenloff; all three were excellent and suggest the band's next release will be every bit as good as Hometowns.
There is an honesty and sincerity to Hometowns, and the band's stage demeanor similarly came across as equally earnest. Clearly the band knows they've got a damn good set of songs, playing with an intensity and focus that older and more established bands still lack. Skeptics might dismiss the group's subject matter as too limited, and undeniably the Canadian landscape right now defines both the band's catalog and how they are perceived by some fans and critics.
Once the show ended some of the audience clearly wasn't in a hurry to head back outside; it likely wasn't just because of the freezing slaps of winds that waited just outside Off Broadway's front door. It doesn't always require overwrought lyrics and bloated arrangements to convey emotion. Sometimes it can be done with a simple stage presence, imperfectly nasal voice, precise drumming, flourishes of keyboards and percussion and lyrics that say something about both hope and loneliness without dissolving into either extreme pessimism or idiotic optimism, something that The Rural Alberta Advantage clearly already knows.
It was fucking cold in St. Louis on this particular Wednesday night. With temperatures hovering in the single digits and a large segment of the local population raiding grocery stores as if Thursday morning would bring with it a new Ice Age, the chance of a poorly-attended show at Off Broadway was a strong possibility. Yet despite the usual panic-inducing weather forecasters begging people to stay the fuck inside, enough like-minded indie souls braved the elements to make The Rural Alberta Advantage's second show in St. Louis in 2009 respectably attended.
Mixing songs from the somewhat-underappreciated Hometowns with several new songs and one truly bizarre yet sublime Survivor cover, the trio played a spirited, ramshackle and altogether too brief 45-minute set. The band's setup was rather minimal, as members Nils Edenloff, Paul Banwatt and Amy Cole set up in a straight line toward the front of the stage with only a couple keyboards, an acoustic guitar, small drum kit and various pieces of percussion.
In this live setting the tracks from Hometowns were performed rougher and more aggressive than their more polished album counterparts, suggesting the current critics' depiction of the group as dreamy-eyed, nostalgia-filled Canadian indie-popsters isn't entirely accurate. Most noticeable was the contrast between Banwatt's precise and frenetic drumming and Edenloff's slowed-down vocals on "Don't Haunt This Place" and "Drain the Blood," a juxtaposition that exists on the album but was more noticeable in concert. Cole alternated between keyboards and percussion, sometimes hitting a tambourine set atop a drum or just the drum, adding an extra kick to "In the Summertime" and most other songs. Edenloff's vocals were far-ranging and expressive without coming across as overly emotional, overblown or derivative - enough with the comparisons to Mangum and Meloy already - on slow burners like "The Ballad of the RAA" as well as the blistering, set-closing "The Dethbridge In Lethbridge." Even a take on the goddawful and nauseatingly insipid "Eye of the Tiger" - one of the lowest points in the history of shitty 1980s music - somehow worked, as Edenloff transformed it into something more meaningful and relevant than the bombastic Balboa-recalling original. It wasn't quite as implausible as Richard Thompson singing "Oops!... I Did It Again," but it certainly came close. Three new songs were performed with very little introduction from Edenloff; all three were excellent and suggest the band's next release will be every bit as good as Hometowns.
There is an honesty and sincerity to Hometowns, and the band's stage demeanor similarly came across as equally earnest. Clearly the band knows they've got a damn good set of songs, playing with an intensity and focus that older and more established bands still lack. Skeptics might dismiss the group's subject matter as too limited, and undeniably the Canadian landscape right now defines both the band's catalog and how they are perceived by some fans and critics.
Once the show ended some of the audience clearly wasn't in a hurry to head back outside; it likely wasn't just because of the freezing slaps of winds that waited just outside Off Broadway's front door. It doesn't always require overwrought lyrics and bloated arrangements to convey emotion. Sometimes it can be done with a simple stage presence, imperfectly nasal voice, precise drumming, flourishes of keyboards and percussion and lyrics that say something about both hope and loneliness without dissolving into either extreme pessimism or idiotic optimism, something that The Rural Alberta Advantage clearly already knows.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Concert Review: Future Clouds & Radar
go to spectrumculture.com
In a city that has only the faintest hint of a music scene with a functioning pulse - though locals still like to boast that the blues originated in St. Louis - and very few quirky concert venues, Off Broadway is one of this town's more unique and reliable places to see a show. It gives off a cool and comfortable vibe, like a neighborhood bar that cross-dresses in concert venue clothes. Pictures of Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson giving that most famous of salutes line its brick walls, a mounted antelope head rests above an old time cigarette machine in a venue that's exclusively non-smoking now, various miscellany from the Lemp brewery is scattered throughout, and the sinks in the men's bathroom are stained with a black liquid that, while hinting at something far more sinister, only adds to the charm. A few rows of folding chairs are included almost as an afterthought, while the upstairs section offers a perfect view of the stage below for those concertgoers who'd prefer to avoid the pit and the urchins that swarm there.
My brother and I arrived early enough to catch the tail end of Future Clouds & Radar's sound check. With plenty of time to kill after this minor invasion of band privacy, it was enjoyable just soaking in Off Broadway's aesthetic and engaging in conversation ranging from which artist has the most obnoxious fans (Dylan, and it's not debatable) to deep-seeded childhood fears of being sodomized by the Knights of Columbus (it never happened). As this talk deteriorated we expected people to filter as the show's start time grew closer, but no one really did. Even after second opening act The O's wrapped up, the place was far too empty.
Blame it on the fact that it was a Thursday and that there are few places on earth as miserable as St. Louis in February - if you don't like gray punctuated with occasional bursts of lighter gray, leave now - but the show was, and this is being generous, sparsely attended. Yet those who stayed away missed their chance to see a band that, if there's any justice in the music world, will eventually outgrow the confines of such venues. Drawing heavily from their truly underrated and death-heavy 2008 album Peoria, Future Clouds & Radar played an energetic set that emphasized tight arrangements over the instrumental meanderings and studio effects of both Peoria and their self-titled debut album. Sure, lead singer Robert Harrison sounds eerily like that other band that had a Harrison in it, but in a live setting this similarity was far less pronounced. The atmospheric "Epcot View" featured nice harmonies and emphasized keyboards more than its album version, while "18 Months" was chaotic and heavy with distortion; one dancing fan, still clad in his suit and clutching his beer bottle like a life raft, punctuated with the latter song with some groin-splitting high kicks. Other songs more clearly revealed the melodies that are sometimes buried amid the studio tinkering, especially "Mummified," "The Mortal" and "Drugstore Bust."
Though Harrison may still be best known for his work with previous project Cotton Mather - at least judging from the applause that greeted Kon Tiki track and concert closer "Homefront Cameo" - Future Clouds & Radar seem to be flying under the, well, radar. The band's performance Thursday night was an intriguing showcase in how songs that incorporate studio enhancements and mix musical genres are translated in a live environment. Without exception the songs benefited from this focus, with the band playing a lively set of songs. For those in attendance it was every bit as good as the under appreciated Peoria, and, even better, allowed listeners to hear its songs in a different context. Still it's a shame more people didn't stop by to hear it, the gray St. Louis February be damned. One can't help but think that the "antipathy island" mentioned in "The Mortal" could serve as a fitting summation for the band's tour stop here.
In a city that has only the faintest hint of a music scene with a functioning pulse - though locals still like to boast that the blues originated in St. Louis - and very few quirky concert venues, Off Broadway is one of this town's more unique and reliable places to see a show. It gives off a cool and comfortable vibe, like a neighborhood bar that cross-dresses in concert venue clothes. Pictures of Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson giving that most famous of salutes line its brick walls, a mounted antelope head rests above an old time cigarette machine in a venue that's exclusively non-smoking now, various miscellany from the Lemp brewery is scattered throughout, and the sinks in the men's bathroom are stained with a black liquid that, while hinting at something far more sinister, only adds to the charm. A few rows of folding chairs are included almost as an afterthought, while the upstairs section offers a perfect view of the stage below for those concertgoers who'd prefer to avoid the pit and the urchins that swarm there.
My brother and I arrived early enough to catch the tail end of Future Clouds & Radar's sound check. With plenty of time to kill after this minor invasion of band privacy, it was enjoyable just soaking in Off Broadway's aesthetic and engaging in conversation ranging from which artist has the most obnoxious fans (Dylan, and it's not debatable) to deep-seeded childhood fears of being sodomized by the Knights of Columbus (it never happened). As this talk deteriorated we expected people to filter as the show's start time grew closer, but no one really did. Even after second opening act The O's wrapped up, the place was far too empty.
Blame it on the fact that it was a Thursday and that there are few places on earth as miserable as St. Louis in February - if you don't like gray punctuated with occasional bursts of lighter gray, leave now - but the show was, and this is being generous, sparsely attended. Yet those who stayed away missed their chance to see a band that, if there's any justice in the music world, will eventually outgrow the confines of such venues. Drawing heavily from their truly underrated and death-heavy 2008 album Peoria, Future Clouds & Radar played an energetic set that emphasized tight arrangements over the instrumental meanderings and studio effects of both Peoria and their self-titled debut album. Sure, lead singer Robert Harrison sounds eerily like that other band that had a Harrison in it, but in a live setting this similarity was far less pronounced. The atmospheric "Epcot View" featured nice harmonies and emphasized keyboards more than its album version, while "18 Months" was chaotic and heavy with distortion; one dancing fan, still clad in his suit and clutching his beer bottle like a life raft, punctuated with the latter song with some groin-splitting high kicks. Other songs more clearly revealed the melodies that are sometimes buried amid the studio tinkering, especially "Mummified," "The Mortal" and "Drugstore Bust."
Though Harrison may still be best known for his work with previous project Cotton Mather - at least judging from the applause that greeted Kon Tiki track and concert closer "Homefront Cameo" - Future Clouds & Radar seem to be flying under the, well, radar. The band's performance Thursday night was an intriguing showcase in how songs that incorporate studio enhancements and mix musical genres are translated in a live environment. Without exception the songs benefited from this focus, with the band playing a lively set of songs. For those in attendance it was every bit as good as the under appreciated Peoria, and, even better, allowed listeners to hear its songs in a different context. Still it's a shame more people didn't stop by to hear it, the gray St. Louis February be damned. One can't help but think that the "antipathy island" mentioned in "The Mortal" could serve as a fitting summation for the band's tour stop here.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Concert Review: Tom Waits at the Fox Theatre, St. Louis, MO, June 26, 2008
It's an understatement to say that expectations were high and the crowd was madly eager for Tom Waits' St. Louis show at the Fox Theatre on Thursday night. Playing St. Louis for the first time since the mid 1970s (and not, as one snide person commented to me, for the first time since the American Civil War), Waits and his excellent backing band delivered a performance that made it well worth the, er, wait.
By now the Waits stage persona has been written about and described to death: the odd twitches and gestures, the stomping and hollering, and the overall theatrical/carnival barker qualities that are impossible to miss, and that Waits himself has been willing to embellish and exaggerate over the years. Still, those descriptions don't adequately reflect what it's like to see Waits live on stage. A day after the concert, with a slight and bizarrely enjoyable ringing still in my ears, I suspect I'm not the only fan or critic struggling to suitably describe what a tremendous show this was.
I've long thought that the main reason people attend concerts is because they want to participate in a communal experience and walk away from the show with a few lasting musical memories. Well, ok, I've actually maintained that the primary reasons people attend concerts are to get shitfaced and/or stoned, drunkenly request "Freebird" at the most inappropriate point in the evening, get a night away from the brats (sorry, children), or behave like inmates freshly escaped from the mental ward. And after all that, people attend live performances for the communal experience and the memories.
If that's true, Waits and the band didn't disappoint. In a set that ran a little over two hours (and even then felt far too short), what was perhaps most noticeable was Waits' ability to convey a song's themes and moods in a live setting. In this way, Waits could somehow go from the slow and beautiful solider song "Day After Tomorrow" to the hilariously demented "Cemetery Polka" without the contrasts seeming forced or out of place. Waits' stage movements were clearly at least partly choreographed; even when glitter rained down on him during "Make It Rain," it somehow managed to fit into the mood onstage.
One of the show's most memorable portions found Waits playing several songs at the piano, with minimal instrumental accompaniment. "Hang Down Your Head" was followed by "A Little Rain" for a wonderful duo of grand weepers. A Waits solo piano tour in the near future would be nice...
The band's (Casey Waits, Patrick Warren, Seth Ford-Young, Vincent Henry, and Omar Torrez) ability to provide new textures to the songs was also noticeable. Several of the songs performed were markedly different than their album counterparts. "Black Market Baby" and "Lie To Me" bore little resemblance to their album versions, and benefited nicely from the reworked musical arrangements.
The crowd was clearly appreciative of the effort, with wild applause and hollers throughout the night that sometimes came at odd times (you don't need to scream in orgasmic joy after every refrain). There were also some other bizarre moments. One fan shouted for "Johnsburg, IL" about 20 minutes after it had been performed; that guy's probably currently nursing a massive hangover and racking his addled brain to remember anything about the show. Another male fan shouted on a couple occasions that he wanted to have Waits' children (see buddy, the way it works is that...).
Worst of all, there were a couple altercations in the Fox's plush velvet seats. During "Lucky Day," a handful of angry Rain Dogs approached a couple engaged in conversation and rather forcefully "suggested" that they be quiet. Waits himself seemed aware of the ruckus, or the frequent and obnoxious shouts and bloodthirsty screams, joking later that the audience hadn't worked together before and needed an elected official to maintain order, describing it as (my faltering memory notwithstanding) "mass pandemonium."
It was as close to perfect as a live performance could be. It took over 30 years for Tom Waits to come back to St. Louis (though to be fair, many fans at the show weren't even on this mortal coil in 1974, myself included). All around, it was a wonderful show where the audience's expectations were exceeded by a truly memorable performance.
By now the Waits stage persona has been written about and described to death: the odd twitches and gestures, the stomping and hollering, and the overall theatrical/carnival barker qualities that are impossible to miss, and that Waits himself has been willing to embellish and exaggerate over the years. Still, those descriptions don't adequately reflect what it's like to see Waits live on stage. A day after the concert, with a slight and bizarrely enjoyable ringing still in my ears, I suspect I'm not the only fan or critic struggling to suitably describe what a tremendous show this was.
I've long thought that the main reason people attend concerts is because they want to participate in a communal experience and walk away from the show with a few lasting musical memories. Well, ok, I've actually maintained that the primary reasons people attend concerts are to get shitfaced and/or stoned, drunkenly request "Freebird" at the most inappropriate point in the evening, get a night away from the brats (sorry, children), or behave like inmates freshly escaped from the mental ward. And after all that, people attend live performances for the communal experience and the memories.
If that's true, Waits and the band didn't disappoint. In a set that ran a little over two hours (and even then felt far too short), what was perhaps most noticeable was Waits' ability to convey a song's themes and moods in a live setting. In this way, Waits could somehow go from the slow and beautiful solider song "Day After Tomorrow" to the hilariously demented "Cemetery Polka" without the contrasts seeming forced or out of place. Waits' stage movements were clearly at least partly choreographed; even when glitter rained down on him during "Make It Rain," it somehow managed to fit into the mood onstage.
One of the show's most memorable portions found Waits playing several songs at the piano, with minimal instrumental accompaniment. "Hang Down Your Head" was followed by "A Little Rain" for a wonderful duo of grand weepers. A Waits solo piano tour in the near future would be nice...
The band's (Casey Waits, Patrick Warren, Seth Ford-Young, Vincent Henry, and Omar Torrez) ability to provide new textures to the songs was also noticeable. Several of the songs performed were markedly different than their album counterparts. "Black Market Baby" and "Lie To Me" bore little resemblance to their album versions, and benefited nicely from the reworked musical arrangements.
The crowd was clearly appreciative of the effort, with wild applause and hollers throughout the night that sometimes came at odd times (you don't need to scream in orgasmic joy after every refrain). There were also some other bizarre moments. One fan shouted for "Johnsburg, IL" about 20 minutes after it had been performed; that guy's probably currently nursing a massive hangover and racking his addled brain to remember anything about the show. Another male fan shouted on a couple occasions that he wanted to have Waits' children (see buddy, the way it works is that...).
Worst of all, there were a couple altercations in the Fox's plush velvet seats. During "Lucky Day," a handful of angry Rain Dogs approached a couple engaged in conversation and rather forcefully "suggested" that they be quiet. Waits himself seemed aware of the ruckus, or the frequent and obnoxious shouts and bloodthirsty screams, joking later that the audience hadn't worked together before and needed an elected official to maintain order, describing it as (my faltering memory notwithstanding) "mass pandemonium."
It was as close to perfect as a live performance could be. It took over 30 years for Tom Waits to come back to St. Louis (though to be fair, many fans at the show weren't even on this mortal coil in 1974, myself included). All around, it was a wonderful show where the audience's expectations were exceeded by a truly memorable performance.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Satire: Tom Waits Fans Respond to Glitter and Doom Ticket Policy
The ticket policy utilized for Tom Waits’ upcoming Glitter and Doom concert tour is receiving mixed reviews among the musician’s more vocal fans. This policy, primarily designed to ensure that scalpers do not have an opportunity to acquire and then resell tickets at butt-puckering inflated prices, limits the number of tickets to two per household per show, requires the purchaser to show both the credit card used and government-issued photo identification the night of the show, and ends with a quick, relatively painless blood donation that would seriously go a lot smoother if you’d just stop squirming and crying and remember this needle can very easily go somewhere else but if you’re good you’ll get juice and cookies.
Many Waits fans feel this is the best way to ensure that his most dedicated and affluent fans have an opportunity to see the musician live, without having to pay exorbitant prices to scalpers that they would willingly pay anyway.
Warner Spencer, a self-confident 45-year old advertising executive who has worked with several high-profile musical legends in co-opting their tunes for commercial use and still uses the word “bro” way too much, stated that he supports the policy. “Just because I like hearing Tom sing about Peoria Johnson, Scarface Ron, and Yodeling Elaine doesn’t mean I want to sit next to those scumbags. This ticketing approach, along with the fact that tickets start at around $70, will keep most of the leeches, mooches, and smelly societal bottom feeders outside the palace gates.”
Spencer added, “I know Tom is vehemently opposed to licensing his songs for commercial use. While that’s very noble – Tom, buddy, pal, homey, bro – you’re missing the boat on this one. "Hoist That Rag" would be perfect for a Lysol commercial. The homely yet still attractive housewife actress has already been cast. We’d just need to clean that song up a bit and get a more conventional voice to sing it. I could have the baksheesh heading you’re way in no time. Call me bro.”
Other fans are far more ambivalent about how tickets were sold for the upcoming tour. Ian Middleton gave a half-smile/half-frown as he expressed what could only be described as a mixture of apathy and confusion: “I easily got tickets for St. Louis but was shut out of Columbus. Now unless I somehow find a sympathetic person with an extra ticket or violently incapacitate someone the night of the show and steal their credit card, tickets, and identity, I’ll only be seeing one show this time around. It sucks, kind of.”
Middleton, a divorce arbitrator who describes himself as a “middle-of-the-road guy, most of the time, for the most part,” ultimately gave the policy a mild endorsement: “You can’t please all the people all the time. So some of the people will be upset part of the time. Which means some of the people will be happy most of the time. I guess you can’t get much better than that.”
Nevertheless, a small segment of Waits fans are very angry with the policy, coupled with the high demand for tickets for a very limited number of shows. “The only way to ensure true fans get a chance at tickets is to sell them at the venue’s box office, where those without wives, jobs, children, or other societal responsibilities can sleep outside for days subsisting only on beef jerky and Swordfishtrombones to snag the first tickets,” said Justin Bukeler of Columbus, Ohio.
Other fans are upset that a credit card is required to purchase tickets. “Some of us have made a conscious decision, assisted by several aggressive and unrelenting credit agencies, one foreclosed home, a giant Samoan loan shark nicknamed "Stumpy," and two separate stints at bankruptcy, to live the aimless, rootless, drunken, quasi-romantic bohemian lifestyle that Tom abandoned sometime in the 1980s,” said performance artist Josh Brokeman. “I only carry cash. I’m very disappointed people like me won’t have the opportunity to con unsuspecting people by selling them magazines for the homeless in order to buy a ticket with their cold, hard, stolen cash.”
With tickets for some shows selling out in a matter of minutes, such as in Phoenix and Columbus, some fans won’t be seeing their musical hero in concert this time around. These fans feel there is a simple solution to this problem: “If Waits really cared about his fans, he’d tour like a beaten one-eyed dog, play 25,000-seat venues in the same city for a week at a time, and reserve a seat each night just for me,” Brokeman offered.
“I’m very disappointed in Mr. Waits,” Brokeman lamented. “I can’t get a ticket and I also don’t have the opportunity to be exploited by scalpers by paying thousands of dollars for one. Is that looking out for your fans’ best interests? I don’t think so. Thanks a lot, Tom.”
Many Waits fans feel this is the best way to ensure that his most dedicated and affluent fans have an opportunity to see the musician live, without having to pay exorbitant prices to scalpers that they would willingly pay anyway.
Warner Spencer, a self-confident 45-year old advertising executive who has worked with several high-profile musical legends in co-opting their tunes for commercial use and still uses the word “bro” way too much, stated that he supports the policy. “Just because I like hearing Tom sing about Peoria Johnson, Scarface Ron, and Yodeling Elaine doesn’t mean I want to sit next to those scumbags. This ticketing approach, along with the fact that tickets start at around $70, will keep most of the leeches, mooches, and smelly societal bottom feeders outside the palace gates.”
Spencer added, “I know Tom is vehemently opposed to licensing his songs for commercial use. While that’s very noble – Tom, buddy, pal, homey, bro – you’re missing the boat on this one. "Hoist That Rag" would be perfect for a Lysol commercial. The homely yet still attractive housewife actress has already been cast. We’d just need to clean that song up a bit and get a more conventional voice to sing it. I could have the baksheesh heading you’re way in no time. Call me bro.”
Other fans are far more ambivalent about how tickets were sold for the upcoming tour. Ian Middleton gave a half-smile/half-frown as he expressed what could only be described as a mixture of apathy and confusion: “I easily got tickets for St. Louis but was shut out of Columbus. Now unless I somehow find a sympathetic person with an extra ticket or violently incapacitate someone the night of the show and steal their credit card, tickets, and identity, I’ll only be seeing one show this time around. It sucks, kind of.”
Middleton, a divorce arbitrator who describes himself as a “middle-of-the-road guy, most of the time, for the most part,” ultimately gave the policy a mild endorsement: “You can’t please all the people all the time. So some of the people will be upset part of the time. Which means some of the people will be happy most of the time. I guess you can’t get much better than that.”
Nevertheless, a small segment of Waits fans are very angry with the policy, coupled with the high demand for tickets for a very limited number of shows. “The only way to ensure true fans get a chance at tickets is to sell them at the venue’s box office, where those without wives, jobs, children, or other societal responsibilities can sleep outside for days subsisting only on beef jerky and Swordfishtrombones to snag the first tickets,” said Justin Bukeler of Columbus, Ohio.
Other fans are upset that a credit card is required to purchase tickets. “Some of us have made a conscious decision, assisted by several aggressive and unrelenting credit agencies, one foreclosed home, a giant Samoan loan shark nicknamed "Stumpy," and two separate stints at bankruptcy, to live the aimless, rootless, drunken, quasi-romantic bohemian lifestyle that Tom abandoned sometime in the 1980s,” said performance artist Josh Brokeman. “I only carry cash. I’m very disappointed people like me won’t have the opportunity to con unsuspecting people by selling them magazines for the homeless in order to buy a ticket with their cold, hard, stolen cash.”
With tickets for some shows selling out in a matter of minutes, such as in Phoenix and Columbus, some fans won’t be seeing their musical hero in concert this time around. These fans feel there is a simple solution to this problem: “If Waits really cared about his fans, he’d tour like a beaten one-eyed dog, play 25,000-seat venues in the same city for a week at a time, and reserve a seat each night just for me,” Brokeman offered.
“I’m very disappointed in Mr. Waits,” Brokeman lamented. “I can’t get a ticket and I also don’t have the opportunity to be exploited by scalpers by paying thousands of dollars for one. Is that looking out for your fans’ best interests? I don’t think so. Thanks a lot, Tom.”
Concert Review: Wilco At The Pageant, St. Louis, MO, May 17, 2008
Think of St. Louis and you think of Wilco. Well, actually, think of St. Louis and you think of the Cardinals, the ungodly humid summer weather, people who add the letter R to certain words (it’s Warshington, D.C. here in the Lou), and the Arch.
Further down on the list, you then think of Wilco. St. Louis is undoubtedly a Wilco town; like toasted ravioli, thin crust pizza, and Sammy Hagar (god knows why), St. Louisians love Wilco the way Diane Fosse loved gorillas. Only St. Louisians are more protective than she ever was.
Playing their third show in as many nights at the Pageant (and the final U.S. show of their Sky Blue Sky tour), Wilco delivered a fun and raucous two-hour plus show that was a fitting close to the tour. For those fans who like their Wilco loud and their concerts long, it was definitely a great way to spend a Saturday night in St. Louis.
Yet what tends to be as interesting as the actual band performing on stage though is the sometimes odd (and always entertaining) behavior of some St. Louis music fans. And since no one’s really interested in reading another concert review about how much Wilco rocked man, here are some various observations, ramblings, and fairly shallow and obvious wisecracks:
• Retribution Gospel Choir opened and were farking loud as hell. They made all the windows in the neighborhood shake and, if rumors are to be believed, caused a pregnant woman’s water to break during the third song. Despite some cheesy drumstick finger twirls and several occasions of the power guitar face of pain, they were a solid opening act.
• Wilco seems to attract a legion of massively bearded older men who spend the concert rolling their own cigarettes and stroking said beards (to make sure the beards haven’t left their faces?). The balcony section looked like an army of Confederate generals.
• Despite Wilco’s massively dedicated following, there was a constant audible background of people talking throughout the concert. And I’m not talking about between-song comments (“that sounded good”/”I think he’s on something”/“check out that chick”). Entire conversations could be heard throughout the night, when the music wasn’t loud enough to drown it out. Let’s just say that I know for a fact that some poor sap named Daniel is likely headed for a messy breakup because he’s an “insensitive bastard who doesn’t understand the vagaries of a woman’s mind.” Said, ironically enough, during “She’s a Jar.”
• Most unexplainable slurred conversation of the night. Left Center balcony bathroom, about one hour into Wilco’s performance:
o Person A: “They still haven’t played anything from Pablo Honey.”
o Person B: “Pablo Honey? They aren’t gonna play any Uncle Tupelo stuff.”
• By my count, this was Wilco’s 17,000th show. Maybe it was the fact that this was the tour’s closing night, but the consensus among those I talked to afterwards was that this was one of the most unique Wilco shows they’ve seen. From Jeff Tweedy engaging in a humorous exchange of middle fingers with an audience member, to an unexpected final encore song after the house lights had come on and people had begun heading for the turnstiles, to the appearance of a giant St. Louis Cardinals foam finger onstage, it was a concert of unexpected moments.
• The songs were pretty good also. Although some of the songs never strayed too far from other live versions, there were plenty of nice flourishes – especially with the keyboards, guitars, and the band’s overall stage demeanor – to make Wilco standards like “ELT,” “Shot in the Arm,” and “Airline to Heaven” sound original and interesting.
Toward the end of the show Jeff Tweedy said a few words of sincere thanks to those in attendance for being, well, fiercely loyal and borderline psychotic Wilco fans. For once a musician’s thanks didn’t seem like shameless, WWE-style pandering. Even if the idea of a life-changing concert experience is a silly cliché, Wilco’s tour-ending show felt like one of those rare concerts where the audience knew they were seeing a great band on a special night. That the tour ended in the Lou made it seem all the more fitting.
Further down on the list, you then think of Wilco. St. Louis is undoubtedly a Wilco town; like toasted ravioli, thin crust pizza, and Sammy Hagar (god knows why), St. Louisians love Wilco the way Diane Fosse loved gorillas. Only St. Louisians are more protective than she ever was.
Playing their third show in as many nights at the Pageant (and the final U.S. show of their Sky Blue Sky tour), Wilco delivered a fun and raucous two-hour plus show that was a fitting close to the tour. For those fans who like their Wilco loud and their concerts long, it was definitely a great way to spend a Saturday night in St. Louis.
Yet what tends to be as interesting as the actual band performing on stage though is the sometimes odd (and always entertaining) behavior of some St. Louis music fans. And since no one’s really interested in reading another concert review about how much Wilco rocked man, here are some various observations, ramblings, and fairly shallow and obvious wisecracks:
• Retribution Gospel Choir opened and were farking loud as hell. They made all the windows in the neighborhood shake and, if rumors are to be believed, caused a pregnant woman’s water to break during the third song. Despite some cheesy drumstick finger twirls and several occasions of the power guitar face of pain, they were a solid opening act.
• Wilco seems to attract a legion of massively bearded older men who spend the concert rolling their own cigarettes and stroking said beards (to make sure the beards haven’t left their faces?). The balcony section looked like an army of Confederate generals.
• Despite Wilco’s massively dedicated following, there was a constant audible background of people talking throughout the concert. And I’m not talking about between-song comments (“that sounded good”/”I think he’s on something”/“check out that chick”). Entire conversations could be heard throughout the night, when the music wasn’t loud enough to drown it out. Let’s just say that I know for a fact that some poor sap named Daniel is likely headed for a messy breakup because he’s an “insensitive bastard who doesn’t understand the vagaries of a woman’s mind.” Said, ironically enough, during “She’s a Jar.”
• Most unexplainable slurred conversation of the night. Left Center balcony bathroom, about one hour into Wilco’s performance:
o Person A: “They still haven’t played anything from Pablo Honey.”
o Person B: “Pablo Honey? They aren’t gonna play any Uncle Tupelo stuff.”
• By my count, this was Wilco’s 17,000th show. Maybe it was the fact that this was the tour’s closing night, but the consensus among those I talked to afterwards was that this was one of the most unique Wilco shows they’ve seen. From Jeff Tweedy engaging in a humorous exchange of middle fingers with an audience member, to an unexpected final encore song after the house lights had come on and people had begun heading for the turnstiles, to the appearance of a giant St. Louis Cardinals foam finger onstage, it was a concert of unexpected moments.
• The songs were pretty good also. Although some of the songs never strayed too far from other live versions, there were plenty of nice flourishes – especially with the keyboards, guitars, and the band’s overall stage demeanor – to make Wilco standards like “ELT,” “Shot in the Arm,” and “Airline to Heaven” sound original and interesting.
Toward the end of the show Jeff Tweedy said a few words of sincere thanks to those in attendance for being, well, fiercely loyal and borderline psychotic Wilco fans. For once a musician’s thanks didn’t seem like shameless, WWE-style pandering. Even if the idea of a life-changing concert experience is a silly cliché, Wilco’s tour-ending show felt like one of those rare concerts where the audience knew they were seeing a great band on a special night. That the tour ended in the Lou made it seem all the more fitting.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Concert Review: Okkervil River and New Pornographers - St. Louis, MO - April 19, 2008
Somehow I had managed to convince my wife that attending the Okkervil River/New Pornographers concert in St. Louis was the best way to spend our two-year anniversary. Certainly better than a quiet, romantic dinner and a few glasses of wine. After all, if spending an April night in a packed concert club with various hoody-wearing indie fans isn’t romantic, I don’t know what is.
I understood her trepidation; she hadn’t heard anything by Okkervil River, and her knowledge of the New Pornographers didn’t extend far beyond the song “Twin Cinema” and “that poppy song that was used in the University of Phoenix commercials.”
Top that off with several failed attempts to impose my musical tastes on her (“there’s no way you can’t like this"), and several brutal Bob Dylan concerts over the years (synopsis: sweltering St. Louis summer, lawn seating, and a dancing concert neighbor sporting what appeared to be a massive case of scabies), and the possibility of a disastrous evening was very real.
But a person unfamiliar with the musical performers brings something that those familiar with the band’s music sometimes lack: objectivity and a lack of preconceived notions. Chances are very good that if you really like the band on stage, nothing short of a complete disaster (chemically-disabled musicians, abysmal venue acoustics, or Woodstock 1994) will change your opinion about that band. You’ll enjoy the songs and be reminded of why you downloaded the latest album on the sly; maybe on the way out you’ll stop at the Merch stand and buy a size medium t-shirt that shrinks to the size of a postage stamp upon first washing. Roughly paraphrased, Bob Dylan once said in an interview that he plays for the people who don’t attend every concert and who might not be familiar with or fans of his music; those Dylanphiles who roam the world popping up at every Dylan show (and they are out there, living among us, biding their time, corrupting our children…) are already converted.
Applying this concept to the show at the Pageant Saturday night, both my wife and myself largely had the same experience and opinions for both bands: headlining act New Pornographers was solid and tight; opening act Okkervil River was nothing short of spectacular.It’s not that the New Pornographers mailed in the performance; far from it. The band was clearly energetic and enjoying themselves, and there were some musical highs. The live versions of songs from their latest, and underrated, album Challengers were played well enough, even if they didn’t sound much different from the actual album version. And a cover of ELO’s “Don’t Bring Me Down” unleashed the closet pogo dancers throughout the pit. The biggest letdown from their performance is that the band and their playing almost seemed too controlled, too proficient, too note-perfect. There weren’t many rough edges or new twists: just another day at the musical office.
This impression was at least partially shaped by Okkervil River’s standout opening performance. At times quiet and controlled, and other times unhinged and wild, the band delivered one of the most memorable performances I’ve seen at the Pageant.
Cramming songs from recent albums Black Sheep Boy and The Stage Names into an hour-long set list, singer Will Sheff and the band delivered an emotional, sometimes theatrical performance that successfully communicated the themes that run throughout the band’s songs: life’s small disappointments (“Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe” and “A Girl In Port”), self-inflicted endings (“John Allyn Smith Sails”), and a whole mess of ugly emotions (“Black” and “A Stone”).My wife was hooked from the opening song (“The President’s Dead) and I suspect she wasn’t the only one. The band’s music and Sheff’s lyrics didn’t so much nudge us awake as they grabbed us by the throat. After an hour that seemed to pass all too soon the band was done and left to loud applause.
Despite both being indie bands, Okkervil River and the New Pornographers are far more different than similar. With their open-ended lyrics, catchy tunes, and controlled stage demeanor, the New Pornographers are somewhat traditional. Okkervil River’s lyrics tend to be more direct and attention-grabbing, and their music often veers into various styles and tempos. At the Pageant on Saturday night, each band played to their strengths. One band was solid. The other was spectacular.
I understood her trepidation; she hadn’t heard anything by Okkervil River, and her knowledge of the New Pornographers didn’t extend far beyond the song “Twin Cinema” and “that poppy song that was used in the University of Phoenix commercials.”
Top that off with several failed attempts to impose my musical tastes on her (“there’s no way you can’t like this"), and several brutal Bob Dylan concerts over the years (synopsis: sweltering St. Louis summer, lawn seating, and a dancing concert neighbor sporting what appeared to be a massive case of scabies), and the possibility of a disastrous evening was very real.
But a person unfamiliar with the musical performers brings something that those familiar with the band’s music sometimes lack: objectivity and a lack of preconceived notions. Chances are very good that if you really like the band on stage, nothing short of a complete disaster (chemically-disabled musicians, abysmal venue acoustics, or Woodstock 1994) will change your opinion about that band. You’ll enjoy the songs and be reminded of why you downloaded the latest album on the sly; maybe on the way out you’ll stop at the Merch stand and buy a size medium t-shirt that shrinks to the size of a postage stamp upon first washing. Roughly paraphrased, Bob Dylan once said in an interview that he plays for the people who don’t attend every concert and who might not be familiar with or fans of his music; those Dylanphiles who roam the world popping up at every Dylan show (and they are out there, living among us, biding their time, corrupting our children…) are already converted.
Applying this concept to the show at the Pageant Saturday night, both my wife and myself largely had the same experience and opinions for both bands: headlining act New Pornographers was solid and tight; opening act Okkervil River was nothing short of spectacular.It’s not that the New Pornographers mailed in the performance; far from it. The band was clearly energetic and enjoying themselves, and there were some musical highs. The live versions of songs from their latest, and underrated, album Challengers were played well enough, even if they didn’t sound much different from the actual album version. And a cover of ELO’s “Don’t Bring Me Down” unleashed the closet pogo dancers throughout the pit. The biggest letdown from their performance is that the band and their playing almost seemed too controlled, too proficient, too note-perfect. There weren’t many rough edges or new twists: just another day at the musical office.
This impression was at least partially shaped by Okkervil River’s standout opening performance. At times quiet and controlled, and other times unhinged and wild, the band delivered one of the most memorable performances I’ve seen at the Pageant.
Cramming songs from recent albums Black Sheep Boy and The Stage Names into an hour-long set list, singer Will Sheff and the band delivered an emotional, sometimes theatrical performance that successfully communicated the themes that run throughout the band’s songs: life’s small disappointments (“Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe” and “A Girl In Port”), self-inflicted endings (“John Allyn Smith Sails”), and a whole mess of ugly emotions (“Black” and “A Stone”).My wife was hooked from the opening song (“The President’s Dead) and I suspect she wasn’t the only one. The band’s music and Sheff’s lyrics didn’t so much nudge us awake as they grabbed us by the throat. After an hour that seemed to pass all too soon the band was done and left to loud applause.
Despite both being indie bands, Okkervil River and the New Pornographers are far more different than similar. With their open-ended lyrics, catchy tunes, and controlled stage demeanor, the New Pornographers are somewhat traditional. Okkervil River’s lyrics tend to be more direct and attention-grabbing, and their music often veers into various styles and tempos. At the Pageant on Saturday night, each band played to their strengths. One band was solid. The other was spectacular.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Satire: Earthquake In Midwest Stirs Ghost of Iben Browning Vindicated
A 5.2 magnitude earthquake hit southern Illinois and eastern Missouri in the early morning hours of April 18, shaking windows, waking up people throughout the bi-state region, flooding police departments with panicked calls, and disturbing St. Louis' downtown drug peddlers who mistook the commotion for a police raid and frantically dropped their stashes.
Also, your mother called you during the quake to ask if the kids were okay, whether the doors were locked, and why you don't visit anymore.
No major structural damage has been reported thus far, however, several locals say they have been mentally traumatized by the event, and are also "quite disappointed that it was nothing like the earthquakes at that Richter's restaurant we ate at on vacation in Florida."
Other locals have vowed to take up arms against the city of Bellmont, where the quake was centered. "That city's been trouble ever since it added that second, unnecessary 'L' to its name," said Valley Park native Todd "Goober" Farkins. "It's because of that city's blatant arrogance in violating accepted rules of linguistics, and not the scientifically-explainable phenomenon of two tectonic plates moving apart near the Wabash Valley Seismic Zone that caused this."
Most dramatically, the ghost of Iben Browning emerged from a prolonged silence to announce the earthquake has vindicated his previous prediction made in 1990. Browning, who managed to create a sustained panic and all-around level of irrational stress in St. Louis and surrounding areas by claiming there was a 50% chance an earthquake would strike at the New Madrid fault line on December 2 or 3, 1990, quickly became the object of scorn and ridicule when his prediction failed to materialize. Not even being name-checked in the Uncle Tupelo song, "New Madrid," could repair his reputation in the Show Me State.
With this major, catastrophic quake that caused little damage to buildings and no serious reported injuries, Browning feels like a preening rooster and wants the world to acknowledge the accuracy of his prediction. Speaking from the Great Beyond, Browning had this to say: "I told anyone who would listen that the quake would happen. Sure I overshot it by nearly 20 years, and got the month and day wrong to boot, but the bottom line is that the event occurred."
Browning is also seeking gratitude from the people whose lives his bold prediction helped spare. "Back in 1990, schoolchildren were practicing earthquake drills by diving under desks, businesses shut down to prepare for the impending destruction, and insurance companies squealed like stuck pigs as Missourians bought earthquake insurance at premium rates. I have no doubt these knee-jerk reactions caused by my forecast saved countless lives in this recent quake."
Browning wants to reassure those traumatized by what he calls the "defining meteorological incident of the last 268 years" that the risk of another devastating quake is quite low. "Massive quakes hit about once every 500 years. The chance of another one occurring anytime soon is exceptionally unlikely. Besides, I'm the professional here. Trust me."
Also, your mother called you during the quake to ask if the kids were okay, whether the doors were locked, and why you don't visit anymore.
No major structural damage has been reported thus far, however, several locals say they have been mentally traumatized by the event, and are also "quite disappointed that it was nothing like the earthquakes at that Richter's restaurant we ate at on vacation in Florida."
Other locals have vowed to take up arms against the city of Bellmont, where the quake was centered. "That city's been trouble ever since it added that second, unnecessary 'L' to its name," said Valley Park native Todd "Goober" Farkins. "It's because of that city's blatant arrogance in violating accepted rules of linguistics, and not the scientifically-explainable phenomenon of two tectonic plates moving apart near the Wabash Valley Seismic Zone that caused this."
Most dramatically, the ghost of Iben Browning emerged from a prolonged silence to announce the earthquake has vindicated his previous prediction made in 1990. Browning, who managed to create a sustained panic and all-around level of irrational stress in St. Louis and surrounding areas by claiming there was a 50% chance an earthquake would strike at the New Madrid fault line on December 2 or 3, 1990, quickly became the object of scorn and ridicule when his prediction failed to materialize. Not even being name-checked in the Uncle Tupelo song, "New Madrid," could repair his reputation in the Show Me State.
With this major, catastrophic quake that caused little damage to buildings and no serious reported injuries, Browning feels like a preening rooster and wants the world to acknowledge the accuracy of his prediction. Speaking from the Great Beyond, Browning had this to say: "I told anyone who would listen that the quake would happen. Sure I overshot it by nearly 20 years, and got the month and day wrong to boot, but the bottom line is that the event occurred."
Browning is also seeking gratitude from the people whose lives his bold prediction helped spare. "Back in 1990, schoolchildren were practicing earthquake drills by diving under desks, businesses shut down to prepare for the impending destruction, and insurance companies squealed like stuck pigs as Missourians bought earthquake insurance at premium rates. I have no doubt these knee-jerk reactions caused by my forecast saved countless lives in this recent quake."
Browning wants to reassure those traumatized by what he calls the "defining meteorological incident of the last 268 years" that the risk of another devastating quake is quite low. "Massive quakes hit about once every 500 years. The chance of another one occurring anytime soon is exceptionally unlikely. Besides, I'm the professional here. Trust me."
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Band of Horses and an Open Letter to Snow
Dear Snow:
There’s no easy way for me to say this. Wait, yes there is: I hate you. As Ugly Kid Joe once so eloquently sang, I hate everything about you. There’s a reason dogs urinate on you, plows sweep you away into back alleys, and everyone south of Morehead, Minnesota views you as a slushy pain in the ass. Crazy skiers, snowboarders, and ESPN X-Games executives and sponsors excepted, nobody likes you. I’m also starting to despise your bastard cousins Sleet and Hail.
Don’t act so surprised; we both know things were coming to this. Like Fredo betraying his brother Michael in The Godfather II, we’re past the point of reconciliation, forgiveness, or understanding. All that’s left is raging, indescribable, Baldwin vs. Bassinger loathing.
Sure we’ve had some good times over the years. You managed to get a good number of school days cancelled for me, and I’ll never forget wadding you up into little icy balls of mayhem and hurling them at my father as he begged me to quit screwing around and start shoveling.
But then, on January 31, 2008, the day of the Band of Horses concert in St.Louis, you decided to turn my fair city into Hoth. Of course many St. Louisians responded in typical snow-mania fashion: grocery stores were violently plundered, canned goods thrown into shopping carts with merciless haste and venom, the local stations began running dramatic and sinister “Winter Storm 2008” music and taglines, and drivers in armored SUVs tooled down the highways and byways as if they were leading the siege of Vicksburg.
As I sat in my cubicle and watched you fall steadily to the ground, I noticed you accumulating like the snotty brat you are in alarming fashion. Even so, I knew that nothing was going to deter me from seeing Band of Horses. After all, I’d endured much more treacherous weather in the name of the concert-going experience. I’d learned how to handle nasty weather with a good degree of patience and perspective; three consecutive days spent in line for Bob Dylan shows with freezing rain, below-freezing temperatures, and a whole army of Dylanphiles discussing everything from Dylan’s hats to Dylan’s shoes to Dylan’s role in the late 1990s economic boom have that effect.
Yet a strange thing happened when I began driving on you. My quasi-reliable General Motors vehicle slipped and skidded a little, then a little more, and then a lot. Like Sasha Cohen on ice at the Olympics, my car was wobbly, shaky, and clearly a head case. But for the grace of front-wheel drive did I make it home without hitting an abutment or being steamrolled by those pesky jumbo SUVs.
I didn’t make it the concert; to drive on you would clearly be tempting the cruel fates of a car insurance deductible and towing costs a little too much. I’m assuming the show went on as scheduled and was probably outstanding; nothing online indicates the show was cancelled. I can only imagine that hearing Band of Horses live is far better than listening to either Everything All the Time or Cease To Begin or the Ford commercial that features the song “Funeral.” Now, if St. Louis music trends hold true, the next time the band hits St. Louis, they’ll be opening for a more-established act in a massive, impersonal amphitheatre.
Don’t tell me this shows that I demonstrated good judgment or common sense; that’s no consolation. Even if the concert would have been cancelled, you simultaneously ruined my plans and made me look like a total chickenshit. A few years ago, nothing short of the skies opening and Jesus himself descending to earth, Liar by the Jesus Lizard blasting from his iPod, would have prevented me from missing a St. Louis concert by one of “my” bands. And even then I would have strongly considered attending the performance and dealing with that little apocalypse thing later.
Snow, you and I are no longer on speaking terms. Like Michael Corleone dealing with Fredo, I want advance notice when you’ll be coming around, so I can make sure I’m in a different part of town. And when Band of Horses returns to the STL in a couple years and is opening for Once Forgotten But Now Suddenly Relevant And Respected Dinosaur Act at the St. Louis Enormo-Dome, it won’t make up for missing this show.
Fix you good,
Eric
There’s no easy way for me to say this. Wait, yes there is: I hate you. As Ugly Kid Joe once so eloquently sang, I hate everything about you. There’s a reason dogs urinate on you, plows sweep you away into back alleys, and everyone south of Morehead, Minnesota views you as a slushy pain in the ass. Crazy skiers, snowboarders, and ESPN X-Games executives and sponsors excepted, nobody likes you. I’m also starting to despise your bastard cousins Sleet and Hail.
Don’t act so surprised; we both know things were coming to this. Like Fredo betraying his brother Michael in The Godfather II, we’re past the point of reconciliation, forgiveness, or understanding. All that’s left is raging, indescribable, Baldwin vs. Bassinger loathing.
Sure we’ve had some good times over the years. You managed to get a good number of school days cancelled for me, and I’ll never forget wadding you up into little icy balls of mayhem and hurling them at my father as he begged me to quit screwing around and start shoveling.
But then, on January 31, 2008, the day of the Band of Horses concert in St.Louis, you decided to turn my fair city into Hoth. Of course many St. Louisians responded in typical snow-mania fashion: grocery stores were violently plundered, canned goods thrown into shopping carts with merciless haste and venom, the local stations began running dramatic and sinister “Winter Storm 2008” music and taglines, and drivers in armored SUVs tooled down the highways and byways as if they were leading the siege of Vicksburg.
As I sat in my cubicle and watched you fall steadily to the ground, I noticed you accumulating like the snotty brat you are in alarming fashion. Even so, I knew that nothing was going to deter me from seeing Band of Horses. After all, I’d endured much more treacherous weather in the name of the concert-going experience. I’d learned how to handle nasty weather with a good degree of patience and perspective; three consecutive days spent in line for Bob Dylan shows with freezing rain, below-freezing temperatures, and a whole army of Dylanphiles discussing everything from Dylan’s hats to Dylan’s shoes to Dylan’s role in the late 1990s economic boom have that effect.
Yet a strange thing happened when I began driving on you. My quasi-reliable General Motors vehicle slipped and skidded a little, then a little more, and then a lot. Like Sasha Cohen on ice at the Olympics, my car was wobbly, shaky, and clearly a head case. But for the grace of front-wheel drive did I make it home without hitting an abutment or being steamrolled by those pesky jumbo SUVs.
I didn’t make it the concert; to drive on you would clearly be tempting the cruel fates of a car insurance deductible and towing costs a little too much. I’m assuming the show went on as scheduled and was probably outstanding; nothing online indicates the show was cancelled. I can only imagine that hearing Band of Horses live is far better than listening to either Everything All the Time or Cease To Begin or the Ford commercial that features the song “Funeral.” Now, if St. Louis music trends hold true, the next time the band hits St. Louis, they’ll be opening for a more-established act in a massive, impersonal amphitheatre.
Don’t tell me this shows that I demonstrated good judgment or common sense; that’s no consolation. Even if the concert would have been cancelled, you simultaneously ruined my plans and made me look like a total chickenshit. A few years ago, nothing short of the skies opening and Jesus himself descending to earth, Liar by the Jesus Lizard blasting from his iPod, would have prevented me from missing a St. Louis concert by one of “my” bands. And even then I would have strongly considered attending the performance and dealing with that little apocalypse thing later.
Snow, you and I are no longer on speaking terms. Like Michael Corleone dealing with Fredo, I want advance notice when you’ll be coming around, so I can make sure I’m in a different part of town. And when Band of Horses returns to the STL in a couple years and is opening for Once Forgotten But Now Suddenly Relevant And Respected Dinosaur Act at the St. Louis Enormo-Dome, it won’t make up for missing this show.
Fix you good,
Eric
Thursday, December 27, 2007
An Indie Music Junkie's Year-End Best Of List
What would December be without crass commercialism, rampant orgy-like spending, and random year-end lists?
It Was the Best of Concerts, It Was the Worst of Concerts
Elvis Costello and Bob Dylan, October 22, 2007 - In October the two music icons appeared at the Fox Theatre in St. Louis. Costello, armed with an array of guitars, delivered a memorable solo performance full of the spite, anger, humor, and occasional tenderness that mark his best songs. There was crowd participation, furious guitar playing, and a perfect “The Scarlet Tide” to close the set. Then Dylan ambled out, played a couple songs on guitar, and retreated behind his keyboard for a set that sounded like the end days. The mix was horrible, and Dylan could barely wheeze three words at a time as he growled his way through the murk.
Reunion Album That Reconfirmed It All
Beyond - Dinosaur Jr. - Sure, J Mascis looks like the guy you always see in Best Buy monopolizing Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock while children wait impatiently for their crack at it, but Beyond was a tremendous reunion album. With its mix of guitar squall and buried melodies, it stands right alongside You’re Living All Over Me as a classic Dinosaur Jr. album.
Reunion Album That Ruined It All
The Weirdness - The Stooges - Forget that “Lust for Life” is now the theme song for a cruise ship commercial (with the lines about liquor and drugs carefully removed). This underwhelming album by the Stooges killed whatever mystique they had left. Even Steve Albini as “recorder” couldn’t save it.
Best Artist to Have a Song Featured in a Car Commercial
It was an interesting year for Band of Horses. After a spat with fans in San Diego over videotaping of the band’s July 6 performance, the Sub Poppers took some heat for licensing songs to Wal-Mart for use in an online campaign. In recent weeks, the band’s song “Funeral” has been in heavy rotation for a Ford television commercial, marking the strangest use of a song for commercial purposes since Volkswagen used Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” in 2000.
Best Artist to Not Have a Song Featured in a Car Commercial
That Tom Waits is a bad mofo. In January, Waits won a decision against Adam Opel AG, an offshoot of General Motors, for using a Waits soundalike to sell cars…in Scandinavia. It was the second time in less than two years that Waits won such a lawsuit. Rumors that BMW wants to use Waits’ “Misery is the River of the World” for their 2008 marketing campaign are not yet confirmed.
Favorite Concert
When The National played the Duck Room in St. Louis on June 11, Boxer was freshly released and beginning to garner plaudits that ranged from reserved praise to over-the-top awe. What could have been a sparsely attended show was instead a packed house with an eager, energetic crowd. Relying on the new material but also playing songs from Alligator and Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers, the band delivered an intense, cathartic performance, surpassing the increasing hype. Now, if someone has a recording of it, I’m not hard to reach.
Reissues Are More Than Just Cash Grabs
Bronze – Calenture, The Triffids - The underappreciated 1980s Australian band finally got their due with a nice reissue of their 1987 album Calenture, the follow up to the essential Born Sandy Devotional. The original album, demos, and outtakes were spread out over two discs, plus the album’s packaging was snazzy and liner notes were actually informative.
Silver – Stand in the Fire, Warren Zevon - Long out of print on disc, Warren Zevon’s Stand in the Fire received the digital treatment this year. A recording of a wild, frenzied 1981 performance, the album showed Zevon at his manic best. Four cuts excluded from the original album were included to top it off. Play it loud.
Gold – Daydream Nation, Sonic Youth - Sonic Youth’s much-worshiped Daydream Nation was given a fat dose of bonus tracks this year. The original album is, of course, great, but the real treat here was the second disc, which was jammed full of Sonic Youth goodness, including a live version of each album track, as well as covers of songs by The Beatles, Neil Young, and Captain Beefheart. A nice essay and cool period photos made this reissue an essential purchase.
You Fool, Reissues Just Rob You of Money
Pointless reissues or compilations were certainly not in short supply in 2007. While many major labels could be taken to task for uninspired reissues/compilations, Columbia’s bland, boring, and utterly useless Dylan release represented everything wrong with such releases. With zero unreleased recordings (unless you paid on iTunes), this abomination rehashed most of the same damn songs as Dylan’s many other compilations. With an artist whose vault must be packed with unreleased goodies, lazy stuff like this shouldn’t even exist.
Favorite Albums
Bronze – Neon Bible, Arcade Fire - Even if many music fans and critics blew their loads over 2004’s Funeral, the Arcade Fire’s self-produced sophomore album gave everyone a chance to get fired up again. Even though the images of apocalypse and bombs could grow a little heavy-handed at times, Win Butler’s voice, ranging from howls to everything in between, and the band’s damn loud playing made this album more than just another rant about the sorry state of our world.
Silver – Armchair Apocrypha, Andrew Bird - With the guitar pushed to the forefront, Armchair Apocrypha marked a stylistic shift for Andrew Bird. The songs were highly textured and far more layered than his previous albums; violin loops, drums, whistling, guitars and glockenspiels were thrown together to create a symphonic sound that amazingly didn’t result in garbled mush. The songs could sometimes be decidedly heavy; absurd superstitions, old age, the futility of war and the fall of empires, childhood confusion, and a general helplessness against a vast, impersonal world all unfolded in Bird’s lyrics. There aren’t many albums that sound like this one, and that’s a good thing.
Gold – Boxer, The National - Never has an album whose characters suffer under a veil of fuck-it-all resignation sounded so good. The songs on Boxer invoked themes of broken relationships, people aging quickly beyond their years, and passing, superficial comforts like drugs and booze; even the implied threats of “Start a War” sounded powerless and empty. Evocative lyrics, Matt Berninger’s weary baritone, and the band’s sometimes minimalist, sometimes layered instrumentation combined beautifully to create one of the best albums of the decade.
It Was the Best of Concerts, It Was the Worst of Concerts
Elvis Costello and Bob Dylan, October 22, 2007 - In October the two music icons appeared at the Fox Theatre in St. Louis. Costello, armed with an array of guitars, delivered a memorable solo performance full of the spite, anger, humor, and occasional tenderness that mark his best songs. There was crowd participation, furious guitar playing, and a perfect “The Scarlet Tide” to close the set. Then Dylan ambled out, played a couple songs on guitar, and retreated behind his keyboard for a set that sounded like the end days. The mix was horrible, and Dylan could barely wheeze three words at a time as he growled his way through the murk.
Reunion Album That Reconfirmed It All
Beyond - Dinosaur Jr. - Sure, J Mascis looks like the guy you always see in Best Buy monopolizing Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock while children wait impatiently for their crack at it, but Beyond was a tremendous reunion album. With its mix of guitar squall and buried melodies, it stands right alongside You’re Living All Over Me as a classic Dinosaur Jr. album.
Reunion Album That Ruined It All
The Weirdness - The Stooges - Forget that “Lust for Life” is now the theme song for a cruise ship commercial (with the lines about liquor and drugs carefully removed). This underwhelming album by the Stooges killed whatever mystique they had left. Even Steve Albini as “recorder” couldn’t save it.
Best Artist to Have a Song Featured in a Car Commercial
It was an interesting year for Band of Horses. After a spat with fans in San Diego over videotaping of the band’s July 6 performance, the Sub Poppers took some heat for licensing songs to Wal-Mart for use in an online campaign. In recent weeks, the band’s song “Funeral” has been in heavy rotation for a Ford television commercial, marking the strangest use of a song for commercial purposes since Volkswagen used Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” in 2000.
Best Artist to Not Have a Song Featured in a Car Commercial
That Tom Waits is a bad mofo. In January, Waits won a decision against Adam Opel AG, an offshoot of General Motors, for using a Waits soundalike to sell cars…in Scandinavia. It was the second time in less than two years that Waits won such a lawsuit. Rumors that BMW wants to use Waits’ “Misery is the River of the World” for their 2008 marketing campaign are not yet confirmed.
Favorite Concert
When The National played the Duck Room in St. Louis on June 11, Boxer was freshly released and beginning to garner plaudits that ranged from reserved praise to over-the-top awe. What could have been a sparsely attended show was instead a packed house with an eager, energetic crowd. Relying on the new material but also playing songs from Alligator and Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers, the band delivered an intense, cathartic performance, surpassing the increasing hype. Now, if someone has a recording of it, I’m not hard to reach.
Reissues Are More Than Just Cash Grabs
Bronze – Calenture, The Triffids - The underappreciated 1980s Australian band finally got their due with a nice reissue of their 1987 album Calenture, the follow up to the essential Born Sandy Devotional. The original album, demos, and outtakes were spread out over two discs, plus the album’s packaging was snazzy and liner notes were actually informative.
Silver – Stand in the Fire, Warren Zevon - Long out of print on disc, Warren Zevon’s Stand in the Fire received the digital treatment this year. A recording of a wild, frenzied 1981 performance, the album showed Zevon at his manic best. Four cuts excluded from the original album were included to top it off. Play it loud.
Gold – Daydream Nation, Sonic Youth - Sonic Youth’s much-worshiped Daydream Nation was given a fat dose of bonus tracks this year. The original album is, of course, great, but the real treat here was the second disc, which was jammed full of Sonic Youth goodness, including a live version of each album track, as well as covers of songs by The Beatles, Neil Young, and Captain Beefheart. A nice essay and cool period photos made this reissue an essential purchase.
You Fool, Reissues Just Rob You of Money
Pointless reissues or compilations were certainly not in short supply in 2007. While many major labels could be taken to task for uninspired reissues/compilations, Columbia’s bland, boring, and utterly useless Dylan release represented everything wrong with such releases. With zero unreleased recordings (unless you paid on iTunes), this abomination rehashed most of the same damn songs as Dylan’s many other compilations. With an artist whose vault must be packed with unreleased goodies, lazy stuff like this shouldn’t even exist.
Favorite Albums
Bronze – Neon Bible, Arcade Fire - Even if many music fans and critics blew their loads over 2004’s Funeral, the Arcade Fire’s self-produced sophomore album gave everyone a chance to get fired up again. Even though the images of apocalypse and bombs could grow a little heavy-handed at times, Win Butler’s voice, ranging from howls to everything in between, and the band’s damn loud playing made this album more than just another rant about the sorry state of our world.
Silver – Armchair Apocrypha, Andrew Bird - With the guitar pushed to the forefront, Armchair Apocrypha marked a stylistic shift for Andrew Bird. The songs were highly textured and far more layered than his previous albums; violin loops, drums, whistling, guitars and glockenspiels were thrown together to create a symphonic sound that amazingly didn’t result in garbled mush. The songs could sometimes be decidedly heavy; absurd superstitions, old age, the futility of war and the fall of empires, childhood confusion, and a general helplessness against a vast, impersonal world all unfolded in Bird’s lyrics. There aren’t many albums that sound like this one, and that’s a good thing.
Gold – Boxer, The National - Never has an album whose characters suffer under a veil of fuck-it-all resignation sounded so good. The songs on Boxer invoked themes of broken relationships, people aging quickly beyond their years, and passing, superficial comforts like drugs and booze; even the implied threats of “Start a War” sounded powerless and empty. Evocative lyrics, Matt Berninger’s weary baritone, and the band’s sometimes minimalist, sometimes layered instrumentation combined beautifully to create one of the best albums of the decade.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Elvis Costello and Bob Dylan - October 22, 2007, St. Louis, MO
As demonstrated by Elvis Costello at the Fox Theatre in St. Louis on Monday night, follow these simple steps to upstage the headlining musical legend:
Enunciate into the microphone in a language that approximates English. Bonus points if your voice can be heard and your words can be easily understood both when singing near the microphone and when singing unamplified for dramatic effect.
Deliver the songs with passion and energy; squeeze an ungodly amount of music and noise out of only a variety of sound-distorted guitars.
Mix in a few excellent new songs to compliment the older material.
Acknowledge at least once that you are aware of the city, state, planet, or epoch you are currently performing in. This can be something as simple as a “how are ya?” to a story about advice your father gave you.
All kidding aside, it is the equivalent of a musical sin to criticize Bob Dylan nowadays; the man’s a musical genius whose concert tours (1966 Europe, 1975-1976 Rolling Thunder, and too many others to count) and recorded output (Blonde On Blonde, Blood On The Tracks, and, uh, Shot Of Love) speak for themselves and crush most other artists’ masterpieces like a grape. His last three studio albums are outstanding. He’s been on a critical and creative high for the last ten years. Long after all these peon hack bloggers like myself have sprung off this mortal coil, people will still be listening to, writing about, and over-analyzing Dylan’s lyrics and life.
Some of my favorite concert memories are of Dylan shows. In 1999 my then-girlfriend (and now-wife, also along for the bumpy ride for this latest Dylan show) and I saw Dylan with Paul Simon at Riverport Amphitheatre; their spooky duet of “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” is something I’ll never forget, pending senility. In 2004, my brother and I spent three nights waiting outside in the cold March rain for early admission to see Dylan at the Pageant, and the highlights from those shows are too many to name (I’ll take “Senor” and “Man In The Long Black Coat” as my favorites).
But none of this changes the fact that Costello stole the show on Monday night. In an intense, far-too-short solo performance that saw Costello switch guitars nearly every song and pound and hack away at the instrument with fury, the singer covered the usual live standards like “Radio Sweetheart,” “Veronica,” and “(What’s So Funny About) Peace, Love, and Understanding,” none of which sounded stale or color-by-numbers. A reworked “Alison” brought out the sinister, stalker undertones of the song, and “Bedlam” was given a savage treatment that surpassed the version from The Delivery Man.
New songs “Sulfur To Sugar Cane” and “Down Among The Wine And Spirits” were solid as well, and have a definite topical bent to them (maybe the next Costello album will be titled Another Side of Elvis Costello). Costello concluded with “The Scarlet Tide,” Costello’s and T-Bone Burnette’s song from the Civil War epic Cold Mountain. Updated with two lines that reference the current mess in Iraq, the ballad hushed the audience (except for one jackass in the balcony section who shouted uncontrollably for about a minute about chicken feathers or something). Costello ended the song unamplified, his voice easily heard throughout the theatre. The effect was chilling.
If the night ended there, I would have gone home happy. As the house lights went up and the crew began re-assembling the stage for Dylan and his band, the usual pre-Dylan performance things began to happen: Dylanphiles materialized from thin air, sporting their recently-purchased $40 t-shirts. Bootlegs were traded in the bathroom. The horde began to move toward the front of the stage, despite the entire show being reserved seating. I’ve come to accept the fact that for many of Dylan’s more “dedicated” fans, assigned seat numbering is a mere suggestion. When the music starts, you can expect the reserved area to quickly be swallowed up; getting someone’s dancing ass thrust into your face is practically a rite of passage for Dylan concerts.
When Dylan and his band opened with “Leopard-Skin Pillbox Hat,” the rapturous applause was deafening and expected; Dylan’s fans are by and large an energetic, boisterous, and perhaps loyal-to-a-fault bunch. Awkward pelvic thrusts and shoulder gyrations could be seen throughout the theatre, many of the dances resembling a two-hour long epileptic fit.
But something else was immediately apparent: both the sound mix and Dylan’s singing were far below par (and yes, I’m aware that Dylan has never had a “traditional beautiful voice”). The mix was essentially a giant a wall of sound; it was far closer to sounding like My Bloody Valentine than Bob Dylan. When Dylan’s voice could be heard over the murk, the words were largely unintelligible; even a few die-hard lifers seated near me readily admitted that they couldn’t make out the words. Dylan’s voice itself was not in good shape either, alternating between a wheeze and a timid bark.
Blame the lousy mix if you want; perhaps Dylan was trying to sing above the sludge, but it’s undeniable that he was inaudible for most of the performance. When the words could be distinguished, his odd cadence of “three words/pause/three words/pause/repeat” didn’t always work. For every song where this vocal styling succeeded (“It Ain’t Me, Babe” was a high point), another song would suffer from the phrasing. “Visions Of Johanna” and “Summer Days” were victims of this approach, as both songs plodded under the odd phrasing, limping toward the finish line.
I don’t think Dylan mailed the performance in, even if he rarely faced the audience and only briefly acknowledged the audience’s presence. By now, those familiar with Dylan’s live show accept the fact that Dylan will follow his muse live, and the concertgoer can form an opinion from that. The musician should be credited for trying to find new ways to present his material, some of which debuted during the Bronze Age. The obvious risk is that sometimes this succeeds beautifully, and other times it fails miserably. Unfortunately, Dylan’s performance in St. Louis fell into this latter category.
Enunciate into the microphone in a language that approximates English. Bonus points if your voice can be heard and your words can be easily understood both when singing near the microphone and when singing unamplified for dramatic effect.
Deliver the songs with passion and energy; squeeze an ungodly amount of music and noise out of only a variety of sound-distorted guitars.
Mix in a few excellent new songs to compliment the older material.
Acknowledge at least once that you are aware of the city, state, planet, or epoch you are currently performing in. This can be something as simple as a “how are ya?” to a story about advice your father gave you.
All kidding aside, it is the equivalent of a musical sin to criticize Bob Dylan nowadays; the man’s a musical genius whose concert tours (1966 Europe, 1975-1976 Rolling Thunder, and too many others to count) and recorded output (Blonde On Blonde, Blood On The Tracks, and, uh, Shot Of Love) speak for themselves and crush most other artists’ masterpieces like a grape. His last three studio albums are outstanding. He’s been on a critical and creative high for the last ten years. Long after all these peon hack bloggers like myself have sprung off this mortal coil, people will still be listening to, writing about, and over-analyzing Dylan’s lyrics and life.
Some of my favorite concert memories are of Dylan shows. In 1999 my then-girlfriend (and now-wife, also along for the bumpy ride for this latest Dylan show) and I saw Dylan with Paul Simon at Riverport Amphitheatre; their spooky duet of “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” is something I’ll never forget, pending senility. In 2004, my brother and I spent three nights waiting outside in the cold March rain for early admission to see Dylan at the Pageant, and the highlights from those shows are too many to name (I’ll take “Senor” and “Man In The Long Black Coat” as my favorites).
But none of this changes the fact that Costello stole the show on Monday night. In an intense, far-too-short solo performance that saw Costello switch guitars nearly every song and pound and hack away at the instrument with fury, the singer covered the usual live standards like “Radio Sweetheart,” “Veronica,” and “(What’s So Funny About) Peace, Love, and Understanding,” none of which sounded stale or color-by-numbers. A reworked “Alison” brought out the sinister, stalker undertones of the song, and “Bedlam” was given a savage treatment that surpassed the version from The Delivery Man.
New songs “Sulfur To Sugar Cane” and “Down Among The Wine And Spirits” were solid as well, and have a definite topical bent to them (maybe the next Costello album will be titled Another Side of Elvis Costello). Costello concluded with “The Scarlet Tide,” Costello’s and T-Bone Burnette’s song from the Civil War epic Cold Mountain. Updated with two lines that reference the current mess in Iraq, the ballad hushed the audience (except for one jackass in the balcony section who shouted uncontrollably for about a minute about chicken feathers or something). Costello ended the song unamplified, his voice easily heard throughout the theatre. The effect was chilling.
If the night ended there, I would have gone home happy. As the house lights went up and the crew began re-assembling the stage for Dylan and his band, the usual pre-Dylan performance things began to happen: Dylanphiles materialized from thin air, sporting their recently-purchased $40 t-shirts. Bootlegs were traded in the bathroom. The horde began to move toward the front of the stage, despite the entire show being reserved seating. I’ve come to accept the fact that for many of Dylan’s more “dedicated” fans, assigned seat numbering is a mere suggestion. When the music starts, you can expect the reserved area to quickly be swallowed up; getting someone’s dancing ass thrust into your face is practically a rite of passage for Dylan concerts.
When Dylan and his band opened with “Leopard-Skin Pillbox Hat,” the rapturous applause was deafening and expected; Dylan’s fans are by and large an energetic, boisterous, and perhaps loyal-to-a-fault bunch. Awkward pelvic thrusts and shoulder gyrations could be seen throughout the theatre, many of the dances resembling a two-hour long epileptic fit.
But something else was immediately apparent: both the sound mix and Dylan’s singing were far below par (and yes, I’m aware that Dylan has never had a “traditional beautiful voice”). The mix was essentially a giant a wall of sound; it was far closer to sounding like My Bloody Valentine than Bob Dylan. When Dylan’s voice could be heard over the murk, the words were largely unintelligible; even a few die-hard lifers seated near me readily admitted that they couldn’t make out the words. Dylan’s voice itself was not in good shape either, alternating between a wheeze and a timid bark.
Blame the lousy mix if you want; perhaps Dylan was trying to sing above the sludge, but it’s undeniable that he was inaudible for most of the performance. When the words could be distinguished, his odd cadence of “three words/pause/three words/pause/repeat” didn’t always work. For every song where this vocal styling succeeded (“It Ain’t Me, Babe” was a high point), another song would suffer from the phrasing. “Visions Of Johanna” and “Summer Days” were victims of this approach, as both songs plodded under the odd phrasing, limping toward the finish line.
I don’t think Dylan mailed the performance in, even if he rarely faced the audience and only briefly acknowledged the audience’s presence. By now, those familiar with Dylan’s live show accept the fact that Dylan will follow his muse live, and the concertgoer can form an opinion from that. The musician should be credited for trying to find new ways to present his material, some of which debuted during the Bronze Age. The obvious risk is that sometimes this succeeds beautifully, and other times it fails miserably. Unfortunately, Dylan’s performance in St. Louis fell into this latter category.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Satire: St. Louis Music Scene Found Dead; Several Suspects Under Investigation
In a startling development, the St. Louis Music Scene was found dead this morning, near the Pageant concert nightclub on Delmar Boulevard. Although the cause of death has yet to be determined, authorities speculate the death was possibly caused by St. Louis' appalling number of frustrated male concert-going go-go dancers, the number of bloated 1980s hair bands and androgynous male bands targeting pre-pubescent kids that thrive in the city, or finally, Richard "Dick" Reamer of Creve Coeur, MO.
Homicide detectives are currently pursuing the St. Louis male concert-going population as their strongest suspect. "We've received numerous substantiated reports that this suspect has engaged in various illicit and disgusting activities, including grotesque seated pelvic dancing thrusts during the recent Richard Thompson acoustic concert," stated Detective Fuller Johnson, lead investigator for the case. "For chrissakes, how can you justify a seated wiggly-wig dance routine during "How Will I Ever Be Simple Again?" No wonder that show was nothing but single men wearing berets."
"We also suspect that this contingent's propensity to dress like the performer has caused premier acts to avoid St. Louis in abject horror," Johnson continued. "I saw more wide-rimmed glasses at the Elvis Costello concert than I would at my optometrist's office. Shit, if I was on stage and looked at the audience to see me looking back at me, I'd run like hell from this city also."
While the bulk of the St. Louis Police Department's resources are focusing on this suspect as their primary lead, other suspects have not yet been eliminated. Another promising culprit remains the glut of washed-up acts, primarily those of the classic rock or hair metal variety, that have turned St. Louis into a veritable hotbed for artists last seen on Behind the Music.
"Sammy Hagar could go on a tour where all he does is fart on stage and primp his hair, and it would sell out within minutes in this town. Then a second show would be added, and it would sell out even faster than the first," lamented one seasoned concert veteran who wished to remain nameless.
Detective Johnson does not dispute that this suspect could have played a role in the tragic demise of the St. Louis Music Scene either. "Nothing could kill a music scene quite like the recent White Lion/Poison brutal double bill. What did the cat drag in? How about a whole lot of hairspray, questionable hygienic practices, and enough botched boob jobs to last a lifetime - and that was just the men."
Others are eager to point out that the recent rash of androgynous bands who appeal to the angst-ridden kids of affluent suburbia has not yet been eliminated as a co-conspirator. "Panic At The Fall Out Disco Boy High School Gym Stars — or whatever they're called — sold out the Pageant with ease," one local indie concert promoter stated.
"All that mascara and eyeliner, coupled with a disturbing audience demographic of pre-teens whose wardrobe makes Ziggy Stardust-era David Bowie seem downright butch, has taken its toll on the Scene. Some of the girls at the show wore makeup too."
Still a very small segment of the city's detectives are quietly pursuing one last suspect at the behest of Johnson himself: Richard "Dick" Reamer, a retired auto mechanic who has lived in the city for 60 years.
"Why Reamer? Because he's a bastard sumbitch who must be guilty of something. I just feel it in my police bones," Johnson was quoted as saying. "His porch has four barbeque pits and six wind chimes, and he soaks his feet in Epsom salt while listening to Benny Goodman. He's hiding something — I'm sure of it. I wouldn't be surprised to find a stockpile of mullets and worn-out copies of Frampton Comes Alive in his basement."
Regardless of the guilty party, St. Louis music fans are nearly unanimous in agreeing that the Scene's death did not come as a complete surprise. "We got Yo La Tengo, the Decemberists, and Andrew Bird all in one week in April. But send Twisted Sister, Hanson, and Sebastian Bach with their Inquisition-grade brand of torture to your town and see if it survives," one local music fan stated dejectedly. "Poor baby Scene, she never had a chance."
There is talk of an upcoming charity concert for the Scene. Proceeds will be distributed evenly between the Scene's closest relatives (Kansas City and Chicago, which have been getting the quality acts that have skipped St. Louis for years anyway), and among those traumatized by the recent senseless and deadly James Blunt concert.
Homicide detectives are currently pursuing the St. Louis male concert-going population as their strongest suspect. "We've received numerous substantiated reports that this suspect has engaged in various illicit and disgusting activities, including grotesque seated pelvic dancing thrusts during the recent Richard Thompson acoustic concert," stated Detective Fuller Johnson, lead investigator for the case. "For chrissakes, how can you justify a seated wiggly-wig dance routine during "How Will I Ever Be Simple Again?" No wonder that show was nothing but single men wearing berets."
"We also suspect that this contingent's propensity to dress like the performer has caused premier acts to avoid St. Louis in abject horror," Johnson continued. "I saw more wide-rimmed glasses at the Elvis Costello concert than I would at my optometrist's office. Shit, if I was on stage and looked at the audience to see me looking back at me, I'd run like hell from this city also."
While the bulk of the St. Louis Police Department's resources are focusing on this suspect as their primary lead, other suspects have not yet been eliminated. Another promising culprit remains the glut of washed-up acts, primarily those of the classic rock or hair metal variety, that have turned St. Louis into a veritable hotbed for artists last seen on Behind the Music.
"Sammy Hagar could go on a tour where all he does is fart on stage and primp his hair, and it would sell out within minutes in this town. Then a second show would be added, and it would sell out even faster than the first," lamented one seasoned concert veteran who wished to remain nameless.
Detective Johnson does not dispute that this suspect could have played a role in the tragic demise of the St. Louis Music Scene either. "Nothing could kill a music scene quite like the recent White Lion/Poison brutal double bill. What did the cat drag in? How about a whole lot of hairspray, questionable hygienic practices, and enough botched boob jobs to last a lifetime - and that was just the men."
Others are eager to point out that the recent rash of androgynous bands who appeal to the angst-ridden kids of affluent suburbia has not yet been eliminated as a co-conspirator. "Panic At The Fall Out Disco Boy High School Gym Stars — or whatever they're called — sold out the Pageant with ease," one local indie concert promoter stated.
"All that mascara and eyeliner, coupled with a disturbing audience demographic of pre-teens whose wardrobe makes Ziggy Stardust-era David Bowie seem downright butch, has taken its toll on the Scene. Some of the girls at the show wore makeup too."
Still a very small segment of the city's detectives are quietly pursuing one last suspect at the behest of Johnson himself: Richard "Dick" Reamer, a retired auto mechanic who has lived in the city for 60 years.
"Why Reamer? Because he's a bastard sumbitch who must be guilty of something. I just feel it in my police bones," Johnson was quoted as saying. "His porch has four barbeque pits and six wind chimes, and he soaks his feet in Epsom salt while listening to Benny Goodman. He's hiding something — I'm sure of it. I wouldn't be surprised to find a stockpile of mullets and worn-out copies of Frampton Comes Alive in his basement."
Regardless of the guilty party, St. Louis music fans are nearly unanimous in agreeing that the Scene's death did not come as a complete surprise. "We got Yo La Tengo, the Decemberists, and Andrew Bird all in one week in April. But send Twisted Sister, Hanson, and Sebastian Bach with their Inquisition-grade brand of torture to your town and see if it survives," one local music fan stated dejectedly. "Poor baby Scene, she never had a chance."
There is talk of an upcoming charity concert for the Scene. Proceeds will be distributed evenly between the Scene's closest relatives (Kansas City and Chicago, which have been getting the quality acts that have skipped St. Louis for years anyway), and among those traumatized by the recent senseless and deadly James Blunt concert.
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