San Diego-based Convoy, which plays Old Ironsides on Wednesday, October 24, emerged from the ashes of Dishwater, a band more akin to Blind Melon and Mother Hips. Convoy plays glorious country-tinged pop soaked with multi-part harmonies. If you fancy California twang or No Depression bands like Wilco and the Jayhawks, such songs as “Wet Cement” and “Eleventeen” should be right up on your porch. And a couple of early Convoy classics—“Weekends” and “Here’s Looking at You,” from the band’s self-produced album The Pineapple Sessions—have been reworked on Black Licorice by producer David Bianco (Tom Petty, Teenage Fanclub). Guitarist-vocalists Jason Hill and Brian Karscig weave melodies with the candor of early Beatles, playing off their bandmates—Robbie Dodds on lap steel and guitar, Jeff Winfrey on bass, Mark Maigaard on drums—with relative ease. Black Licorice never had such a thrilling aftertaste.
Rock Star could have been Judas Priest’s meal ticket. The band was offered a generous, undisclosed sum for rights to Ripper Owens’ story as its replacement for Rob Halford. If Owens’ Halford-esque screams didn’t seem genuine on Priest’s last effort, wait ’til you hear Demolition, easily the band’s worst to date. Owens’ vocal gymnastics are feigned and stale, which is a state they’ll likely remain in as long as he’s an active member of this band. Drummer Scott Travis, who belongs in Racer X, puts in a fine performance, and bassist Ian Hill holds the crumbling foundation together somehow. Were it not for a great love of K.K. Downing’s and Glen Tipton’s dual-guitar wizardry, I would have demolished, pun intended, this album on arrival. Ripper was and remains a tribute-band frontman, at least as long as Rob Halford walks the earth. Kiss and make up, boys. We need our metal gods.
Is Lucy Kaplansky a folk singer, or a doctor masquerading as one?
Lucy Kaplansky, who knows music is the best therapy.
Live! 8 p.m. Thursday, October 11, at the Palms Playhouse, 726 Drummond Ave., Davis, with Nina Gerber accompanying and Alice Peacock opening, $15.
Let’s face it. Folk musicians have never been given their proper time in the sun. The general consensus, at least among a few modern-day pedants, is that such “folkies” as John Gorka, Bill Morrissey, Dar Williams and others don’t have the talent of those who came before them—Bob Dylan, Donovan Leitch, Paul Simon, to name a few.
What great artists like Lucy Kaplansky and her ilk deserve is just beyond the door. One listen to Kaplansky’s latest collection of songs, which she co-wrote with her husband Rick Litvin, should dissuade such misguided conventions.
Kaplansky moved from Chicago to New York just after finishing high school. She found refuge in lower Manhattan’s renowned singer-songwriter scene and immediately immersed herself in her music. She began her career by navigating the club circuit, performing alongside such folk luminaries as Cliff Eberhardt, Suzanne Vega and her longtime friend Shawn Colvin.
Just as she was beginning to receive critical notice, Kaplansky decided to pursue a doctorate in psychology instead, thus putting her nascent music career on the back burner. And, upon earning a degree, she set up a practice as a clinical psychologist, and also worked with mentally ill patients in a New York hospital.
However, at Colvin’s urging, Kaplansky recorded her first album for Red House, a label held in high regard by fans of singer-songwriters from the folk-music tradition. The Tide was released in 1994 to rave reviews. Then, Kaplansky hit the road and got back to her true love—music.
“I think the main way my training correlates,” says Kaplansky via e-mail about her background in psychology, “is that it has made me a much more perceptive, observant person in general, and much more savvy about people’s motivations.”
From the U.K. and Ireland to folk festivals across America, Kaplansky has delivered the goods. A self-professed lover of Steve Earle—“I think he’s a genius,” she says—and such lesser-known acts as the Louvin Brothers and Paul Brady, she’s tirelessly paid tribute to her inspirations. During the 22 hours in a day when she isn’t playing, unless she has an in-store appearance or an on-air performance scheduled, Kaplansky has had more than ample time to write and revise her latest album. While Kaplansky admits to eating “too much junk food” on the road, she says she tries to eat a lot of fruit to help keep her figure girlish.
Kaplansky keeps informed on world affairs and, being a transplant to America’s largest city, she was affected by the World Trade Center disaster. She just played a benefit concert in New York that also featured Freedy Johnston, Jill Sobule, Joan Osborne and a number of others. “It’s a free concert to help New Yorkers with the healing process through music,” she says.
Kaplansky has released four albums, including her latest triumph, Every Single Day. She recorded that one in only six weeks—mostly done live, albeit in the studio. In addition, Kaplansky worked with Cry, Cry, Cry, a collaboration that also featured Richard Shindell and Dar Williams, which seemed to awaken her talents even further. And Kaplansky can be heard performing on Nanci Griffith’s and John Gorka’s latest albums.
Through it all, Kaplansky has managed to circumvent a major-label deal while managing to live comfortably. “I can’t say there’s anything I’d do over,” she notes. “I’ve been awfully happy with the way my albums have been turning out.”
Marc Bianchi, aka Her Space Holiday, received much praise for his Home Is Where You Hang Yourself, a spacey double CD that landed him coveted tours with Cat Power and Arab Strap. Manic Expressive, although still bedroom-generated electropop, shows Bianchi’s scope broadening and a new sense of melody, with a dash of latter-day Thomas Dolby, Stars and Mr. Wright thrown in. Spiritualized’s formula—less is more, drive the melody to the floor—is evident on such songs as “Lydia” and “The Ringing in My Areas,” which lack any overburdening guitar drone. Radiohead fans circa Kid A and Amnesiac now have something to listen to while waiting for that band’s next effort. If you’re into such acts as Arling & Cameron, the Eels or American Analog Set, this should be right up your alley. Manic Expressive is a glorious piece of orchestral pop sweetness without any aftertaste of traditional pop confections.
We learned about triple point, the state where vapor, liquid and solid forms of a substance exist in equilibrium with one another, in high-school chemistry. Perhaps Scott Morgan, sometimes drummer for Vancouver band Destroyer, had a flashback to his teens when choosing the concept for his latest release. The album centers, largely, around the dynamics of matter vs. anti-matter; on the disc, Morgan exploits synths, samplers and computer programs. Triple Point is an ambient journey that sounds as if it could’ve been released via Hydrogen Dukebox or, perhaps, might be a Cluster-Eno-Rapoon outtake. Loscil is tempered by a lack of high end and is accentuated by Morgan’s choice of minor keys and dissonance—something a film-score aficionado such as Morgan might conjure. If you’re a fan of recent Labradford/Pan American releases, Loscil will be the next logical step.
With the success of Megadeth and Metallica came a signing flurry that ended in an onslaught of mediocre releases and rapid band breakups. Sanctuary, however, fronted by future Nevermore vocalist Warrel Dane, was helped along through some production help from Megadeth’s Dave Mustaine and, at least, garnered some great overseas press and kudos followed. Unfortunately, metalheads in North America, the band’s home continent, didn’t jump onboard and sales were less than stellar. Sanctuary’s talented frontman needed refuge fast. End result: Nevermore.
Some bands hit their stride after they’ve got a few albums under the belt. Such is the case of Seattle’s Nevermore, which just blew through Sacramento on its national tour with Savatage. Dead Heart in a Dead World, Nevermore’s latest album on the Century Media label, is to power-metal culture—fans of Helloween, Forbidden and Lefay—what Nirvana’s Nevermind was for an earlier generation. After a few under-acknowledged releases, Dane and present company have hit the mark in a big way.
The outdoor stage at the Roadhouse, on Bell Avenue in Robla, south of what used to be McClellan AFB, is rarely used for shows. It was the perfect setting for the evening’s metal undertaking. With a small lighting truss and little more than night sky as a backdrop, Nevermore played to the 150-plus attendees as if they were at a large outdoor festival in front of thousands.
Warrel’s voice, as evidenced on “Narcosynthesis” and “Inside Four Walls,” was in fine form, not unlike that of Forbidden’s Russ Anderson. Van Williams played like a human metronome on such standout tracks as “The Heart Collector” and “Dead Heart in a Dead World,” the title track. Jim Sheppard looked maniacal as ever, standing in front of the huge blower fans; his bass provided a nice foundation for Jeff Loomis’ guitar antics. On this night the band was sporting a second guitarist whose name escapes me, adding a nice foundation and extra boost of power to its hour-long set.
Perhaps the most startling revelation of the night was Loomis’ background vocals—sung while playing the most intricate fretboard workouts—which enveloped Dane’s vocals in the most delightful rapture of sounds. Loomis can sing and steps up to the mic with passion and gusto; Dane made it all look too easy as he held long notes that could make middle-aged men go deaf.
The night’s turnout, although small, didn’t seem to hamper anyone’s experience. Fans were pleased with the night’s two-band line-up and felt their $20 was well spent—sans having to walk through square dancing inside the club to get to the outdoor venue. It pleases this writer that there are still a few promoters out there willing to take chances on package tours. With crowd numbers such as tonight, it’s not likely Nevermore will play Sacramento again. My advice to metalheads in the Sacramento Valley: Get off your asses and support these shows before we lose another venue.
An unlikely pairing of Snubnose and Split Lip Rayfield at a recent Monday Capitol Garage show made me wonder if the two crowds each attracted would get along. After all, I’ve never seen kitschy bluegrass attempted alongside angst-ridden punk rock. Sacramento’s bluegrass scene, limited to a handful of acts—FTRA, Scott Joss—should’ve been proud to knock down doors to play on such a bill. How did a power punk-rock trio land this one? On this night, however, ’twas history in the making; both acts, coupled together, made for a rockin’ good time.
Snubnose, the night’s openers, dazzled and delighted the 25-plus early attendees with their tales of drinking, money (or lack thereof) and debauchery. Led by the talents of lead vocalist/bassist L. Ron Drunkard, the Sacramento trio rifled through a set of three-chord standards and blues-soaked numbers. New guitarist/vocalist Jordan Peterson, who’d only played a handful of shows previously, seemed right at home on the Capitol Garage stage. The antics of drummer Magnificent El Cajon—wearing cowboy hat and swilling beer throughout the set—were thoroughly contagious. He seemed to enjoy himself so much I couldn’t help but crack a smile.
After a short break, it was time for the night’s main attaction, Bloodshot recording act Split Lip Rayfield from Wichita, Kansas. I’d seen the band at SXSW, the yearly industry schmoozefest in Austin, during a Bloodshot showcase. The band, then a three-piece, was Eric Mardis on banjo, Kirk Rundstrom on guitar and Jeff Eaton on bass, and was, arguably, the best act on the bill. The free beer and hot dogs didn’t hurt either. And with the addition of Wayne Gottstein on mandolin, Split Lip Rayfield was unstoppable.
Split Lip Rayfield played its tongue-in-cheek ditties and porch standards at breakneck speed. By first song’s end, the Garage was filled with 20- and 30-somethings and the smell of Budweiser. Eaton’s bass, fabricated from a gas tank with a single weed-whacker string, created a nice foundation for the juxtaposing rhythms of Mardis’ and Gottstein’s fretwork—imagine Ricky Skaggs on crank. The pseudo-white-trash quartet was right at home in Sacramento, and played new material supporting its recent album, Never Make It Home, whose songs formed the bulk of the set list.
To match the vibe, Split Lip sold bargain thrift-store T-shirts for $5 alongside its pricier shirts at $15. The shirts, which came from various places of origin—flea markets, dumpster diving—were about as ugly as they were hilarious. Heaped in piles on their merchandise table with virtually no attempt at an orderly presentation, the shirts resembled dirty laundry more than saleable product.
The combination of Snubnose’s most rocking moments—the Cramps meet Reverend Horton Heat—with Split Lip Rayfield’s unbelievably skilled players made for one rollicking good time in old Sacto. For a measly $7 cover, you couldn’t beat it.
Vocalist Jared Payne can be seen at such local haunts as Scratch 8 or Maui Pizza, working his band like a major-label promotion rep might. His considerable drive and determination have made this five-piece a household name among some considerable local competition—the Revolution Smile, Shortie, Long Drive Home, Tenfold—and Flicker’s latest effort has garnered a considerable buzz in the Sacramento Valley. Shaun Weiss and Scott Simpson form an able guitar duo with an ear for melody. Strict 9 exudes the positive amounts of energy needed to remain competitive. From the swirling chorus of “Label Me” to the fiery “Save Your Breath,” it’s clear that Flicker doesn’t plan on being a Sacramento bar fixture in 2002. Production problems aside—cymbal wash, lack of low end—Strict 9 is a local-scene triumph. SAMMIE committee, take note: It’s the orange CD with the menacing girl on the over. Give it a listen.
From the same label that brought you recordings of such timeless metal acts as Mercyful Fate, Deicide, King Diamond, Suffocation and Biohazard comes one of the greatest industrial/metal giants, Fear Factory. Roadrunner Records, a Dutch independent that recently hooked up with Vivendi Universal’s Island/Def Jam Music division, has been cranking out excessive amounts of nü metal as of late, with the exception of its Glen Benton’s obligatory Deicide releases. Fear Factory, hailing from Los Angeles, has separated itself from the ravenous pack of 20-somethings in search of the next Ozzfest buy-in package—Slipknot, anyone?—by staying true to its sound.
The hour-plus drive to the Phoenix Theater in Petaluma, home of wrist-wrestling championships and free-range chickens, proved to be well worth our extended efforts.
Except, well, with metal militia—i.e., some buddies—in tow, I managed to catch an uninspired set by a Puerto Rican combo calling itself Puya, a rap-metal hybrid that managed to create some movement in the 350 attendees. Maybe it’s just me—yes, it is me—but didn’t this genre’s ship sink back in the mid ’90s? Anchors away!
Next up was Fear Factory, a band that’s obviously been taking notes in Lighting 101 class. The band’s stage show—a flood of synchronized spotlights, strobes and smoke—worked well with its dark and menacing aura. With reckless abandon and caution thrown to the wind, guitarist Dino Cazares launched into “What Will Become” from Fear Factory’s latest album, Replica. Burton Bell, on vocals with harmonizer, planted one foot firmly on the monitors and belched out the set in true death-metal fashion. Commanding the huge 60’ X 40’ stage like a drill sergeant, Bell’s onstage banter made the metal masses stand at attention.
Such hi-hat and double-bass workouts as “Scapegoat” and “Pisschrist”—the latter this writer’s favorite—sounded even larger in a live setting, and highlighted the talents of drummer Raymond Herrera. If you’re a metal drummer and you haven’t heard Fear Factory’s Fear Is the Mindkiller or Demanufacture, you’d best trade your Sabian cymbal pack and Pearl Export for a gift certificate from your favorite record store.
Fear Factory is a darling of the U.K. press, but the band hasn’t “broken,” in record-company parlance, stateside. However, by year’s end, this band may be just a lot closer to reaching the goal of worldwide acclaim. If its growth, and the resulting maturity, over the years have yielded anything, that might make for a solid foundation. Burton and company are reinventing this archaic genre into something quite extraordinary. Take heed: Miss this band now and you’ll be kicking yourself later.
Ageless Venomous espouses all of the essential metal topics—ceremonial killings, desecration of the living and dead, suffocation. Bassist/vocalist Alex Camargo can deliver live, as evidenced on this Brazilian band’s last tour with Nile and Cannibal Corpse, and in the studio. Their sound is not unlike fellow Brazilian band Rebaelliun, Centurian and Deicide. The title track, replete with Max Kolesne’s triggered 32nd double-bass notes, showcases the musicianship of this trio. Unlike most death/speed-metal acts, Krisiun is not afraid to risk its credibility by drifting outside its genre. There’s even a classical guitar interlude by Moyses Kolesne, “Diableros,” that would give John Williams and Andres Segovia a run for the money. Krisiun is to death metal what Slayer is to thrash metal. Like a lesson in flagellation, this band will make you succumb to the pain—and you will enjoy the consequences.
Eddie
