What separates Tindersticks from the diaspora of indie-rock droners is the subtle beauty of Dickon Hinchliffe’s vocal delivery. With his deep, warbling voice, a certain sense of warmth and comfort resonates throughout this lovely affair. Although not as clearly focused as earlier efforts (see their first Bar/None or their last London release), Can Our Love… has some fleeting moments. From the opening track, “Dying Slowly,” to the lovely (yet short) “Tricklin’,” Tindersticks explore a range of dynamics and simplicity not often heard in today’s attempts at melancholy. If the title track doesn’t make you contemplate the four-letter word all over, you may want to get out a little more. If Nick Cave’s darkest years met with the most meandering moments of traditional R&B Tindersticks would be the offspring. Oooh, what a pair.
Eric Petersen has been a busy man. In addition to his main band, Testament, he’s produced this well-rounded black-metal project. Dragonlord is Eric Petersen on vocals and guitar, Jon Allen (Sadus) on drums, Steve DiGiorgio (Death) on bass, Steve Smyth (guitarist from Testament) and local boy Lyle Livingston (Psypheria). Direction? Judging by the epic intro of “Vals de la Muerte” and the bombastic delivery of “Unholyvoid,” these boys have been influenced by the black-metal hordes. Fans of Dark Funeral, Cradle of Filth, Dimmu Borgir and Hecate Enthroned should embrace Dragonlord’s CD like Nosferatu cherished those flasks of blood. Dragonlord creates epic songs with drastic bridges, augmented by Petersen’s production efforts and Daniel Bergstrand’s mixing skills. If this album doesn’t incite random acts of sadism, it’ll surely awaken the nocturnal and feral instincts buried deep within.
Local instrumental spazzcore duo Hella sez this is your brains on the rug
Hella is Zach Hill, somebody’s pooch and Spencer Seim: Some higher sonic frequencies, only dogs and Geddy Lee can hear.
When Legs on Earth split like an amoeba in a petri dish before heading straight down the drain—how’s that for a lead, Madame Curie?—guitarist Spencer Seim and drummer Zach Hill found safe refuge with an entirely new sound. Hella, as the duo christened its new project, started playing shows around the greater Bay Area and Sacramento Valley. In the process, the neo-prog combo gained a sizable local following.
Hella recently released its first EP, which sold, amazingly enough, more than 30 copies at one show alone! Could it be that Hella has come to take shake your collective senses in ways unimaginable and stimulate you into neurotic fits?
Hellacious? Hella? Does it really matter what the etymology of a band’s moniker is? After all, it’s the music that counts, right? Just what kind of band would name itself after an overused Fast Times at Ridgemont High catchphrase that has taken root, nearly 20 years later, as a staple of local teen lexicon? And what makes the Hella Experience? “Zach mentioned it jokingly one day and it stuck,” says Seim, obviously not concerned with modern-day semantics.
Such other lesser-known acts as Lightning Bolt, the Moldy Peaches, Vaz, Pink & Brown and the Need have also used similar two-piece configurations with great effect. “There’s definitely quite a few out there currently,” says Hill, a tall and skinny but outspoken fan of the aforementioned acts. “Everybody has got their own way of doing it—which is good.”
Seim claims the duo is creating music for a specific purpose. “We’re out to boggle some brains and try to give people an insight into what our dog thinks about when he is alone in our backyard,” he deadpans.
Strange? Not strange at all, when you consider that Seim’s self-professed guilty pleasure is listening to music from his eight-bit Nintendo.
Hill previewed the duo’s initial recordings that would make up its self-produced EP, Leather Diamond, before its formal release—a photocopied cover stapled with a CDR—which is currently available at shows only. Needless to say, the band’s brash approach is quite intriguing. If you can imagine Primus frontman Les Claypool’s bass lines mimicked at warp speed alongside some of the craziest bass-drum/full-kit rudiments since Terry Bozzio’s years playing with the late Frank Zappa, you’d possibly understand about half of what Hella is trying to achieve sonically.
Hill is one of Sacramento’s greatest skinsmen. He pummels his drum kit—often destroying countless drumsticks, warping drumheads and breaking bass-drum pedals on a regular basis. And Seim is an adept guitarist who, for the most part, remains sedentary onstage while administering fretboard work that would befuddle and amuse almost any unsuspecting club-hopper.
The duo just inked a deal with influential Olympia, Washington, indie label Kill Rock Stars’ imprint 5RC. That, along with a pending October East Coast tour in the works with Seim and Hill’s buddies in Lightning Bolt, indicates things are happening hella fast—pun intended.
Hella is scheduled to record again in November, and a full-length CD is due around next February. Synchronizing the logistics—getting a booking agency to put together a tour that will work with the next CD’s release—is today’s challenge. “We’re figuring everything out and coordinating it with the label right now,” says Hill, who is obviously amazed at the progress of the duo and seems aware of the upcoming workload.
Sacramento has needed a prolific act like Hella to help turn around the sonic atrophy of the last few years. Better enjoy it while these guys are still local, though: Hella good may soon equal hella gone.
From its days at 924 Gilman to Ozzfest, Neurosis has kept it real with a sound akin to Grotus—the now-defunct S.F. industrial sludge-core outfit—and the more bludgeoning moments of the Melvins and Will Haven. At one point, the various members of Neurosis were living in different states while still managing to tour and release material. To help develop some of its musical ideas, the band recently formed its own label, Neurot. On its latest album, Neurosis creates more than just a cerebral slaughter of the mind; Steve Von Till and Scott Kelly bounce screams off one another with enough urgency to make any metalhead go mindlessly destructive. Neurosis truly is the progenitor of some yet-to-be-named genre that feasts on gray matter. Listening to Neurosis, in layman’s terms, is akin to a hammer blow to the head after one too many penguins.
Prices: $40.25 for one ticket. $13 for parking. $5.50 for a 12-oz beer. $3.75 for a small Coke. To precisely what target demographic does the music industry think it’s catering? The typical metalhead, including this writer, can’t afford a live show without trading jailbait sister and the rest of the immediate family as collateral. With package tours à la Ozzfest 2001 on the rise, prices have soared and expectations have diminished.
Jeff, my death-metal cohort, and I, came to see two bands of the five offered on this late July night at the Compaq Arena in San Jose. Although we were disappointed by the drive, we were further peeved by the time allotted to our favorite acts. After all, who wants to hear 30 minutes of their favorite act when they can wait till their headlining tour and hear a full set for half the price?
Morbid Angel opened the Extreme Steel 2001 tour as invited guests of Phil Anselmo, lead singer of headliner Pantera and avowed black/death-metal enthusiast. Seeing a death-metal act in a 14,000 capacity venue is a spectacle in itself. As it jumped in their first song in front of the 5,000-plus crowd at 6 p.m., it was clear that Morbid Angel, Florida’s finest, had something to prove. As Anselmo sat on the side of the stage looking like a kid at Christmas, Trey Azagzoth and Eric Rutan led a crushing dual-guitar assault of sonic bliss. Pete Sandoval, perhaps the greatest death-metal drummer, played with ferocity and tenacity and let his double-bass calisthenics do the talking. Sporting a new singer (Jeff Tucker is currently on temporary leave), Morbid Angel showed no sign of weakness; it careened through a varied set with material from its Earache and Giant/Warner Bros. eras, highlighted by my favorite tunes—“Rapture” and “Day of Suffering,” on which Anselmo joined in on vocals.
Two bands later (Skrape, then Static X) and $32 more in the hole—I had to buy a damn T-shirt, see—it was time for Slayer, which has been making a new album, God Hates Us All, that will be released September 11. ’Twas obvious from the reaction of the 12,000 in attendance what tonight’s main course was. Kerry King and Jeff Hanneman, looking as if they’d indulged in a little too much fine cuisine between recording takes, still looked as menacing and evil as their younger Show No Mercy era years. Tom Araya still looked pretty much the same—long, flowing curly mane—and Paul Bostaph looked as if he’d been hitting the weights.
Slayer launched into “Reign in Blood,” followed by “Chemical Warfare,” from the infamous Haunting the Chapel EP. Los Angeles’ blaspheming bad boys showed they haven’t lost their edge and played cuts from every release. Even the lackluster “Bloodline” from the horrific Dracula 2000 and “Stain of Mind” sounded phenomenal. Of course, such staples as “Dead Skin Mask,” “Angel of Death” and “South of Heaven” only made the evil air a little thicker.
How could Pantera top that? With our question firmly answered, my buddy and I descended the stairs of Compaq and into the South Bay air. If Slayer wasn’t the best band on the planet, ever, it was tonight. March to the kingdom of the dead, dammit.
You may recognize this band for their lineage alone—vocalist/guitarist Judah Nagler and drummer Logan played with now-defunct Little Tin Frog, while bassist Josh Staples played with Conspiracy, one of the better West Coast ska acts of the ’90s. This Santa Rosa-based trio has been working the West Coast club circuit for the past year and has been winning over fans everywhere. Nagler, whose voice comes with a similar warbling falsetto, sounds not unlike a young Jeff Buckley, or Jacob Golden from Birthday. From lush ballads—“Super Me,” “Mother of Love” to the glorious uptempo workouts—“Naked Girl,” “Counting Backwards”—the Velvet Teen’s music shimmers with three-part harmonies and elegant transitions. This EP is available at shows or via the band’s Web page at artists.mp3s.com/artists/cds/50/50860.html.
This “reunited” West Coast collective, which features Tash, J-Ro and E-Swift, has buried its former moniker, tha Alkaholiks, in favor of tha Liks, which perhaps is easier to say in a drunken stupor. If the last outing didn’t make you wanna drink till the porcelain bus pulled curbside, the latest should get those stomach muscles churning (in a good way). This set is from the men who literally invented drunk rap, a tongue-in-cheek style that landed them slots on many coveted tours (including the Warped). “Bar Code,” featuring Xzibit, kicks off the album in high style and only gets warped from there. The album features some great guest performances, particularly the Defari and King T tracks. X.O. Experience looks to be the party album of 2001.
The Mercury Program will hit town during its five-week stint of live dates to support its latest Tiger Style release, All The Suits Began To Fall Off. This instrumental four-piece from Gainesville, Florida, uses vibraphones and bells to great effect. “[Vibraphonists] Dave and Whit are actually the only trained musicians,” says Tom Reno, the group’s guitarist, bassist and bell player. “I guess we actually know a lot about music, but neither [myself nor bassist Sander] have had any formal training. The Mercury Program is the main band for us. We may alter a few things here and there, but generally we try to write songs we can perform live.” If All the Suits is any indication, Capitol Garage will be blessed come Saturday, August 4, at 9 p.m. Also on the bill is the Fireside Band and Nevada City quartet Pocket for Corduroy, which joins the tour for a handful of California dates.
Although any inference to Radiohead these days comes with an obvious smirk from this writer, I had to check into Clinic, the United Kingdom’s latest entry into the garage-rock/electronica foray. Such tracks as “The Return of Evil Bill” and “Internal Wrangler” show the band is rooted in distortion-heavy dissonance and cerebral soundscapes. The band’s first domestic release (U.S. label deal not yet announced) is a veritable pastiche of everything good in the Matador roster and late Radiohead. Thom Yorke’s favorite band, Clinic, delivers a heady affair laden with sampled beats, billowing guitars and some great melodies à la Sigur Ros or Flaming Lips. Internal Wrangler is an intelligently planned album with nods to eras gone by. Guitar rock isn’t altogether dead; it’s just buried between the loftier, ambient moments that make this album so special.
Corpse Fucks Corpse, perhaps one of Sacramento’s greater unknown talents, has been busy churning out a disgusting dose of distortion and vocal chaos, surrounded by its own backdrop replete with anti-religious artwork. You’d never guess that Sacramento was responsible for such wackiness. Although burdened by sound problems—the vocalist was practically inaudible during the entire set—the band trounced upon the Monday night masses at Capitol Garage. Sound withstanding, Corpse Fucks Corpse could be either an Amphetamine Reptile spinoff (à la Surgery or the Cows) or a garage version of early Jesus Lizard. The band features former members of another infamous Loft act whose name escapes me. When asked for the band’s names, the singer—let’s call him “He Who Tries Too Hard to Be Indie”—replied, “I don’t wanna give you my name.” True rock ’n’ roll. Indeed, in the spirit of Arch Hall Jr.’s immortal portrayal of Bud Eagle in Wild Guitar. Where’s Cash Flagg when you need him?
Next up was the evening’s highlight, the Soiled Ones from Seattle, with a sound akin to Brainiac and the best moments of Scratch Acid. Judging by the sweaty antics (in the form of water weight loss) of vocalist Johnny Whitney alone, the 100-plus crowd received 110 percent of his energy. Drummer Hannah Blilie beat the crap out of her kit while bassist/vocalist Adam Miller laid down a mean foundation to nauseate and titillate the crowd’s espresso-filled senses. Although extremely loud, the Soiled Ones won over the majority of those in attendance with the help of percussionist/guitarist Devin Welch’s overt enthusiasm. From a band that picks up dates (and parties) where it can get them, it would suffice to say that the Soiled Ones deserved a real venue tonight.
Pleasure Forever, a three-piece from San Francisco, played an uninteresting blend of indie rock, mostly from its Sub Pop debut. Although billed as co-headliners with the Faint, it was obvious who the real headliner was.
Everybody has been talking up the Faint’s live show like it was the second coming—of new wave, at least—so naturally I was a little anxious to catch the band’s live set. Again, the hype didn’t live up to my expectations. Given a changeover that took over half an hour, the general consensus was to leave while the going was good. And, after launching into their first track, it was apparent these boys had a couple of Cabaret Voltaire and Red Flag albums in their collection. Sporting trademark black clothes, cool indie lighting (in other words, very little) and energy to burn, the Faint kept my interest for about, oh, 20 minutes. Ummm …
After my fifth iced espresso, it was obvious I needed something more. Roughly 10 minutes later, I felt the urge to dig up my Econochrist compilation: True rock ’n’ roll, indeed.
Eddie
