They Threw Us All In a Trench and Stuck a Monument on Top
As evidenced on their last national tour, New York’s Liars are big fans of sonic dissonance and feedback. The first release for Mute Records from this four-piece finds it melding elements of the East Coast’s new-wave scene with noise backdrops similar to Sonic Youth and Hovercraft. From the raucous, cut-time opener, “Grown Men Don’t Fall in the River, Just Like That,” to the droning set (and album) closer, “This Dust Makes That Mud,” pegging these young lads is about as difficult as understanding their lengthy song titles. However, amid a full-fledged assault of chaos, Liars do create deep, memorable melodies that linger for days on end. This band, a big part of New York’s warehouse scene, manages to bring the sweat and aura of that city’s vagabond nightclubs onto the CD and into every city it plays, or destroys. Remember when Gibby Haynes was cool? Liars do.
Former Sacramento resident Cynthia Dall, an erstwhile member of Bill Callahan’s music project Smog, made a smart decision to venture out on her lonesome years ago. Dall’s second effort, aided by her brother, Aaron, seeks to make her name more familiar; the disc follows on the heels of the largely overlooked Untitled, her debut. From the swell of “Zero” to the solemn but driving anecdotes found in “The Party” and “Nest of Dead Children,” Dall manages to share her stories without sounding like typical singer-songwriter drivel. Sound Restores Young Men contains moments that recall an introspective Cocteau Twins with nods to Lush and Seattle’s Jana McCall. Jim O’ Rourke of Sonic Youth even lends some production work to a few tracks, with great effect. Although somber and melancholy, Dall’s latest work is an impressive collection of music.
Every touring artist has an agenda. Whether it’s Willie Nelson working to pay off the IRS or Axl Rose trying to prove that he alone is Guns N’ Roses, there’s usually some reason superstar artists take to the road.
Tickets for Paul McCartney’s show at Arco Arena, scalped for more than $1,000 a pair for floor seats, kept the audience confined to roughly age 40 and older.
Why was the former Beatle doing a national tour? McCartney doesn’t need the money. The royalties and mechanicals from his back catalog would be enough to sustain a small country for at least a decade. Now past age 60, one would imagine he’d hang up his bass for a “normal” domestic life.
Instead, McCartney has Back in the U.S. Live 2002, a two-CD set featuring 35 songs played on his current tour. The Capitol release will be in stores two days before Thanksgiving, around the time McCartney’s tour ends.
His show at Arco last Monday, which could have been another case of an aging rocker ambling through a sweet Geritol set list, was anything but. Backed by a small but talented group of musicians—Brian Ray and Rusty Anderson on guitars, Paul “Wix” Wickens on keyboards and Abe Laboriel Jr. on drums—McCartney delivered an energized set of solo, Wings and Beatles material.
Aside from the opening festivities—a Cirque du Soleil-meets-Shanghai Ballet disaster featuring dancers; acrobats; and lame, pre-recorded, new-age slop—the show was exceptional. McCartney opened with the chorus of “Hello, Goodbye” only to hit hard with a driving rendition of “Jet.” From there, he launched into a lovely solo set highlighted by the politically challenging “Blackbird” and a gorgeous, acoustic, harmony-enhanced “We Can Work It Out.”
Even McCartney’s between-song banter, which ranged from stories about drives along the Pacific Coast Highway to George Harrison’s strange fascination with ukuleles, was top-notch. By personalizing his Sacramento show and remembering his lost loved ones—half the Beatles and his former wife, Linda—McCartney unveiled a kind and caring side that many didn’t realize he still had.
By the time McCartney launched into the chorus-laden “Hey Jude,” it was hard to believe the end was near. Two encores later and a rendition of “Yesterday,” and it was over.
Yes, McCartney still likes playing music. What’s more, he’s more than able to reproduce all eras of his legacy. Agenda or not, it was a damned fine night to be in Sacramento.
Local band Psypheria breathes a little life into the old death-metal corpse
Psypheria, in a huddle. OK, lads, repeat after me: Ph’nglui mgwl’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!
Live! CD release party Friday, October 25, at On the Y, 670 Fulton Avenue, 21 and over, $8. With Pessimist and Abominous–The Final Godsend.
Death metal is a form of music characterized by guttural vocals, extreme guitar riffs and endless double-bass-drum workouts. “Psypheria” is a word that sounds cool but means nothing.
Psypheria is also a death-metal band.
But, unlike the countless talent-challenged others that somehow garnered record deals through mailroom connections, Psypheria has overcome the obstacles and proven itself worthy of not only local, but also national attention.
More importantly, Psypheria hasn’t succumbed to the three major death-metal pitfalls: It doesn’t have a band logo with multiple upside-down crosses and indecipherable letters; its members can play their instruments and write their own music; and its members are educated beyond the third grade and aren’t afraid to challenge themselves technically within the confines of their songs.
Formed in 1992 by guitarist and principal songwriter John Oster, Psypheria has recorded four demo tapes, a common format in the metal scene, and has had one formal release on the Mad Lion label. More recently, the band was signed by Portugal’s Heretic Sound, which just released the band’s new album, Embrace the Mutation, in the United States.
Of course, even death-metal bands can get their first inspiration from outside the death-metal community. However, it always comes back to metal in the end. “I started playing guitar when I heard some of Hendrix’s stuff, but the current inspiration for Psypheria is Morbid Angel,” said the seldom-enthusiastic Oster. “Their blend of darkness, emotion, brutality and technicality really speaks to me.” Oster also named releases from Myrkskog, Hate Eternal, Vile and the lesser-known German band Necrophagist as inspiring records worth a listen.
By day, Oster is a schoolteacher. In addition to teaching, he sometimes has hosted a “metal lunch hour,” where kids could hang out in his classroom and hear the latest Krisiun or Cannibal Corpse record. “[Psypheria] played last year at a 9/11 benefit concert held at school. The metal lunch hour was at my junior high. I now teach high school,” he said. “Many leave campus for lunch, but I might try to start it up at this school. I’m the advisor for the guitar club, which meets in my room on Friday at lunch. I bring my guitar and a practice amp and shred for the kids. They get a big kick out of it!”
Psypheria is Oster plus Cory Valdez on drums, Lyle Livingston on keyboards, Mike Hurley on guitar and Adam Roberts on bass and vocals. The band plays more dates out of town than in the Sacramento Valley. Because of a lack of local venues, Psypheria has been forced to gig around the Bay Area, even venturing as far as the Milwaukee Metalfest. The band has opened for numerous national acts, including Cradle of Filth, Mortician, and Malevolent Creation.
Recently, Psypheria opened for German thrash bands Kreator and Destruction in San Francisco. Not every show goes as smoothly as planned, and that one didn’t. “The crowd was great, and we played like demons possessed! The only downside was the poor treatment by Kreator’s tour people—a short set, which was further shortened when we used a fog machine,” an agitated Oster mused. “Apparently, the locals were not to use any effects whatsoever, including flashing stage lights.
“How insecure can those bands be?” he added. “Remind me not to buy any more Kreator [or] Destruction CDs!”
In addition to national exposure in metal zines and via tape-trading, Psypheria’s plans for 2002 are ever more grandiose, including a possible international tour. “We have been approached,” Oster said. “I can’t really divulge any details yet. However, it will also include France and hopefully some festivals.”
So, Psypheria’s year is shaping up to be its best ever. Its album-release party is this Friday night, with a short West Coast tour to follow. The festivities will mark the band’s 10th anniversary and the new release by one of Sacramento’s great talents. Enjoy.
Live! Thursday, October 10 at Capitol Garage, 1427 L Street, with Pleaseeasur and Winifred E Eye. All ages. Call venue for time and admission.
For fans expecting another brooding, self-loathing affair, Amore del Tropico, with its nods to samba and calypso music, will be confusing. Although songs such as “The Invitation” and “Why I Stay” remind us that we have a darker, deeper core, those moments are few and far between. Thankfully, we’re left with an album of great emotional and spiritual relevance. Fusing piano with some excellent cello and string parts, Los Angeles’ Black Heart Procession mixes its song bag with a little cha-cha (“End of Love”) and pseudo-pop rumblings (“Did You Wonder”). Amore explores several genres without losing scope and focus; even such seldom-used instruments as the Optigan and saw make an appearance, however slight. Most acts falter when they attempt to mature and grow, but the Black Heart Procession still remembers that life is full of changes. And, like its music, the group must meet that challenge with open arms.
Wayne Coyne, Michael Ivins and Steven Drozd, the core of the Flaming Lips, have never been known to play conventional rock. Unlike The Soft Bulletin, the Lips’ previous album, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots has a more playful vibe, with obvious nods to children’s songs of yore. On “Do You Realize??” and a marvelous pair of title cuts, the Lips play with an amalgam of keyboard and samplers, giving a bouncy, lighthearted feeling. Although the songs don’t reach the dizzying heights found on The Soft Bulletin, moments like “Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell” and “In the Morning of the Magicians” make this album quite special. Comparisons to Mercury Rev, whose Dave Fridmann produced and played on Yoshimi, and Grandaddy are inevitable, but Yoshimi has much more depth and character than the works of those bands. And Coyne’s uneven, warbly voice, coupled with Ivins’ and Drozd’s instrumentation, makes for one hell of a sonic parade.
Sometimes, for the sake of rock ’n’ roll, you’ve gotta immerse yourself in the sweat and the salty air to really feel the music. Air-conditioned venues with state-of-the-art sound systems are usually a bonus, but sometimes, for the sake of rock ’n’ roll, you’ve gotta smell the funk to really feel the funk.
A recent Saturday hoedown at the Colonial Theater—featuring headliner the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, along with those buzz bands du jour Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Liars—was more than just a sweaty affair. For the more than 250 people who showed up, church was in session, and the bands all had their individual revelations to sell. And, although temperatures inside the venue reached an almost unfathomable 90 degrees, ventilation and air quality weren’t a concern.
The pinnacle of the night’s festivities came during the brief 45-minute set by New York band Liars. Fusing the best elements of early Brainiac and Sonic Youth with the snotty, belligerent antics of Mark E. Smith’s the Fall—not to mention a frontman who resembles Gibby Haynes circa early Butthole Surfers and who channels the energy of New York’s post-punk noir—Liars, lit by only a few gels, ground through a gritty set of effective, well-executed bursts of sonic chaos.
Locals were treated to tracks from the band’s latest full-length, They Threw Us All in a Trench and Stuck a Monument on Top. On it, singer Angus Andrew and guitarist Aaron Hemphill help destroy conventional song structure with both analog and guitar feedback, abetted by the hypnotic backbeat rhythms of bassist Pat Noecker and drummer Ron Albertson. Although Hemphill spent most of the set with his back turned to the audience, you couldn’t help but respect his attention to his rhythm section and his ability to create massive walls of noise. Even frontman Angus seemed focused more on the walls of the theater than those cramming the front of the stage.
For a brief moment, it seemed as if we were invited into one of their own East Coast warehouse parties (which the band prefers over the less personable club setting), only the beer was available at the bar next door. You can forgive the sweltering temperatures on nights like these. After all, bands of this ilk don’t come along too often.
Liars make music that may never cross over into the mainstream. And, although the band members will never date Drew Barrymore or write trite Christmas songs for their adoring fan base, these four lads can wake up each morning and look at their battered, road-worn faces and know they mean something to a few people in each town they visit.
Eddie
