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As of my experience Sunday afternoon at the Middle East, I now know exactly what it's like to be inside someone's mouth. As observed by Chestnut P. Growler of local openers and Best Music Poll nominees the Swaggerin' Growlers, the sold-out room was like an oral interior - moist, dark, claustrophobia inducing, and in dire need of some Scope. Yuck times a million. Headliners Bomb the Music Industry would be an awesome band if so many friggin' people didn't come to their shows.
"Feels nice to have people clapping after you play, not talking while you play," mused Laura Stevenson mid-set. I can't help but think that's been a consistent problem for Laura Stevenson and the Cans throughout this tour with hyper-kinetic outfits BTMI and Andrew Jackson Jihad. Stevenson's voice has a serene, lullaby-like quality, and there were accordion and violin parts sprinkled in for some pizzazz. But the Cans' open-mic-night-style folk irritated me with its comparative blandness. I took some brutal notes, but the kids seemed to dig 'em, so I'll chalk it up to surliness on my part.
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Vanna at Vans Warped Tour 2009 | Comcast Center | Photo by Bryan Mastergeorge
If punk fans leap at any excuse to be pissed off, then the Boston stop on the 15th annual Warped Tour was a total godsend. The multitudes of Warpedgoers converging on the Comcast Center last Tuesday start the morning off by sitting in two-hour traffic jams on 495, only to spend the rest of the day wading through muddy lawns and getting their mascara hosed off by torrential downpours -- and they've each paid $35 for the privilege.
Still, while the rain was relentless, so were the fans; they weren't sitting this sold-out show out, no matter how bitchy Mother Nature got. The tangle of soaking-wet black-and-neon-clad teens, tweens, and twenty-somethings (trailed by the occasional hoodie-and-goodie-bag-carrying pack-mule/chaperone) spent the next eight hours anxiously shoving their way through the herd to catch a glimpse of their favorite bands on this 70-act tour.
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VIDEO: Talib Kweli live at Rock the Bells
About three songs into the epic final set of this year's Rock the Bells - a dream-like materialization of the fanatically anticipated Nas and Damian Marley collabo project - the hot dog that I buried as a late-afternoon drinking base began to sneak up my esophagus. I made it from my seat to the exit aisle, where I projected a chunky wet stream of stomach ooze. Imagine Lardass from Stand by Me; a few ushers in my way even caught some of the shrapnel shooting through my fingers.
How did it come to this? I suppose my spiral redirected downwards around the time an acquaintance passed me a Percocet during Necro (I had a headache, and, at the time, was unaware that they sell Tylenol in the rest room). I was cool before that; watching K'Naan inside, and Eyedea - who looks a lot like Jason Schwartzman these days - on the outside Paid Dues stage, I had the ideal chemical crossfire charging my system. Even during Psycho Realm's pounding set - and through most of Necro (who rocked despite having laryngitis) - I felt well enough to nod my head. But after that I faded.
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By the time the Books hopped onstage, the crowd at the Armory was getting pretty well versed in the art of live music playing along to films. Since the night started, they’d lounged at cabaret tables through all kinds of science-class film collages, animation...
There aren’t supposed to be cans of Friskies next to empty beer cups on the counter at T.T.’s, because cat food does not get you drunk, and overbooking a show is generally a recipe for calamity. But the bill for the Kitty Angels benefit last Wednesday...
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Caitlin Frane Early on during last Saturday’s Frank Black Tribute Night at P.A.’s Lounge (thrown in honor the nearby Nave Gallery’s fifth anniversary), someone in the audience yelled, “More bass!” But he was wrong. The former Pixies frontman’s legacy...
One reason I love EDM (electronic dance music) clubs/nights is because of the eclectic group of people that attend -- and last night at the Phoenix Landing was no exception.
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I got my own translator Friday afternoon during a talk by filmmakers Yervant Gianikian and Angela Ricci Lucchi — not because of my esteemed position in the local alt-press but because I was one of the few dolts present who couldn't “keep up” with...
