Recording: Cro-Mags

Artist: Cro-Mags

Song: We Gotta Know

Recorded at Kathedral, October 30, 2009.

Cro-Mags - We Gotta Know

My notes for this gig can be found here.

Recording: Fucked Up

Artist: Fucked Up

Song: Crusades

Recorded at Kathedral, October 30, 2009.

Fucked Up - Crusades

My notes for this gig can be found here.

Recording: Rampage

Artist: Rampage

Song: Culminate

Recorded at Kathedral, October 30, 2009.

Rampage - Culminate

My notes for this gig can be found here.

Gig: Fucked Up / Cro-Mags

Fucked Up / Cro-Mags (Rampage / Waste Management / Rival Mob / Mind Eraser)

Kathedral. Friday, October 30, 2009.

I am not, as the expression goes, punk as fuck.¹ Even though I once owned a Black Flag t-shirt in my youthful days, I wasn't fooling anybody. Which isn't to say I haven't dug my share of the music in my time, but I've never really had the stance down.

But regardless, even if it ain't where my headspace is so much any more, I was pulled in towards Fucked Up. Admirable citizens of the city's music scene, for me the tipping point came with The Chemistry of Common Life, which did some work expanding what could be a monotonous sound and sorta meeting the non-punks halfway. I saw them live for the first time last year during their annual Halloween weekend when they programmed an "alternative" night, with the likes of Katie Stelmanis, Vivian Girls and Final Fantasy playing. And seeing them live is certainly a powerful convincer, what with a charismatic frontman, pummelling drums, howling guitars and a crowd getting all frenzified in the process.

This year, Halloween fell on a weekend, and throughout the city it looked like people were seizing the opportunity to get as much wear out of their costumes as possible. On a Friday night, plenty folks dressed up on the subway, and extra-long lines of celebrants waiting to get into the LCBO.² At the gig, more than a few people turned in costume, not least of all Gumby, who was seen throwing himself around in the pit.³ A good night for this show, then, given that Halloween is arguably the quintessential punk holiday, what with that well-worn critique — that society forces us to wear masks to hide our authentic selves — put on living display.⁴

This was also my first time in Kathedral, though I've taken in shows upstairs at Reverb, which isn't such a bad spot to see a gig. The lower level, though — dive. And not in that "beloved dive" sort of sense that I accord to several of my favoured venues. Just kind of an awkward setup overall, with the stage lumped into one corner behind a couple pillars, really cutting down on the sightlines. And then there was also a sort of unusual antechamber outside the bathrooms, a physically separated space that's not totally practical. Oh well. I'm sure there are plenty folks who have many fond memories of meaningful gigs in this dump, and on this night the crowd seemed happy to be here. It was a pretty mixed crowd — an all-ages show with a large contingent of younger folks, but also a respectable showing of those old enough to be their parents, still wearing the leather jackets. And it was nice to see the DIY economy was in full swing, from stacks of cassettes at the merch tables, to a booth selling cupcakes, to dudes hawking old-fashioned looking photocopied zines.

Given that there was a long list of bands on the bill that I was unfamiliar with, I elected to show up partway through and see if anything impressed me. I arrived with a band finishing up onstage, followed by an announcement that while the out-of-town bands — apparently we were to be treated to a contingent from Boston — had cleared the border, they were still en route, so hang tight. A bit of time to kill.

When they did hit the spot, the first of them humped their gear on stage and was ready to go in pretty short order. It turned out to be Rampage (who were not listed on the bill), launching into what would turn out to be a nine-minute, five song set. The crowd, perhaps a bit pent up from the wait, were quickly moshing intently. I was standing right in front of the sound booth, vaguely worried about bodies caroming off me, but I had a couple rows of buffer. I was sort of surveying to see if this'd be a safe vantage point by the time Fucked Up came on, and it occurred to me if it was this hot and crowded now, it's only be getting moreso. Meanwhile, the band was cranking out rapid-fire hardcore bursts — nothing fancy about it, but very well executed. That it was over so quickly surprised me, but it meant the band made a pretty sharp impact, and were perhaps the most exciting of the bands on the undercard.

Listen to a track from this set here.

Figuring I wanted a bit more of a buffer zone, I surveyed my options and found myself a spot behind the soundboard. There was a railing to lean against and a much less claustrophobic vibe. The view wasn't great — there was a metal grill in front of the soundbooth protecting it from the crowd — but that seemed like a fair trade-off for staking out what should theoretically be the room's sonic sweet spot. So I was settled in for Waste Management, who played a relatively protracted set — eight songs over fourteen minutes. Musically, they were fast as hell and tight enough to handle it — it's trite to note that hardcore requires chops beyond those of the slower/sloppier genres, just to be able to navigate the velocity of the changes. For this lot, the vocalist was more in the high-pitched/screamy mode — not unlike Grover spazzing out — which is less to my taste. But still with a real kick to it, and one called "Get Your Mind Right" worked pretty well.

Standing behind the board also gave me an additional bit of entertainment in watching the sound guy at work. A slightly grizzled sort, he seemed as interested in chugging energy drinks and flipping through the Sun as he was in tweaking the levels — in fact, for a lot of the night, the vox were running pretty hot, and starting to clip in the house system. He'd also chat with the bouncers or acquaintances as they passed by, and, on occasion, if he had a bon mot to share, would lean over to speak to me. That helped to pass the time while Rival Mob played. Actually, there wasn't too much wrong with 'em, they just caught my fancy a bit less. The singer had a propensity to slow down to a Danzig-like croon and the band sometimes fell into uninspired "rawk" tropes, which was less exciting than when the pace picked up, although both poles were present in most of their songs. Playing for almost twenty-five minutes, this felt a bit bloated compared to the preceding bands.

Mind Eraser, which some overlapping personnel from Rival Mob, was working in a pretty similar terrain. A bit more of a grind in their vibe, I guess. With things running almost a half-hour late, the soundman was starting to get a bit cranky, especially as the band decided several times to just do one more song — "oh, yeah, we have time for this, I tell ya..." he started muttering. When the guitarist blew out an amp, leading to a delay ,the soundman was even less enamoured. Meanwhile, describing an upcoming release, the singer noted, "it all sounds the same — a lot of you guys are singin' along to the new songs, and I don't even have lyrics for them yet! I'm just going, 'hurrrgh'" — something that I've often suspected of bands of this ilk.

And then, just before 11:30, Fucked Up took the stage, launching into a blaring instrumental before tearing into a epic song lasting about six minutes, revealing one of their core strengths: the ability to find a groove and stay in the pocket — albeit a rather aggressive one. Their ability to tamper with hardcore's formalities without reducing the music's intensity is their strength, giving them the ability to appeal both to their own constituency (the crowd moshing up a storm, shouting the lyrics to "Generation") as well as musical curiosity-seekers from other realms such as myself. Taking a breather between songs, vocalist Damian Abraham took a few potshots at Metric, whose name had appeared, in jest, on the posters for the weekend's festival, continuing the simmering beef bandied back and forth since the aftermath of F.U. winning the Polaris Prize.⁵ But that was a sideshow to the intense music, members of the crowd climbing up to shout a line into the microphone before stagediving back, occasionally being slung over Abraham's shoulder as if he were demonstrating a proper fireman's carry. Some fabulous stuff, including "Crusades"⁶ and "Baiting the Public". Forty powerful minutes, including a bulldozing, no-pause trio to end the set. Fairly invigorating stuff.

Listen to a track from this set here.

Taking the stage to the Clockwork Orange theme, the hardcore O.G.'s of Cro-Mags launched into "We Gotta Know", sending the crowd, if not towards ultraviolence, than at least vibrating like they were on the old Vellocet. Tight, fast and lean — if Fucked Up are remarkable for stretching the boundaries of their genre, than Cro-Mags were more admirable for the purity and strength of their vision. Pure, unadulterated stuff from a lineup made up of original members under the leadership of John Joseph — these guys have been doing this for twenty-five years. One might guess were it any other band blowing them off the stage, Fucked Up would feel shown up — as it were, watching from the side of the stage, they seemed as delighted as everyone else in the room. As a sign of their chops, Cro-Mags tossed off a Bad Brains cover — surely something that less-talented units cannot pull off with any credibility. Intense, and a real eye-opener. By the time the band ended their encore with "Hard Times" I was drained, but totally impressed. I can only imagine how powerful it must've been for those right up front. All told, quite a night. Not what I'd want to go out and see every weekend, but a good reminder.

Listen to a track from this set here.

Special thanks to Ben, who had enjoyed The Bitters recordings I'd passed on to him and had graciously offered to get me into a Fucked Up show.

---

¹ And what, by the way, is actually the scale here? Does it work its way down the ranks of swears, so like "punk as shit" would be next, and so on? In which case, I'd arguably be, say, "punk as shucks".

² On the way to the show, I happened to duck into Refried Beats, the used music store just over by Yonge/Wellesley. I was flipping through the stock when this desheveled, vagrant-y guy came, music blasting on his headphones and muttering to himself incomprehensibly. Although at first I'd thought he'd just randomly entered the store, he made his way over to the shelves of CD's and started flipping through them. On the other side of the aisle and down a ways from him, the only lucid words I could hear him say in his monologue were, "arble grumble rock'n'roll mumble." After a bit, he pulled something from the shelf, took it to the counter and paid for it, taking the trouble to put his new disc right in his player to accompany him on his way out.

With a couple selections of my own in hand, when I got up to the counter I said to clerk, "I gotta ask — what did that guy buy?"

"Judas Priest," the clerk informed me, which seemed to fit pretty perfectly. The clerk added that the dude was a regular there and a nice guy, despite the poor hygene, muttering, occasional burts of loud swearing etc.

As I exited, I was thinking to myself that I was glad the answer was Judas Priest. Had the clerk said the guy'd bought some Velvets or Feelies or whatnot, I think I would have had one of those disquieting momements where I feel like I'm looking at a future version of myself.

³ Later in the evening, I overheard one of the bouncers chatting with the soundman of some unidentified patron: "Yeah, we had to kick him out — he tried to beat up Gumby!"

⁴ "I see a lot of hardcore kid costumes," one singer noted, surveying the crowd — no-one is beyond the reach of bad faith in the punk critique.

⁵ It was instructive to observe some of the reactions when F.U. took the Polaris, one common response from more middle-of-the-road indie types being something like, "sure, they're good at what they do, but it's such a niche genre, they can't ever really grow their audience." It strikes me that anyone (least of all the usually more obscure-than-thou indie rock crowd) saying some other band only has a "niche" appeal is the musical equivalent of calling someone else's political agenda a "special interest". That is, a socially polite way of hanging the "Other" tag on the elements that are Not Like You. It's a conversation ender that says, "we're right and normal, they're weird and not worth talking to."

⁶ Whose lyrics, should you ever sit down with them, might require some time with the OED to unlock: "Alloyed in a void, I am torn, I am born/ Crusades / Ruderal roots tulleric shoots in cahoots / Making life out of death chthonic breath meristem [...]" showing that Abraham, well-known as a pretty bright customer, isn't just going 'hurrrgh' and making up his lyrics as he goes along.

Recording: Muskox

Artist: Muskox

Song: Ghost Ride

Recorded at the Music Gallery, October 29, 2009.

Muskox - Ghost Ride

My notes for this set can be found here.

Recording: Canaille

Artist: Canaille

Song: Dock Boggs

Recorded at the Music Gallery, October 29, 2009.

Canaille - Dock Boggs

My notes for this set can be found here.

I'll gladly entertain any musicological theories on how this piece relates to its namesake, or to the "Old, Weird America".

Recording: Damian Valles

Artist: Damian Valles

Song: Rural Routes (excerpt)

Recorded at the Music Gallery, October 29, 2009.

Damian Valles - Rural Routes (excerpt)

My notes for this set can be found here.

Gig: Muskox / Canaille

Muskox / Canaille / Damian Valles

The Music Gallery. Thursday October 29, 2009.

Out to the Music Gallery for a triple album release spectacular from the fine folks at Standard Form. Perhaps befitting an operation that runs a music imprint as an adjunct to its print shop and bindery, SF create albums that exist as exquisite physical objects. The packaging for the albums being released on this night were visual and tactile delights, a joyful counterargument to people who want their music only in some intangible form. Similarly, the three musicians playing at this show were also exploring the tensions between the tactile and the intangible, the arranged and the improvised, and the composer's craft and ensemble's skill.

Opening the night was Damian Valles, whose new Rural Routes, an EP on 3" CD, examines his move from city to country. Live, Valles presented his music with solo guitar processed through laptop and pedals, plus a gently brushed cymbal.¹ Starting with birdsong in the background, he added gently-picked loops of guitar, always keeping things intelligently layered and not merely piled one on top of another. When the later section swelled into a louder wave, Valles standing to conduct the building sounds with his array of pedals, it felt earned. Tidily executed in twenty minutes, this was a fine entrée for the evening.

Listen to an excerpt from this performance here.

With things pretty much set up and ready to go, there was only a quick break before Canaille², led by ethnomusicologist-about-town Jeremy Strachan, took the stage. Strachan, switching between sax and guitar, has been using this unit as a larger canvas for his compositions than his sax-and-buckets duo Feuermusik. These tunes, from the new album Potential Things³ contain elements of ethio-jazz and spy themes, but always against a swingin' backdrop. By and large the first few songs were more compactly designed — pop song length, revealing Strachan's talent at, and respect for, catchy tunefulness. Things stretched out a bit more on "Summer Hair", giving Nick Buligan on trumpet and Colin Fisher — who looked to be fighting off a cold or some similar malady⁴ — a bit more room to stretch out in. Anchored by Dan Gaucher's drums and Mike Smith's double bass, the music was vital throughout — smart but never overbearing.

Listen to a track from this set here.

Having seem Muskox just a few weeks previously, I had a good notion of what I was in for. A few changes from last time around, though. Certainly much more elbow room for the players this time — indeed, room enough not just for a grand piano, but also for an extra player joining in on extra marimba and percussion. We were treated to all five pieces from the new album⁵ , plus encore. What can I add to my previous thoughts on Muskox? For whatever reason, when I closed my eyes and listened, my mind dredged up images of sitting in the back seat of a station wagon, watching snow-covered fields roll by. Evocative, then, I guess. And, natch, impeccably arranged.

Listen to a track from this set here.

---

¹ In a subtly rural touch, Valles' laptop was resting on a trusty, rugged Black and Decker foldable workbench.

² With my poorly-remembered vocabulary, for months I'd assumed that the band name was French for "cinnamon", but it turns out that it actually means something like "riff-raff".

³ The album's jacket design pays homage to the classic Blue Note look — looking over the back cover, I half-expected to see an Alfred Lion credit.

⁴ I'm assuming that the bottle of cough syrup that Fisher was taking discreet swigs from between songs was for medicinal, and not recreational, purposes. His playing was exceptional, though, and not affected by whatever he was fighting off.

⁵ The 5 Pieces album cover is delightfully tactile, a schema of triangles, reminiscent of the Sierpinski fractals that haunted me during my youth.

Recording: Julie Doiron

Artist: Julie Doiron

Songs: Le Piano + Elevator Show

Recorded at Lee's Palace, October 27, 2009.

Julie Doiron - Le Piano

Julie Doiron - Elevator Show

My notes for this show can be found here.

Recording: Herman Dune

Artist: Herman Dune

Song: Your Name/My Game

Recorded at Lee's Palace, October 27, 2009.

Herman Dune - Your Name/My Game

My notes for this show can be found here.

Recording: Shotgun Jimmie

Artist: Shotgun Jimmie

Song: Mind Crumb

Recorded at Lee's Palace, October 27, 2009.

Shotgun Jimmie - Mind Crumb

My notes for this show can be found here.

Gig: Julie Doiron

Julie Doiron / Herman Dune / Shotgun Jimmie

Lee's Palace. Tuesday, October 27, 2009.

I came to this show with a bit of apprehension — after all, the last time I saw Julie Doiron was so good, I wondered it was was tempting fate to hope for something like that again. I know I've been burned in the past, going to see artists twice while touring the same album and delivering essentially the same show, which never seems as good the second time around. Long story short, holy moley am I glad I didn't skip this one. Pardon the strong language.

Hitting the stage at 8:30 for an early start to the night was Shotgun Jimmie, a late addition to the bill. The name was vaguely familiar, probably from his previous collaborative effort Shotgun & Jaybird. Tonight he was playing electric guit alongside drummer Jay Baird. With a dry wit, red shirt and moustache he genially cranked out a series of slightly ramshackle tunes, sounding like a stripped-down, rockist Pavement. The songs were generally catchy, though there were a few lyrical groaners ("life is impossible/but it's also a popsicle"), but his most winning feature was his good stage presence and goofy banter — and regardless of a song's sentiments, he never hesitated to end on a "cha cha cha". A sparse crowd on the dance floor¹ was joined by Ms. Doiron herself for a good chunk of the set, who watched with a smile, mouthing the words to the songs.

Seizing the chance to make a joke at the headliner's expense, Jimmie interrupted a rambling story between songs, saying, "it's just 'cause it's a Julie Doiron show I thought maybe I should just talk awkwardly for a while in the middle of my set — her fans seem to go for that kind of thing." Towards the end, the two musicians switched places, and Jesse Baird joined in on bass to back Jay Baird's lead vox for a nice number with a lonely country barroom feel. A thirty-five minute set was the first sign that the bands would be serving out healthy portions on this night.

Listen to a track from this set here.

There'd been a burst of chatter about Herman Dune when they'd passed through earlier this year for CMW, but other than having read somewhere that both musicians had taken "Herman Dune" as their surname, Ramones-style, I didn't really know anything about them.² David-Ivar Herman Dune took the stage kitted out with beard, trilby and tie, playing the first two songs solo, featuring gentle fingerpicked folk guitar, a richly expressive voice with an engaging vocal manner, and lyrics sometimes flowing out in near stream-of-consciousness torrents. At some points early Leonard Cohen came to mind. Unsurprisingly, the drums, supplied by Néman Herman Dune, juiced things up some, the energy also switching the guit over to energetic rock rhythms, keeping things generally moving at a pick-me-up pace. The pair's affectations and general easy-going-ness were sometimes at odds with the music, which had a rigourous seriousness — and occasional sadness — underneath it.³ "On a Saturday", one definite winner, had a bouncy beat attached to its yearning lyrics and Sterling Morrison guitar riffing. "I'd Rather Walk Than Run"⁴ was also a winner. Julie Doiron came out to add some backing vox to "Good For No One". It was an extended set for an opener, running about fifty-five minutes, but it felt earned, and I would say by the end I was a fan.

Listen to a track from this set here.

Julie Doiron's set began with an almost swaggering intro, a slow, bluesy fanfare that lasted a minute-and-a-half before segueing into "Consolation Prize", which also featured a classic rockin' bridge. And soon, the first "you know that one, right?" aimed at her bandmates as she launched into "Yer Kids". Unlike last time around, when Doiron was backed by Fred Squire and Rick White — with whom she'd recorded I Can Wonder What You Did With Your Day, this time 'round she was supported by Jesse Baird (drums) and Jay Baird (bass).

It's hard not to mention pretty much every song as a highlight: say, an explosive "Le Piano" ("That's the fastest we ever played it!" Doiron exclaimed with a sort of surprised delight at the end) or "Spill Yer Lungs" with thundering drums⁵ — I could go on. Will Kidman of the Constantines dropped in for some extra guit on "Borrowed Minivans", and then, stayed for a showstopper to top all previous showstoppers — a powerhouse version of "The Wrong Guy" that incorporated "No More" in its middle. Um, yow.

"I guess I'll do one or two by myself," Doiron said as the band headed off, soliciting requests from the crowd. "One or two" became six, including "Elevator Show", "Sweeter" and "Me And My Friend". Plus a pretty new one that had the feel of a classic folk song: "warmed by the sun and cooled by the wind/ the water sings to me". Miraculously, the crowd was pretty quiet throughout the solo segment, making it a pretty exquisite time.

And then, almost apologetic that she was still playing, the band came back out, joined by Shotgun Jimmie on guit for a closing suite, starting with "I Left Town"⁶ and then a rollicking run through a cover of The Dinner is Ruined's lullaby-esque "Sleep Little Willie". The final, final song ended the night as it began, in a Crazy Horse-like blast of ragged glory, "Some Blues" starting with a two minute long instrumental build, and the whole the song stretching more than nine minutes.

So, pretty incredible stuff, and a fairly different experience from back in March. Had I not been to that one, I might well have called this the show of the year. Either way. One to look back on fondly.

Two songs from this one — listen to a solo track and a rockin' band number here.

---

¹ Oh, by the way, at some point since the last time I'd been to Lee's there's been more renovations afoot, with the elements of seemed to be a new sound system in place. The old stacks at the side of the stage have been replaced by new speakers, those contemporary-looking slightly curving units that hang from the ceiling. This has actually opened up the stage a little bit, unblocking the view from the close corners of the room.

² Although the name thing might seem a little precious, at least they've dropped the umlaut that used to be in "Düne".

³ Not that all of the lyrical concerns were deadly serious — one song imagined what a superhero would say to his girlfriend when revealing his secret identity. But even that wasn't played for laughs so much as presented as thinking through a potential problem.

⁴ Not to be confused with the also-played "Walk Don't Run", wherein David-Ivar cranked up his amp for some extended serious rockin' out.

⁵ In fact, on a couple occasions, Baird's drumming was so powerful that his cymbal mic was knocked askew from his insistent pummelling.

⁶ "Just C and F," she told Jimmie, and some of the crowd up front started chanting, "C to F! C to F!" Jimmie pulled off a credible solo and correctly guessed that the song would end on G.

Recording: Six Finger Satellite

Artist: Six Finger Satellite

Song: Rome From Home

Recorded at The Garrison, October 23, 2009.

Six Finger Satellite - Rome From Home

My notes for this set can be found here.

Recording: The Chinese Stars

Artist: The Chinese Stars

Song: unknown^*

Recorded at The Garrison, October 23, 2009.

The Chinese Stars - unknown

My notes for this set can be found here.

^* Does anyone know the title to this one? Please leave a comment!

Gig: Six Finger Satellite

Six Finger Satellite / The Chinese Stars / Sensitive Hearts

The Garrison. Friday, October 23, 2009.

On a miserably cold, wet night, made the trip over to "the culture's new centre of gravity", Dundas and Ossington, to pay my first visit to The Garrison. A new venture from Shaun Bowring, ex-booker for Sneaky Dee's, giving it something of a prima facie trademark of quality, like, if something is booked there, you get the idea it might be worth investigating, even if you don’t know who the act by name.

Inside, the separated front bar had tables scattered around in a lounge-type space — looks inviting and has definite hang-out potential.¹ Heading back into the venue proper, everything still seemed new enough to smell the paint drying. At this early point, the place is not exhibiting much in the way of personality. A fairly wide room, walls and ceiling flat black and red, it still the sense of the sports club that was previously in in here — a single lonely pool table remains, pushed up against a wall opposite the bar, and in a hallway beside the stage, a foosball table has been unceremoniously shoved down at the far end. The bar itself looks slight and unadorned. A reasonable-sized stage, and raised higher than Sneaky Dee's or the 'Shoe, meaning, with the absence of sightline-blocking poles or other obstacles, there should be good views from most anywhere in the room. The bathrooms were adequate — the mens' in the back a coffin-narrow aisle of urinals.² It’s funny how all of the bricabrac that your normally filter out — peeling band stickers, neon beer signs — resonate so strongly in their absence. Maybe it's because because it’s too new to be worn down or dank that it feels so generic. Maybe its biggest crime, the wide, featureless space with plenty elbow room, is that it feels suburban — not downtown, grimy, crammed together. It’s like a Jack Astor's just pulled out or something.

I think a lot of this will improve with a little wear and tear to give the place that "lived in" feeling. And it might well feel a lot different with a full house — and some of that loudness might end up bouncing around a lot less. Like I said, the biggest draw is the quality of the talent up on stage — the rest is window dressing.

Anyways, on this night I was at the new venue to see an old band. Though they were never number one in my heart or anything, I listened to a decent amount of Six Finger Satellite back in the day, and, at the other end of this decade, when all of this dance-friendly post-punk appeared seemingly out of nowhere, I sort of shrugged and told people, "ah, they're just ripping off Six Finger Satellite." Now the band is back, fashionably late enough that they can't really be accused of trying to cash in on a trend that they foreshadowed.

Openers were Sensitive Hearts, a co-ed synthpop duo from 6FS home base Providence, Rhode Island. They started things off by showing a satiric video ("How to Meet Mr. Right") that nailed the early-80's production values they were sending up, but was sadly lacking in any comedic punch. The band's music, which had a similarly winking retro element, fortunately fared better. Not strikingly innovative by any means, but with animated videos projected behind them, it was good fun. As the band's set progressed, the music moved from fluffy DOR to a harder-edged sound, lending a bit of an Ex-Lion Tamer element to the performance, as their music recalled the fat-analog-synth side of Six Finger Satellite that the band has largely dropped in their current incarnation.³ Not memorable, but nothing to sneeze at.

It had occurred to me during the days leading up to the show that outside some decidedly unhelpful album covers, I had no notion what the members of Six Finger Satellite looked like. This thought came back to me during The Chinese Stars' set, as, had I walked into the venue with them already on stage, I might well have believed they were the headliners, based on their sound. It turns out to be not so surprising that there's some conceptual overlap, given that 6FS drummer Rick Pelletier was a founding member of the band, although no longer playing with them. In face, when bassist V. Von Ricci switched over to keyb, this'd be the closest the night'd get to Severe Exposure-esque sine-wave terror. Not that Chinese Stars were merely rehashing someone else's sound — with Eric Paul's spastic-on-helium vox, they were clearly working out their own thing. With insistent, trebly guitar leads and a solid beatkeeper, the sonic elements are in place here to impress. There weren't a lot of catchy choruses on hand, but that seems part and parcel of the band's mildly abrasive aesthetic. A hard-hitting half-hour that set a fairly high standard for the headliner to beat.

Listen to a track from this set here.

Coming in, I hadn't put much work into finding out what the reconstituted version of the band sounded like. I knew that John MacLean (now a/k/a The Juan MacLean) was no longer in the band, instead continuing his solo career exploring in more of a house music direction. When the band took the stage, there was a keyboard bassline, howling guit and clenched vocal, and it clicked into place. The band, it can be said, sounded like themselves — but in a sort of atavistic way, as if that whole career path where the keyboards took over their music had been reversed. Playing almost entirely tracks from their new release A Good Year For Hardness, I also gathered the impression that in this current incarnation the band was also less interested in immediate catchy hookiness than the clobbering groove — sorta a thinking man's pigfuck music. Frontman J. Ryan embodied this, in jeans and a simple black t-shirt, striking a sort of amiably macho stance, like a construction worker out on the weekend blowing off steam. Of the new material, Harness lead-off track "Hot Food" was perhaps the most effective, with Ryan's keyb squalls cutting against the pummelling rhythm.

The band played ten songs in fifty minutes and the reception was kind but not rapturous. I'm guessing like me, there were a fair number of curiosity-seekers in the crowd, perhaps some of whom might have been more enthusiastic to get a rehash of the tunes they remembered from days gone by. If nothing else, give credit to 6FS for turning the page and working their new stuff hard — as if declaring they were out-of-step with the times the first time 'round, and they're not going to pander now that music'd caught up to 'em some. It was a workmanlike show, solid and uncompromising, and if they didn't steal everyone's heart, and least they managed to put a boot in.

Listen to a track from this set here.

---

¹ One could also imagine the front room as a destination for those who didn't bring their earplugs. As I'd heard from several sources, the sound in the back is staggeringly loud. I had no complaints with the system's sound quality, but I'd have been fine with a few less dB's.

² Revealing moment of self-reflection — why do none of the other blogs ever take notice of what the bathrooms are like at various venues? Do the other bloggers never have to pee?

³ Note to Sensitive Hearts: consider adding a cover of "Rabies (Baby's Got The)" to the setlist.