June 2007 Archives
The best thing I've heard in days. Thanks Nic Harcourt for playing this this morning during the few minutes I had to turn off Sandra Tsing Loh on KPCC and a commercial on Indie 103.
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The journey to the Wizard of Paul is a long and whining road to say the least. If it had been anyone else I would have bailed before I allowed the chick with the note pad and the blue Sharpie to brand the right top of my hand with a very stylish '281'.
I'm glad I toughed it out but my shoulders still hurt from holding my head up and my giant burnt nose looks like the prize winning tomato at the county fair.
My buddy Bruce and his pal Adam were in the low 250's so it was nice having someone I know not far away because I'm sort of antisocial and I'm terrible at meeting new people.
The line was like a giant game of Telephone being played by hippies and nieces. Whatever info that came from the front of the line had become transformed and mutated to the point of pure neurological pain by time it got to the other end. Rumors flailing around about when, how, why and what number of people would actually see the “cute one” kept the tension high. A sort of hierarchy was assembling amid the fairly new comers and the odd mutants toward the front that seemed to have endless free time sit on the sidewalk for three days. Kinda creepy.
The show attracted some of LA’s most notables---Melrose Larry Green and Dennis Woodruff. Woodruff drew a few hoots and hollers when he paraded down the street in his self-promoting, gas powered billboard of a car…the first time. He liked that small bit of attention so much that he came around for seconds but no one really paid any attention this time as he stuck his head out his window yelling: “I’M DENNIS WOODRUFF, I’M DENNIS WOODRUFF”! While K-EARTH 101 blasted sixties oldies, Melrose Larry got into a neat shouting match about the Vietnam War with guy sporting a Village People handlebar moustache. You really can’t buy this kind of entertainment.
Finally, we cows we’re herded into the legendary Amoeba record store and duly paced into rows between the CD and record racks. I was stationed in the used section by Tim and Jeff Buckley, The Buck Pets and the Buggles. (I’m going back for that Buck Pets CD).
Macca was so good that everybody seemed to forget that we weren’t allowed to move about and Amoeba has no public restrooms. I didn’t remember that I had to pee until I was deep under the Cahuenga Pass on the subway on my way home. That’s pretty good hang time for post concert euphoria in my book.
That was the most grueling gig I’ve ever endured and I’ve endured about two and a half billion gigs but the payoff cannot be measured. I hope the kid in front of me who sold his wristband to a slimy car salesman type for $250 has a severe ‘I’m-dumb-ass’ hang over for the next fifteen years---I’ll bet he does.
–Peter Fletcher
Photos by Mark Mauer
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Ok, I got in to see Paul at the free Amoeba in-store show. The crowd was a buzz wondering if he would play any Beatles songs or mostly stuff off the new album. Which we hear is good, but good eough to sleep on a sidewalk for three-days (which is what many people in the crowd did)? I wasn't sure. When he opened with a Beatles number—Drive My Car— the crowd flipped. He didn't disappoint, he gave them what they wanted, and so the crowd Na-na-na'ed to Hey Jude, pounded their fists in the air to Back in the USSR, bopped their heads to Get Back, and Blackbird and stood solemnly still holding lighters above their heads to Let It Be. At one point someone in the crowd yelled a request for Helter Skelter. "No, now, that's John's," said Sir Paul. "But, let's do one for John. One for John and Linda." He played one of his own, Here Today. The lyrics seemed to be more for John, And if I say I really knew you well/What would your answer be/If you were here today/Well knowing you/You'd probably laugh and say that we were worlds apart/If you were here today/But as for me/I still remember how it was before/And I am holding back the tears no more. And with that Paul got a little choked up and when he was done he let us all know that it was ok to cry. More in next week's LA Weekly. But I'd like to share with you some images from the front lines, the people who camped out since Monday (and before) to get a chance to hear "the cute one" play. Beatlemania was alive and well on Sunset Blvd.
Elsa Buckingham (#2) and Lisa Longuis (#1 in line) wore daisys in their hair because Paul has a new song on his new album that says, "She picks up daisys from a field/She loves to weave them in her hair/I know she knows it isn't real/She still hears music in the air/It's coming from inside her heart." They waited in line since Monday.
Sharon, Troy, And Alexander White, (#6, 7, 8), Sharon had been in line since Monday, she was later joined by her daughter Troy who was airlifted out of the Tahoe fires last night to be with her. Sharon's been a fan since 1973, and raised her kids on Beatles songs.
Audrey Paulson and Toni Johnson, were numbers 9 and 10, waiting since Monday. They are holding up a couple of the 400 signs Johnson made and passed out to other line livers, giving them all the cue to hold them up for the encore. Gratitude is another song of McCartney's new album Memory Almost Full. (which at some point was a message my digital camera gave me).
These kids are eating their dinner, Jack In The Box, in line. They also camped out since Monday and took turns going on food, and pooping runs. At one point Monday night a set of sprinklers went off near their sidewalk street camp and wet their sleeping bags leaving them to huddle in the cold. Omar Olivares (left) is in a Latino Beatles cover band called Los Cucaraches— they're playing on July 4th on the Queen Mary. They wear wigs and all. Olivares is "George Harrison." (myspace.com/loscucaraches)
This couple, Corinne Hofer and Mark Mendillo have been McCartney fans for "like, ever." In line since Monday.
Russian-born Ludmila was the last in the line. She showed up just a couple hours ago and had no idea what everyone was waiting for. One of those people who see a line and gets on it. When I told her it was to see Paul McCartney. Her face was blank. The Beatles? I added. Oh she said vaguely.
This is Jennifer Love Hewitt surrounded by professional autograph-getters. I shit you not. Poor thing was forced to wait on line like common VIPS and press, until she was rescued by a member of security. The said professional autograph getters, who wouldn't let me take their picture, told me John Larroquette was in line, so was a worn out Lucas Haas, Patricia Arquette didn't wait on line, she was ushered immediately inside.
This might be the first Beatle fan in America, Terry Nield, who now teaches art for Poly Tech High School in Sun Valley. She was a teenager in 1963 when her Aunt and Uncle in London sent her over this booklet featuring the Beatles and their first record. They were unheard of in the States yet, but were all the rage in the UK. She later joined the Beatlesaniacs, a group of fans known for restraint in their fanatiscm. Nield won two tickets to this show this morning on K-Earth's Lyric Psychosis Contest. I asked if she might freak out seeing Paul now she said, "We're too old now. But I did feel 14 again when I won the contest this morning!"
Theresa Flores is also a teacher, for 2nd grade at Montebello Unified. She was shaking, tissue in hand. She's been in love with Paul since she was 5 and saw him on the Ed Sullivan show and has been collecting Beatles memorabilia for the last 30 years.
Fans dancing in the aisles.
During the encore the 400 signs (or at least many of them) were unfurled for Paul, all showing him Gratitude.
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Pearl Jam,
Copenhagen, Denmark
June 26, 2007
By Ryan Colditz
This show was 7 years in the making...
While playing at the nearby Roskilde Festival in Denmark in 2000, nine fans were killed during Pearl Jam's set by the surging crowd. Last night was their first return to Denmark since the event that nearly brought an end to the band, and it was clear the tragedy was still forefront in everyone's minds. It was a night to honor the nine lost, while at the same time a celebrating life and the long road it is.
Before the show even started, Eddie Vedder brought everyone together when he surprised the early-bird crowd by coming on stage with an amazing version of "Throw Your Arms Around Me." Following Vedder's appetizer, The Futureheads opened up with a very upbeat opening set, high in energy that carried through the eentire evening. I had the chance to meet the guy in The Futureheads before the show – they're an amazing group of guys who lent a helping hand to me and all my friends, making this night one for the history books. Check them out next time they come to town, well worth the time.
What followed was one hell of an emotional concert. Even the big vikings who were in desperate search of a mosh pit to stomp around in were awestruck, dripping in tears rather than blood by what was happening on stage. "Love Boat Captain," written about the tragedy in Roskilde, directly addressed the horrible accident, while "Long Road," "Hard to Imagine" and "Alive" brought the 10,000 people from all over the world together as one single voice of strength to get each other through what happened and embrace the night of powerful music with friends all around.
The real jaw-dropping moment of the night occurred when Peal Jam unleashed their the first-ever live performance of The Who's "Love Love Reign O'er Me." The classic piano intro was nailed masterfully by the band's keyboard/organ player, Boom Gasper, and from there Vedder reigned over the entire city for five minutes as he belted out Roger Daltrey-like screams and wails to a shock and awed crowd. You'll have to listen to the official "bootleg" they will release of the show, but it was bone-chillingly good, with even more passion than the studio version. It's just one more reminder that even through all the tragedy and sadness, Pearl Jam are still going strong, sounding better than they have in a decade, and are here to stay.
After the first set, which contained one-after-another jams that had everyone going from tears to shear insanity from one song to the next, everyone was spent like an Amsterdam hooker, and the encore sets were more relaxed and fun, as the crowd sang along to "Black," "Alive," "Better Man," and "Rockin' In The Free World," followed by another Mike McCready-led "Yellow Ledbetter" to close the show. The band was visibly affected by the warm reception and love from the crowd, and as Vedder said, this event was not meant as a closure to Roskilde, but rather as a way to connect some roads and paths, and then move on.
Not much more can explain this show, no written account could convey the feeling inside that building where fans from all over the world came together for one reason. The nine lost friends we all who were taken too early seven years ago. We miss you all.
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Set list:
Eddie pre-set: Throw Your Arms Around Me (by Hunters & Collectors)
Set List: Long Road, Corduroy, Why Go, Do The Evolution, In Hiding, Love Boat Captain, Love Reign O'er Me (The Who), Severed Hand, Light Years, Marker In The Sand, Given To Fly, Breath, I Am Mine, Small Town, Hard To Imagine, Life Wasted, Porch
1st encore: No More, World Wide Suicide, Down, Once, Black, Alive
2nd encore: Better Man/Save It For Later (General Public), Rockin' In The Free World (Neil Young), Yellow Ledbetter
–Ryan Colditz
Photo by Lars Krabbe: Click the photo for more of his photos from the concert
Visit I Am Fuel, You Are Friends for an MP3 from the concert.
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Cobransake's latest batch of photos from LACMA's late night party to clubs around L.A.
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Starbucks Coffee's own personal Beatle, Paul McCartney, plays a free in-store concert Wednesday night at Amoeba Records in Hollywood. (See Kate Sullivan's review of his new album here.) A few hundred people lined up alongside the store waiting for assurances that they'd make it in. Some started camping out as early as Monday, but as soon as they get their official Amoeba piece of cardboard, a number Sharpied onto their hand, and get their name inscirbed onto Amoeba's official list, there really wasn't much reason to stick around.
Jorge, above, got lucky #69.
From left: Shanna, Beatle Barb, Angela and June. Beatle Barb was on the phone with her friend, "Paul from London," whom she knows from the paulmccartney.com website.
Amoeba's David Gomez said about 600 people is the limit they can get in for the performance, a number previously tested by The Shins' in-store. Gomez said immediately following McCartney he's heading to Zanzibar where he's a regular Wednesday night DJ.
Peter Fletcher, none too happy about standing in the sun for hours, had a number in the 200's.
The rumor was that people had come from Japan and even Indiana just for the show. These two women might very well have been from Japan, a fact I could have confirmed if only I spoke Japanese.
Half a dozen Amoeba staff made their way through the line, getting down names and passing out numbers, which will be exchanged for wristbands, which will then grant them entry to Sir Paul's show, Wednesday at 7:30 p.m.
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DJ Shadow, Cut Chemist
Hollywood Bowl, June 25
By Carlie Armstrong
What began as an interestingly ethnic, slightly gimmicky evening at the Hollywood Bowl soon became a night of elaborate and masterful spinning by the likes of two giants of the mix-master realm: DJ Shadow and Cut Chemist.
African band Sierra Leone's Refugee All Stars and Brazilian James Brown enthusiast Carlinhos Brown brought their individual cultural flavors to open up the event, leaving most who were not yet inebriated with slight impatience. This was, after all, a crowd yearning to hear some scratched vinyl, and the Refugee All-Stars and Carlinhos Brown simply could not appease that desire with their quirky costumes and reggae-infused world music sets - though Brown thoroughly tried to up the energy with his James Brown impersonations and strange get-up: an indian head dress and gladiator sandals.
(Photos by Carlie Armstrong)
When Shadow and Chemist did appear, however, their entrance was well-heralded by the audience and quite mighty. But, there was one more obstacle before the music started, and before the two renowned spin-masters sauntered over to their respective turntables, a short infomercial-like film blared and flashed, proclaiming little known facts and history concerning the art of spinning and its metamorphosis through the years.
In traditional Shadow style, the presentation was edgy and more than a little unforgiving, giving him a chance to bite back at critics' questions on whether DJ-ing is as creative or skillful as traditional means of music making. Before the night was over, Cut Chemist and Shadow proved to any doubters the wealth of talent and ingenuity they possessed.
The film faded, and finally the DJs began their set, quickly reaching a barrage of succulent, sensual overkill. The lights descended through the audience on to the two performers, and their music was a fusion of far-east dance music with samples by the rock group Queen.
Most genres made their way onto the DJ's turntables through the evening, from cut-up chunks of The Foo Fighters ‘Everlong,’ to a short pseudo-song lamenting the plight of a lovesick jukebox. Shadow stuck, surprisingly, to more instrumental licks, sometimes incorporating old radio spots into his mishmash of music, but he consistently stayed away from most of his newer stuff - there wasn't a trace of Bay-area influence in sight.
The visuals were as diverse and intense as the music: a well-cut combination of 50’s advertisements, bellydancing, and a spinning record on the pupil of a giant eye. Chemist and Shadow kept the energy high by pausing to rouse the audience a few times mid-show, but they also took time out to momentarily feast at a small white table on center stage, where they devoured food that had been laid out for them.
DJ shows usually suffer from the mixer being unable to leave the decks, but these guys took their spinning and scratching prowess to a portable level, strapping themselves with mini-turntables, and gallivanting around the stage like true rock stars.
Upon returning to their natural, earlier positions DJ Shadow and Cut Chemist closed out the event with true style, spinning a few more songs from their joint imaginations, a new mix-up entitled "The Hard Sell" and then sending out a cautionary scrap of advice, telling the crowd that though they “had too much cocaine tonight, having more will not help you drive home!”
–Carlie Armstrong
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Dodger Stadium, June 23
By Siran Babayan
Dodgers Stadium. Never Again. I had an easier time getting through the birth canal than I did zigzagging in and out of the stadium’s graveyard of a parking lot where the traffic was so brutally long and slow all four passengers in the Prius in front of me took naps in between stop-and-gos.
Well, one has to earn comped $250 floor seats a few feet away from Jimmy Kimmel, Sarah Michelle Gellar and Marisa Tomei who had come, like I, to watch the Police - a band that turned their brand of reggatta de punk into commercial gold, doing what predecessors like the Clash couldn’t do and essentially becoming one of the biggest bands in the world - reunite and play to 55,000 castaways looking for a home.
It’s easy to pick on Sting for making one smooth jazz album after another as if he’s been stuck inside an elevator since the Police‘s unofficial split, when in fact, all three had jazz backgrounds before and after the band. (It was Sting, by the way, who made the first move towards reunification). And maybe 23 years was just the right amount of time the boys needed to pursue all those other ventures (solo efforts, movie roles, film scores, autobiographies), regroup, and sound as cohesive and effortless as they did on this night, each under his own colossal spotlight - Andy Summers, in control of the ax, minus the guitar god bravado; Stewart Copeland, a marching band geek in a headband and white gloves behind the skins; and Sting, so at ease and confident, with nary a bead of sweat on his toned and tanned 55-year-old body.
The band opened with “Message in a Bottle” and then coasted through a mostly best-of, two-hour set spanning their catalogue from the1978 debut Outlandos d’Amour to their blockbuster swan song Synchronicity. "Don’t believe what I saw,” sang Sting, eyes rolling across the filled high-altitude seats. Ah, but this was no ordinary greatest hits show. The trio kept themselves off the nostalgia bandwagon and exercised their might as musicians by tweaking some of the more familiar numbers, making them soar to newer and greater heights. Sting turned all scat man jazzbo during “Roxanne,” when the stage lights appropriately went red, and lowered his register to emphasize the lecherous lyrics on the hot-for-student “Don’t Stand So Close to Me,” proving there’s still a lot of passion in those pipes. (No one wants to hear Sting the preacher man, yet “Invisible Sun’s words - “I don’t wanna spend the rest of my days/Keeping out of trouble like the soldiers say” - sadly resonate more today than they did in 1981 when he wrote it as a lamentation on Northern Ireland.) And Copeland gave songs such as “King of Pain” and “Wrapped Around Your Finger” a more exotic, Eastern flare by tinkering with a nifty set -up of hanging chimes, cymbals and a xylophone displayed behind his drum kit.
There were two show-stealing moments: “Voices Inside My Head” drifting into “When the World is Running Down,” the baddest bass line Sting’s ever conceived of. And “Can’t Stand Losing You,” the peppiest song written about suicide, morphing into “Reggatta de Blanc,” which, if you recall, won the band their first Grammy for best rock instrumental.
So many “yo-yo-yo”’s we sang that night in our ridiculous faux Jamaican accents.
–Siran Babyan
Click here for a gallery of photos from the concert by Timothy Norris
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So, lately I'm liking a band called the Clorox Girls. They are very Ramonesy, in a respectable way.
There's kind of a cool Ramones event happening next weekend (Fri. June 29), by the way, at Hollywood Forever Cemetery...
RAMONES DOUBLE WORLD PREMIER
Check out the premiers of both "Too Tough to Die" and "Live at the US Festival 1982" on Friday, June 29th at 6 PM at The Hollywood Forever Cemetery in Los Angeles. "Too Tough to Die" captures highlights of The Ramones 30th Anniversary Concert from 2004 and included performances from Eddie Vedder, RHCP, X, Rollins and many more. The film also covers the bittersweet tribute ceremony unveiling the Johnny Ramone monument at Hollywood Forever Cemetery, also the resting place of DeeDee Ramone.
"Live at the US Festival 1982" features footage from the classic Southern California rock festival and was mixed from 24 tracks by honorary Ramones producer Ed Stasium.
In addition to the films, Arturo Vega will be presenting an amazing display of Ramones memorabilia and Monte Melnick will be on hand autographing his book "On the Road with The Ramones."
As always, the proceedings will be hosted by Linda Ramone and both Marky Ramone and Henry Rollins will be on hand to introduce the evening.
If you have never been to one of the events at the cemetery, please know you are allowed to bring food and drink. It's a proper nocturnal picnic so bring a blanket, spread the goodies and prepare for a lot of fun.
A $10.00 donation is requested to benefit Prostate Cancer Research.
Hollywood Forever Cemetery
6000 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood
PS: Some Friday cuteness.
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Live in L.A.: Ferraby Lionheart, Great Lake Swimmers, Marissa Nadler and Eleni Mandell
by Mark Mauer
June 22, 2007 1:06 PM
Ferraby Lionheart, Great Lake Swimmers, Eleni Mandell, Marissa Nadler
at Hotel Café, June 21, 2007
By John Payne
Music: Stream the upcoming album by Marissa Nadler.
An intriguingly balanced night of the newer various strands of, er, uh, well, acoustic rock or pop, I guess you’d have to refer to it. Post-post Americana in one shape or another figured heavily in these performances – lots of acoustic guitars, banjos, strap-on harmonicas and so forth, of course loads of irony-tinged but heartfelt, yearning sincerity, etc. – but the seemingly infinite possible varieties within the form was what was really on striking display.
Gentle but firm, Farabey Lionheart strikes you with the focused intelligence underlying his down-to-earth, laid-back persona and his engrossing story-songs. With eyes shut and a slight grimace, he delivered a lyrically involving and musically deep set drawn from his very fine recent EP and upcoming Nettwerk full-length. He’s a real musician, his acoustic guitar- and piano-accompanied pieces showing great technical craft and, interestingly, dual cues drawn from the burnished Dylanish strains of ‘60s folk and, almost perversely but not quite, what sounded like Elton John channeling Cole Porter; his love-and-loss-and-love-again-type subject matter was thus often given a rather bubbly and bouncy musical field of play, which gave his songs a resonant ambiguity and highly visual impact.
Great Lake Swimmers from Toronto followed with a satisfying set of material from their several alterna-folk-country albums. Singer-guitarist Tony Dekker led his well-tuned and dynamically deft ensemble with a refreshingly humble clear-headedness; his unfussily plaintive voice, a banjo and harmonium on one of their best songs, “Where in the World Are You,” provided that melancholy but mellow frame of mind you want on long drives toward the sunset, the warmth of the orangey glow slowly fading to gray.
Eleni Mandell’s nourish country-blues-cocktail whatever mix was initially a tad disappointing, seeming, I dunno, a bit 2003, but I decided I was being a jaded schmuck when shortly into her she set won me and a vocerifous crowd over with her familiar sassy smarts and nimbly adventurous musical view. Strumming a mini-acoustic and subtly shaking a loose-limbed, white-frocked tailfeather, Mandell drew from her catalogue of pithy but moving songs; she’s got an excellent combo backing her, including Kevin Fitzgerald on keenly polyrhthmic drums; Ryan Feves on nimble bass; and the super- inventive Jeremy Drake, on heavily tremeloed twang-axe, whose beautifully atypical counterpoints to the sound at large produced head-turning moments with alarming frequency. And that is very good thing.
Those who dearly departed before the unbilled Marissa Nadler’s set missed something really special. The young Rhode Island-based singer-guitarist specializes in a ghostly, gothic sort of world, an atmosphere that permeates her digital-reverbed songs of a life gone to dust. . . I just felt a cold wind blow through … Well, when she intoned “The summer of love is over,” it was unsettling, and when she sang – like a butterfly – “when they took your bones away…” it was downright chilling.
She plays mostly 12-string guitar, with alternate tunings to aid the hypnotic, droning effect, and hers is that more classical or European base for harmony, with Bachlike bass lines; she was given extraordinarily sensitive bass accompaniment by Jonah, who’s other day job is with the exceedingly heavy metal gods Earth. Meanwhile, as the ghost of Judee Sill hovered nearby, Nadler did some nice covers, including Leonard Cohen’s very fitting “Suzanne” and something by Townes Van Zandt. Nadler’s debut album, Songs III Bird on the Water, comes out in August – it is all the abovementioned and more, and you’re advised to seek it and savor.
– John Payne
All photos by John Payne
Marissa Nadler - Under an Old Umbrella
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Pearl Jam
Düsseldorf, Germany, ISS Dome
June 21, 2007
By Ryan Colditz
The German crowd at the ISS Dome Germany was more reminiscent of a fütbol match than a rock concert, but tonight Pearl Jam was the attraction, playing the town for the first time in the 21 German appearances the band has made over their career. To say these fans were excited to see the Seattle band was an understatement, as the crowd brought singer Eddie Vedder to tears, professing how this was the best crowd they have seen of their most recent European tour.
Everyone was treated to an onslaught of head-banging jams, more than your usual, run of the mill Pearl Jam experience we're used to seeing in America. Maybe the band was rested, maybe it was the fans' intensity, but what happened was a performance that everyone will remember for a long time to come. Even from the opening song "Sometimes", the tempo started calm and collected, then rose to a fever pitch as the band ripped. In-your-face jams "Whipping" and "Brain of J", followed by "Do the Evolution" worked the crowd into a fury that wouldn't ease up until late into the opening set.
An enthusiastic, energized and inebriated Vedder fed off the thirsty, beer-drinking crowd, smashing a stage light to death with his mic stand, sending a message just how urgent the night was and how nothing would get in his way. Things were going to be different tonight. Feeling the overwhelming open arms of the local crowd, many who have never seen the band live before, he took the opportunity to thank everyone for the hospitality, asked if speaking in English was alright, and took the opportunity to take a request from a fan, offering up a rare deep cut performance of "Rats", off the bands' third album, Vitalogy. (oops, that would be their 2nd album, Vs.)Back-to-back songs "Breath" and "State of Love and Trust" were a special treat.
Between each song of the two and a half hour show, I was reminded time after time how boring US crowds can be and why American bands love to tour overseas. Up front, bodies moved like a vast sea with the energy of the music. Even in the very back people were engaged in every song, feeling the passion that filled the room.
Taking their cue from the fütbol matches normally held here, everyone in the building held hands outstretched, flickering their fingers in what looked like religious ecstacy, drawing the band back to the stage for more. During "Why Go," everyone sung along in perfect English, chanting the chorus "Why go home?" and I couldn't agree more. We were all ready to make this evening an all-night affair.
But it wasn't to be. The crowd was sent off in style by guitarist Mike McCready serenading us with a moving version of "Yellow Ledbedder." A classic end to a classic performance, and a big danke schoen to Düsseldorf.
Pearl Jam - Not For You, Dusseldorf, June 21, 2007
Ryan Colditz wrote about Pearl Jam's Live at the Gorge album, and is following the band across Europe for the next week.
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White Stripes
Icky Thump/Tower Records, June 20, 2007
By Ryan Ward
All photos by Timothy Norris - Click here for a slideshow of the concert
If you had but one standout moment in your career, you first of all would not be The White Stripes. But their colonization of the recently retired Sunset Tower Records building, repainted in their token chromatic red and white glory for the Icky Thump L.A. record release party, would definitely go down in history as one of the most clever and heart-warming moves in rock and roll history. A duly needed re-instatement of power to one of our city's most hailed Meccas of music momentarily shocked back to life by the likes of two garage rock enigmas.
The idea was classic: Make them wait...
A line of sweet-toothed rock fans began forming in the vacant Tower parking lot in the earlier hours of of Saturday ensuring the most adamant White Stripes stalwarts a chance to experience an exclusive (and free) pajama-party-esque in-store engagement the following Wednesday night with the gracious rock duo. They stood (and slept) as a motley crew of Oakley-sporting forty-something arena rockers along side peg-jeaned teen-aged Eastsiders, hailing from Bakersfield to Detroit.If their nerves and tents held up, the first 200 would claim a wristband for the performance. The Icky Thump store began selling the album Monday at midnight and remains open through Friday.
Early Wednesday that same crowd victoriously reconvened, pleasantly brainwashed with White Stripes propaganda (in case you aren't already battling an icky, thumping headache over the their media barrage, just try to spot the five + magazine covers they've currently co-opted on any given newstand). Their publicity team deserves a medal.
Christmas has come early. Peppermint-striped cigarette girls hawking dildo-sized candy canes and other White Stripes mementos circled the crowd. The other Jack, Jack Black, introduced the duo.
Then Jack and Meg unleashed a performance ferocious enough to crumble the building to its foundation a good few months before its slated demolition (as was the gossip throughout the night). Jack's falsetto and slicing guitar chops threatened to deteriorate the crowds' eardrums by ten years in ten minutes. By the end of the second song, everyone, band included, was drenched in sweat, as ventilation in the room was non-exsistant. They drilled favorites like "Hotel Yorba" and "Seven Nation Army" into the diehard fans, as well as a few new instant classics from Icky Thump.
The crowd was thrilled. The band was excited – and grateful.
"It's great to have a chance to play at such an important place in this city's musical history... thank you all for making it happen," Jack nodded. In that little room they played like they were back in Hamtramck, Michigan, proving again that rock and roll is not dead. As manic and innocent as always, the Stripes reached another high-water mark, while momentarily breathing life back into the gasping Sunset Strip music scene.
I'm telling you, The White Stripes are still around because they need to be.
–Ryan Ward
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Hot off the email
MEDIA ALERT ** MEDIA ALERT ** MEDIA ALERT
LA PHIL PRESENTS ARCADE FIRE AT THE HOLLYWOOD BOWL
ON THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20 AT 7 PM
LCD SOUNDSYSTEM OPENS THE SHOW
Plus Special Guests
Tickets On Sale Saturday, June 30, 2007
WHAT: Canadian indie-rock band Arcade Fire returns to the Hollywood Bowl for their debut appearance headlining the iconic venue on Thursday, September 20 at 7 pm. Arcade Fire performs in support of their latest chart-topping release Neon Bible. LCD Soundsystem opens the show, and joins Arcade Fire for a fall tour scheduled to run through early October. Since Arcade Fire’s 2005 appearance at the Hollywood Bowl with David Byrne, band members Win and William Butler, Régine Chassagne, Richard Reed Parry, Tim Kingsbury, Sarah Neufeld, Jeremy Gara and Owen Pallett have garnered widespread acclaim for their live performances - an infectious mix of bossa nova, jazz, classical, rock and punk.
Tickets ($31 - $50.50) are on sale now at HollywoodBowl.com, at the Hollywood Bowl Box Office (Tuesday – Saturday, 12 p.m. – 6 p.m.), or by calling Ticketmaster at 213.480.3232, and at all Ticketmaster outlets (Macy’s, Tower Records and Ritmo Latino locations). Groups of 10 or more may be eligible for a 20% discount, subject to availability; call 323.850.2050 for further details. For general information or to request a brochure, call 323.850.2000.
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Forgot to mention, "Rock & Roll Love Letter" won an award Saturday night at the LA Press Club Awards. Sort of a media-industry thing, but kind of neat, anyway. My column won second place in the Entertainment Reviews/Criticism/Column category, and I was up against rather fancy people from the LA Times and our own Pulitzer Prize winner, Jonathan Gold -- who came in first. Losing to a Pulitzer winner. I guess there are worse ways to go! Overall, the LA Weekly won a shitload of awards. Congrats to everybody. :)
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Architecture in Helsinki
June 19, 2007
Henry Fonda Theater
In the overflow of Canadian and U.K. based indie-rock which currently floods the airwaves and play lists of American music lovers, it seems as though Australian indie-pop has been overlooked. Architecture in Helsinki proudly – and painfully cutely – proclaimed its place in the musical realm on Tuesday night at The Henry Fonda Theater.
As the Fonda’s heavy curtain parted, lead singer Cameron Bird gawked at the audience like a bashful adolescent, but that fell away quickly once he introduced the band. As Bird began playing, it seemed any inhibitions he might have had evaporated. He flung and flailed his way around the stage in a green and orange zebra-striped shirt and barely missed bludgeoning band-mate Gus Franklin in the head whilst in the throes of pop passion.
Near violence aside, Architecture in Helsinki had coordination down to a tee. The six members rotated through the spotlight (minus the drummer) switching up instruments, combining guitars, trombones, triangles, synths, and glockenspiel to make their odd, but satisfying blend of upbeat, avant-garde music which kept the the American Apparel-clad audience happy and hollering well after their set was finished. Click here for a slideshow of the concert.
Their three opening acts were quite different from AIH's intensely energetic bursts of colorful loudness and clapping.
According to Bird, Yacht, Ariel Pink, and Gang Gang Dance were not originally planned to participate in AIH’s show, and though he might have been vocally grateful for the combination of artists, the audience was.. not as into it.
Yacht came out brimming with more enthusiasm than anyone in their right mind should, and managed to woo the audience with his prancing and bucking around the stage. The Portland-based indie popper set a good pace for the well-rounded night.
L.A.'s own Ariel Pink gave the antithesis of Yacht's performance; blinking harshly or drunkenly in one corner of the stage, sporting a neon barrette tangled shamelessly in his Kurt Cobain-like mane. He seemed to somehow forget he was performing, wailing and whining through the songs, making his band increasingly more uptight. A sax player in metallic mesh joined them at one point to help resurrect their set, but nothing could be done, and the shiny, foreign man was gone just as soon as he had weirdly appeared. All that said, Ariel Pink's music was still entertaining, haphazard as it was.
Brooklyn-based Gang Gang Dance's lead songstress Liz Bougatsos airily floated onstage sporting an oversized Ghostface Killah shirt garnished with hippy beads, imitating a confused and ecstatic Bjork after a close encounter with M.I.A.
Still, Architecture ruled the night, proving that Australian indie-pop has the edge.
–Carlie Armstrong
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Weekly podcast is up from the Super Fun Music Hour on Little Radio.
This "Paul McCartney Week" episode features brand-new (and vintage) Paul McCartney; Black Bonzo (a wonderful contemporary rock band with a terrible name); Mountain; much KISS; White Stripes, y mucho mas.
The show page can be found here, and you may download the podcast here.
Rock ahn.
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As LA Weekly readers already know Prince will be performing a string of dates at the Roosevelt Hotel in H-Wood, just around the corner from the LA Weekly offices.
The series begins this Saturday, June 23, and will include seven evenings. Specific dates are not included in the press release.
The press release indicates, as you already know, that Prince's personal chef will provide dinner.
"...The evening will begin at the Dakota restaurant with Prince's personal chef Lena Morgan presenting a VIP dinner, taking over the kitchen from executive chef Tim Goodell. Then the 130 special guests, along with another 70 standing room only attendees, will be welcomed into the Blossom Room for a musical performance like no other. Following every two-hour performance, fans can experience a late-night impromptu jazz set presided over by Prince.
VIP packages, including dinner at the Dakota (tax, alcohol, and gratuity excluded), will be limited to 130 seats, sold in pairs (65) for $3121.00. An additional 70, standing room only tickets will be made available for $312.10 each. ..."
Love me some Prince.
:)
Kate
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It's bad enough that I always feel like the New Yorker is just slumming when they decide to wake up their Pop Music critic from the long snoozing he seems to do between publishing anything in the book, but it's even worse when they decide to review a CD from a band that I have followed for a long time.
That's how I felt when I opened up the Arts section and saw that Sasha Frere-Jones was taking on the new record by Spoon.
It sent me right back to 1997 when Radiohead's OK Computer came out. I had practically had The Bends glued to my CD tray for the previous two years and as the mainstream press started to write about them, I wondered if they were talking about the same band!
All I can say is, if you're going to write about music, write about something you love (or hate). By the end of the review, not only was I starting to do a little snoozing myself, I couldn't tell if he liked the band or not.
I did find out that Britt Daniels would never be photographed in an untucked T-shirt and the new album sounds like Billy Joel. What the fuck??
Maybe Sasha should have copped the line in the Richard Serra review a few pages away — it encourages the viewer to take a childlike view of the artist's work to best enjoy it.
In fact, many pop culture critics should try out the advice in that paragraph.
"Don't try to understand. Play"
–Edwardo
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Photos from the four day festival in Tennessee. Above, Black Angels helped kickoff this year's festival with a Thursday night set at This Tent. Photo by Mark C. Austin
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Roger Waters
Verizon Wireless, Irvine – June 15, 2007
After making it late to the Roger Waters show (thanks to the 405/133 interchange), I had my lawn ticket in hand and got there just in time to find a spot standing in the very back, with everyone else who was victim of the oversold Version Wireless Amphitheater.
Realizing that the angry hippies with bad tickets were not doing it for me, and hoping for a change for the better, I hopped on the cell and found a buddy with ticket stubs to sneak me into the seated section. Score one for the good guy.
I was now able to actually hear the music and see the man and the mind behind Pink Floyd, Roger Waters himself.
Everything was happening: The enormous inflatable pig was in the house, flying around the theater before being set free into the summer night. The Dark Side prism hovered above the stage, shining out to everyone who watched. The coolest thing of the night however, was a pack of very small-sized, future stoners in front of me. You may refer to them as children, but these were cool kids, and watching them rock out side-by-side with their super-sized, ex-pothead parents, it all goes to show what Pink Floyd means to each and every one of us, in our own spaced-out way.
If the night wasn’t great enough, check this out.
(This is an account of what I remember, but things got a little silly at this point.)
My friend Matt is running toward me. He’s grabbing me by the wrist…. Beer in hand….now we are running Running…. like never before, I am running to wherever I’m going. All I know is I want to get there as fast as possible. The music keeps getting louder, The lights….brighter and brighter, and now they were giving off an incredible heat, I blacked out… ok now im back. I have a new home now….7th row. Heaven.
All of this happened so quickly, it was sort of like dying, or at least how I hope it will be.
Now it was truly time for Dark Side of the Moon. The way it should be experienced. Gaining steam with each song, a jubilant and brave-faced Waters led the entire stage as one cohesive, Pink Floyd music-making machine. Even as scripted and tight as the performance is, the raw sensation of the music overwhelms all senses. The synthesized splendor of "On The Run," the meticulous drumming in "Time," and the angelic, soul-wrenching vocals in "The Great Gig in the Sky," all backed up by great stage visuals had me wondering what life was worth living for after this. I could talk about each song they played, but it just wouldn’t do it justice, so dust off the record player, and slap on the vinyl. For a moment time stopped in Irvine, just long enough to forget about life, and just long enough to remember what real rock 'n roll is about.
–Ryan Colditz
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Hot Chip
June 12, 2007
The Fillmore, San Francisco, CA.
Better than: reliving the '80s ... barely
Download: a link to the Hot Chip stream
The UK's Hot Chip is so hot right now. It's disgusting.
"You know -- it's when you put it on your tongue and it burns and [pthoo] you spit it out," says guitarist and centerman Al Doyle, referring to the french fry connotations of the band name. Indeed.
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All the elements of a going-down-in-history Morrissey concert were there: sold-out behemoth venue, two full hours, tight band, a whopping ten stage-divers, and the pre-show hubbub that always looks like an arts 'n' crafts fair of homemade Moz-inspired get-ups. It's one thing to slap on some pomade and cuff your jeans. It's another to dress specifically like Marlon Brando from The Wild One.
Wearing a white suit as if he were a killer shark sniffing meat-infested blood, Morrissey opened his third local date with a bang, ripping into “The Queen is Dead” while a backdrop of black-and-white James Dean (the king of all cool iconography) pictures watched over him. All the Smiths' pickin's were ripe, including the yodel-licious “The Boy With The Thorn In His Side,” where he sounds like he's climbing a mountain with the von Trapp family, and Johnny Marr's psychedelic opus “How Soon Is Now?,” which current skinsman Matthew Walker turned into a thunderous powwow. In fact, all the songs were given an extra razzle-dazzle 'em effect: sleazy horns here, more wah wah guitar there. Morrissey's also wise about the solo material he's faithful to, from perennial early classics “Everyday is Like Sunday” and “The Last of the Famous International Playboys” to newer cuts off his last two recent albums, including “Irish Blood, English Heart,” “The First of the Gang to Die” and “In the Future When All's Well,” which easily stand out as some of his best.
Moz's between-song banter can fill an entire album, and he was extra chatty during this show, giving shout-outs to The Cat & Fiddle, the Hollywood British pub where we locals like to stal....uh, accidentally and occasionally spot him and Julia Riley – one of those superfan nuts who schleps around with him from tour to tour, and whom Morrissey acknowledges at every stop. (If we didn't have this darn job...) He shook more hands than Mother Teresa in a leper colony, and when one audience member's attempt at stage-diving (which he once described in Mojo magazine as a “gentle ballet”) failed, he quipped, “Nice try.”
Despite the generally stellar show, there were a few unintentional LOL and WTF moments, though. First of all, Morrissey has a habit of frequently changing his lyrics, which can get in the way of the sing-along fun. Second, all his signature moves seem to have disappeared: no swinging the microphone cord, no finger wagging, no genuflecting. He occasionally looked listless, and during an extended version of “Life Is a Pigsty,” he lay down on stage with his legs resting on the podium. Dramatic effect or nap time? And third, he's forgotten the art of seduction. The customary removal and tossing of his shirts used to take longer. Where once Morrissey disrobed one button at a time, he now simply rips 'em open with wild and cheesy abandon. Morrissey's Boylesque Review or Chippendales? And it doesn't help that he no longer looks like he's living off tea and no sympathy. The boy has gotten bigger than others, but our faith in him is still devout.
– Siran Babayan
(Photos on this page by Siran Babayan)
Click here for a gallery of photos of Morrissey at the Bowl from Timothy Norris.
Also read Kate Sullivan's interview with Morrissey.
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At Spaceland, June 7
Somehow the stars were aligned on Thursday at Spaceland. Ordinarily, enduring three-plus hours by three bands of the hardcore/metal-thrash variety would have been another one of those numbing nightmares that’d have one stumbling into the night in desperate search of fresh air, silently vowing to give up all music forever and ensconce in a monastery, to reassess life and study accounting.
But, as I say, Mercury was in retrograde, or perhaps it was the particular confluence of weather, the economy, nutrition, society’s creeping-retreating malaise seeping into the audience and bands’ attitudes, well, events this night had the peculiar effect of making me want MORE. First of all, on a technical note, during Mouth of the Architect’s hugely enjoyable set of epically doomy Sabbath/Isis hybrids, I noticed again the enormous gains achieved in recent times re the compressing and filtering of heavy music – there was a time when the young Ohio band’s massive bass rumblings, twin guitar caterwauling, bellowing voice and scarring synth screech would’ve worn out the ear within 10 minutes. But close attention has been paid to the band’s sound in that regard (and big praise to the house sound man this night for getting great levels and mixes for all the bands).
The seriously underrated – or perhaps just taken for granted by now – 400 Blows followed with a spectacular, no exaggeration, performance of their odd-timed angular-acrobatic riffereeni; the band makes do with one guy in shades yelling, joking and shakin’ fist; another guy supplies all monster high and low end on a mere one guitar, accompanied by an incredibly exciting drummer who flails with awesome power and precision and a crucially nuanced, intuitive feel for the band’s skittery, sculptured jumble over a metal/punk landscape. 400 Blows have been called “Beefheartian,” blah blah blah, whatever, they tower above all other L.A. bands in audacious invention and explosive onstage thrills.
New York’s veteran thrashcore trio Unsane topped this bill with a set that started loud, real, real loud, and sort of hideous, way intentionally so. They’re not a bunch of pansies, they don’t give a damn about nice melodies or pleasing harmonies or any of that girly kinda stuff. No, this was one long, ugly smear of tuff, angry noise, propelled by another punk drummer who secretly admires Gene Krupa, and a backward-baseball-hatted geek on crappy old Fender guitars with no pansy-ass effects besides ultra-distortion. Between songs, they were a friendly, good-humored buncha yobbos, in perhaps not so strange juxtaposition with their harshly politicized music and lyrics – which, come to think, nary a word of which could be deciphered amid the impending apocalypse of their instrumental din. That, of course, was entirely beside the point – you should’ve seen the tattooed muscle boys twitch and jerk in animal response.
– John Payne
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Is reggaeton dying? Sound Taste, a blog by New York journalist Carolina Gonzalez, has this smart discussion about the debate on the "death" of reggaeton. It's that driving boompa! boompa! boompa! beat that is the soundtrack of the streets from Gotham to L.A., and that lots of people, many Latin-oriented thinkers included, love to hate:
While reggaetón is not my favorite genre -- I basically stick to
Tego Calderón, Ivy Queen and Calle 13 (who cross genres) -- it's
definitely a phenomenon, deeply rooted in 80s Spanish-language hip hop,
dancehall and "la guagua aérea," back-and-forth movement between
Borinquen and the mainland. And even if it drops off the mainstream's
radar, it will go on.[skip]
Over Memorial Day weekend, had a discussion with my friend Mare
about this. She made the excellent observation that reggaetón is, at
heart (at least so far), dance music, and that dance music is always
accused of being repetitive, uncreative. She's right. This happened to
disco, to house. Heck, I know folks who say that about merengue,
because to their ears, the rhythm sounds always the same. And the fact that these genres come out of and are patronized by,
primarily brown and black people, gives these dismissive pronouncements
a racist tinge.
It should be old news. Every generation or so a hybrid urban sound emerges in America and leaves a stamp on the culture, drawing a necessary backlash from those made uncomfortable by the new and confrontational. As Sound Taste notes, it's hard not to feel like reggaeton gets such a bad wrap because it's
basically music for young inner-city immigrants. And particularly in L.A., for young Central Americans.
Could that change? VivirLatino points out a website that has an original and catchy reggaeton jam praising Barack Obama. ¿Como se dice? ¿Como se llama? Obama! Obama! the tune goes. We did the marchas, y ahorra vamos a votar! Yup, the power of the beat is irrefutable. Witness the clever Spanglishized wordplay of Calle 13, and never again say that reggaeton cannot be witty, subversive, elastic, and fun:
Sorta makes you just want to go somewhere and make figure-8's with your hips, right? * Pictured above, Daddy Yankee.
–Daniel Hernandez
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A swag tour of the MTV Movie Awards
By DANI KATZ
After spending Memorial Day weekend at what my boyfriend called “that hippie nudist colony” (Harbin Hot Springs in Napa) with my “lesbian lover” (my girlfriend), landing at Kari Feinstein’s pre–MTV Movie Awards–style lounge extravaganza in Beverly Hills the following Thursday made for some serious culture shock.
A weird mix of the famous, the almost famous and the media who love/hate them gathered at a makeshift valet near the lower reaches of Benedict Canyon. A candy-apple Lincoln Navigator, whose back end had been converted into an entertainment center complete with wide-screen TVs and oversize speakers (rendering it able to seat only four, including the driver), shuttled us up the canyon to the party.
“How many miles to the gallon?” I asked the driver, himself a Lincoln rep.
“Not many,” he replied.
A squeaky publicist in a bubble-hemmed mini greeted us with red wristbands and empty tote bags. A Youth AIDS in Action information table off to her right sat empty and forlorn as the throng focused on the task at hand: filling bags with obscene amounts of shwag.
Eager for the Thai massage, reflexology and facials touted in the invite, my friend and I marched inside the spacious and uninhabited Spanish estate, which was empty but for the whirlwind of grab-bag madness. In search of bodywork, we meandered through unfurnished rooms, filled with jewelry-smattered tables and hair products. We passed through the “kitchen,” and politely declined sake, vitamin water, sliced abalone and other foodstuffs offered by enthusiastic vendors eager to place their products in the hands of Hollywood royalty of varying pedigrees.
We sidled by Jessica Alba, who was poring through floor-to-ceiling stacks of Reebok sneakers in an otherwise barren library. We wandered outside, hoping to happen upon a manicurist or chiropractor or a gaggle of cute boys to play with. Instead, we saw Anne Heche trying on canvas espadrilles and a Kate Hudson look-alike smoking a cigarette. Nary a bodyworker was in sight.
“Let’s suck some oxygen,” shrugged my friend, leading us to the Oxygen Plus table, where a bored-looking guy offered us a taste of peppermint-flavored air in a reusable can. Succumbing to the temptations of clean air, we filled our tote bags with trial-size canisters of O2 and climbed the stairs in search of strong hands and nimble fingers with a massage table in tow.
After dodging a pitch for Laser Facial Rejuvenation, I found the Thai Massage–and–Reflexology booth. My friend indulged in an exercise-free toning technique called Electrotherapy while I suffered through 10 minutes of half-assed butt poking, another 10 of distracted earlobe mashing and a final five spent flicking imaginary lice out of my hair.
We gave up on bodywork and turned acquisitive. I found a T-shirt made of bamboo, inexplicably packaged in a plastic envelope. A sweet middle-aged man named Jorge enthusiastically demonstrated the benefits of iMainGo (a portable stereo designed to fit any iPod) to my friend.
“Now,” asked Jorge, in a doting-dad kind of way, “do you think you would use this?”
We nodded yes, and he dropped one of the gadgets and four AAA batteries into my friend’s tote bag.
We next wandered into the back side of KIN’s makeshift boutique on the third-floor landing. The staff tried their best to ignore us as we sifted through rack after rack of fabulous, red-carpet-worthy (Vivienne Westwood, John Varvatos, etc.) fashion.
My friend slipped a cozy cotton halter top over her head as a cute guy with dark features and an air of authority approached us.
Do we get our pick of this stuff? we wondered, still unclear as to appropriate shwag-grab etiquette.
“These are for people with purple bracelets,” he explained, eyeing our red wristbands disdainfully.
“Who gets purple?” I asked.
“A-list celebrities.”
“Which A-list celebrities have you given clothes to today?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he snapped back. “A-list ones.”
“Like whom?” I persisted, curious whether the gay Asian guy from Entourage whom I glimpsed just then pondering a stripy broadcloth qualified.
“Like Brooke Shields.”
“Brooke Shields???”
A long silence stalled in the space between us.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” I answered, understanding he meant please leave.
“Are you sure?” he replied, meaning, Why are you still here?
I didn’t budge.
“Here, let me give you some shoes,” he said, finally ending the impasse. “What size do you wear?”
Two-pairs of open-toed flats later, we were on our way.
Dani Katz posts regularly at Style Council
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The Raveonettes Electric Duo, Midnight Movies
Spaceland, June 1.
You can get a lot of moody mileage out of a mere two guitars, two handsome heads fulla good ideas and strong personas containing equal amounts charisma & ‘tude, and that’s where Danish duo the Raveonettes come in -- leaving out the charisma & ‘tude part. The pair have always stood way out amid the semi-recent colossal spate of two-people bands proffering their rawness-rock wares, for the way they do in fact make two instruments sound like 10, and the intriguing mini-mysteries they evoke in their finely shaded songs. And on a stage, upon closer inspection, they’re very matter of fact and businesslike about it.
It was somewhat paradoxically the semi-recentness of the duo format phenomenon – which has lost so much of its novelty value in the past coupla years owing to extreme bandwagon-jumping by countless others – that highlighted the genuine drama of the Raveonettes’ set at Spaceland. When Danish guitarist Sune Rose Wagner originally paired with singer/bassist/guitarist Sharin Foo, the duo set out to redefine and cut to the bone a kind of noirbilly nightmare music culled from somewhere within a strange noise/minimalist mudpool of Sonic Youth, Suicide, Jesus and Mary Chain, Bob Dylan and Duane Eddy. Over the course of a brutally minimalistic EP called Whip It On, on which every tune is played in B-flat minor, plus several albums, they further refined that sound, perfecting the howl, and in due course augmenting the lineup with various drummers and others to fill out the sound for maximum shriek and thump.
Click here for more images from the Raveonettes show (Photo by John Payne)
But after a lot of fairly big-time success, including playing for Danish royalty at a command performance in Copenhagen, Wagner and Foo decided to take it all back down home to basics, touring and recording with just the two of them, hopefully to rediscover the pleasures echoing in the empty spaces between themselves. Tonight, tunes like “Attack