02
Sep
2003
The Pimps, Chett, and Skintight at Lumpy’s, Friday, August 15
Soundchecking with a hysterical snippet of Skid Row, post-metal fusion quartet Skintight is unabashedly headbanging in its stance and stride.
They certainly have their churning mid-tempo Sturm und Drang down pat; the melodies swing wide and high above the sea-chantey undertow of their rhythm section, and their lead singer wields the toughest Flying V since Bob Mould. Their set kicked in with some heavy hitting proto-thrash – think James Williamson-era Stooges. They also approach a SoCal style of crossover hardcore, and can do straight-up glam-punk reminiscent of the New York Dolls, or maybe Hanoi Rocks. Ballsed-out and raucous, Skintight got the goods and they ain’t afraid to show it. The obviously staged guitar-smashing routine at their set’s end provided us with many hearty chuckles. Their stickers are cool, too. Thumbs up, kids.
The five-piece combo Chett manifests a staggering amount of outrage and absurdity. This is a Good Thing. Their song structures are more complex than the average hardcore band’s, their strategies more oblique; when the guitars aren’t so strictly paired, they offer up a wealth of dissonance and pedal-generated texture. The pedals themselves were set up on an ironing board, which was, um, weird and amusing. Between the lead singer’s stark yellow hip-waders and doxy bowler cap and the heavy-lidded stoner posture of the bass player, Chett has a sinuously engaging stage presence. Kinda scary, actually, and that’s a Good Thing, too. Chett plays hyper-dynamic punk shot through with the apocalyptic paranoia of metal. The result is not unlike a broad synthesis of latter-day Black Flag and the Bad Brains. Chett has the Sickness in spades, and I for one am hooked. The presence of some more melodic material in the midst of their unrelenting industrial mechanique, however, might prove itself most welcome.
The Pimps, a quintet from Rockford, Illinois, have three albums under their belt and a fourth in the can. If Fugazi drank a case of Old Style, fell off their high horses, got busy with some metal babes, and developed a sense of humor, they still wouldn’t sound as cool or be as much fun to watch as The Pimps. Cutting funk grooves with the rigor and ease of prog-punkers such as the Minutemen and Gang of Four, The Pimps also swing low with the boozy abandon of snottier hardcore bands such as the Angry Samoans.
The Pimps rock righteously, not self-righteously. Their lead singer and bass player have some of the most inspiring inter-song banter that I’ve ever heard. They riffed on a wide range of topics, from the sexual proclivities of Pete Townshend to the rank materialism and mediocrity of modern R&B and hip-hop: “What’s with this 50 Cent shit ... talking like it’s all about the money? It’s not all about the money. I wouldn’t have gotten into any of this if it was strictly about the money. Don’t you kids believe that shit for one minute.”
To that, my friends, I testify amen, hallelujah, and glory be. The Pimps have conviction, swagger, passion, chops, intellect, and a bongo player with a 10-point mohawk. What more could you ask for?
There was a strange and undeniable electricity to this whole event. All the kids dug it, danced it, and let their freak flags fly. As my friend Todd and I acknowledged, the whole scenario reminded us of the early to mid-’80s, when us “oldsters” first started checking out the American progressive punk revolution in its many forms. This need not be seen as a redundancy or a bad thing at all. Perhaps a strange anomalous gap has opened up in the continuum of punk, allowing us another chance to get it right, to vindicate punk’s promise of unfettered rebellion, diversity, and well-articulated rage. All three of these bands are creative and adventurous, not constrained by any dumb-ass rock-critical myth of what punk should be – you know, three chords, safety pins, and cheap smack. So they understand – as well you should – that punk, never having really died, needs no revival. It just needs you.
Driver of the Year and Mars Williams & The Mushroom Massive at RIBCO, August 22
Driver of the Year has a willfully innocent onstage aura that easily transcends the pedantic obscurity and artsified posturing of most indie-rock outfits. They’re ready, receptive, and kicking it to the kids quite casually in street gear and shy smiles.
From the first song of its set, Driver kicked the tempo up and around in steady increments, all the while quite deftly layering a widely divergent spectrum of sounds. Lead singer Jason Parris played Korg and Wurlitzer keyboards and electric guitar as well. Seth Knappen’s anti-heroic Les Paul workout alternated between Harrison-style staccato jibes and ecstatic high-end freewheeling lead lines worthy of Neil Young himself. Jamie Salisbury’s bass and bass-keyboard work were both impeccable in their intuitive grace; he also kicked my ass in pool later, which is no mean feat. And drummer Justen Parris can swing it both heavily and with punctuality, never crowding the mix. There’s a lot of chemistry here, and if you’ve not yet seen Driver of the Year, it’s about time you did.
The band’s compositional sensibility is as varied as it is idiosyncratic. Brian Wilson, Syd Barrett, and Frank Black all seem to be represented here, but the maximized R&B of the rhythm section is distinctly Midwestern in its post-AOR heavitude. One song even seemed to combine Cars-style mid-tempo pop subversion with an almost glammish ur-punk, like Thin Lizzy meets the Pixies at a roller rink. Tons of fun for lovers of the colorful and sublime.
Mars Williams (of Liquid Soul fame) and his Mushroom Massive are a six-piece ensemble that incorporates sax, electric guitar, double bass, trumpet, drums, and keyboards in an all-too seamless jazzoid fusion with “world music” affectations. They are more than competent, technically gifted in their approach to musicianship, and utterly beyond the realm of anything I find interesting, much less challenging. Heavy laden with reverb-drenched sax and metronomic keyboard-generated textures, the overwhelming plasticity and sheen of their melodic attack seemed to stultify the rhythm section out of its capacity to syncopate, to kick up any natural groove.
I was also kind of put out by the way Mars introduced his Massive – that is to say, he didn’t. Though the material they perform is obviously not my cup of meat, they are all very talented players with tons of experience and are worthy of the traditional bandstand shout-out. One thing I can say, though, is that the second set – marked by the absence of Mr. Williams – was much looser, more resonant, and more organic and free-swinging. The trumpet player appears to have a much less heavy-handed approach to conducting the ensemble than his leader.
The five-piece combo Chett manifests a staggering amount of outrage and absurdity. This is a Good Thing. Their song structures are more complex than the average hardcore band’s, their strategies more oblique; when the guitars aren’t so strictly paired, they offer up a wealth of dissonance and pedal-generated texture. The pedals themselves were set up on an ironing board, which was, um, weird and amusing. Between the lead singer’s stark yellow hip-waders and doxy bowler cap and the heavy-lidded stoner posture of the bass player, Chett has a sinuously engaging stage presence. Kinda scary, actually, and that’s a Good Thing, too. Chett plays hyper-dynamic punk shot through with the apocalyptic paranoia of metal. The result is not unlike a broad synthesis of latter-day Black Flag and the Bad Brains. Chett has the Sickness in spades, and I for one am hooked. The presence of some more melodic material in the midst of their unrelenting industrial mechanique, however, might prove itself most welcome.
The Pimps, a quintet from Rockford, Illinois, have three albums under their belt and a fourth in the can. If Fugazi drank a case of Old Style, fell off their high horses, got busy with some metal babes, and developed a sense of humor, they still wouldn’t sound as cool or be as much fun to watch as The Pimps. Cutting funk grooves with the rigor and ease of prog-punkers such as the Minutemen and Gang of Four, The Pimps also swing low with the boozy abandon of snottier hardcore bands such as the Angry Samoans.
The Pimps rock righteously, not self-righteously. Their lead singer and bass player have some of the most inspiring inter-song banter that I’ve ever heard. They riffed on a wide range of topics, from the sexual proclivities of Pete Townshend to the rank materialism and mediocrity of modern R&B and hip-hop: “What’s with this 50 Cent shit ... talking like it’s all about the money? It’s not all about the money. I wouldn’t have gotten into any of this if it was strictly about the money. Don’t you kids believe that shit for one minute.”
To that, my friends, I testify amen, hallelujah, and glory be. The Pimps have conviction, swagger, passion, chops, intellect, and a bongo player with a 10-point mohawk. What more could you ask for?
There was a strange and undeniable electricity to this whole event. All the kids dug it, danced it, and let their freak flags fly. As my friend Todd and I acknowledged, the whole scenario reminded us of the early to mid-’80s, when us “oldsters” first started checking out the American progressive punk revolution in its many forms. This need not be seen as a redundancy or a bad thing at all. Perhaps a strange anomalous gap has opened up in the continuum of punk, allowing us another chance to get it right, to vindicate punk’s promise of unfettered rebellion, diversity, and well-articulated rage. All three of these bands are creative and adventurous, not constrained by any dumb-ass rock-critical myth of what punk should be – you know, three chords, safety pins, and cheap smack. So they understand – as well you should – that punk, never having really died, needs no revival. It just needs you.
Driver of the Year and Mars Williams & The Mushroom Massive at RIBCO, August 22
Driver of the Year has a willfully innocent onstage aura that easily transcends the pedantic obscurity and artsified posturing of most indie-rock outfits. They’re ready, receptive, and kicking it to the kids quite casually in street gear and shy smiles.
From the first song of its set, Driver kicked the tempo up and around in steady increments, all the while quite deftly layering a widely divergent spectrum of sounds. Lead singer Jason Parris played Korg and Wurlitzer keyboards and electric guitar as well. Seth Knappen’s anti-heroic Les Paul workout alternated between Harrison-style staccato jibes and ecstatic high-end freewheeling lead lines worthy of Neil Young himself. Jamie Salisbury’s bass and bass-keyboard work were both impeccable in their intuitive grace; he also kicked my ass in pool later, which is no mean feat. And drummer Justen Parris can swing it both heavily and with punctuality, never crowding the mix. There’s a lot of chemistry here, and if you’ve not yet seen Driver of the Year, it’s about time you did.
The band’s compositional sensibility is as varied as it is idiosyncratic. Brian Wilson, Syd Barrett, and Frank Black all seem to be represented here, but the maximized R&B of the rhythm section is distinctly Midwestern in its post-AOR heavitude. One song even seemed to combine Cars-style mid-tempo pop subversion with an almost glammish ur-punk, like Thin Lizzy meets the Pixies at a roller rink. Tons of fun for lovers of the colorful and sublime.
Mars Williams (of Liquid Soul fame) and his Mushroom Massive are a six-piece ensemble that incorporates sax, electric guitar, double bass, trumpet, drums, and keyboards in an all-too seamless jazzoid fusion with “world music” affectations. They are more than competent, technically gifted in their approach to musicianship, and utterly beyond the realm of anything I find interesting, much less challenging. Heavy laden with reverb-drenched sax and metronomic keyboard-generated textures, the overwhelming plasticity and sheen of their melodic attack seemed to stultify the rhythm section out of its capacity to syncopate, to kick up any natural groove.
I was also kind of put out by the way Mars introduced his Massive – that is to say, he didn’t. Though the material they perform is obviously not my cup of meat, they are all very talented players with tons of experience and are worthy of the traditional bandstand shout-out. One thing I can say, though, is that the second set – marked by the absence of Mr. Williams – was much looser, more resonant, and more organic and free-swinging. The trumpet player appears to have a much less heavy-handed approach to conducting the ensemble than his leader.
