The Vivian Girls vs. Screaming Females vs. The New Brunswick S.W.A.T. Team

Well, they’re onto us. The New Brunswick Police Department seems to have discovered the Internet over the winter break
as well as the joys of Googling oneself. With a few keystrokes, they had the whole Hub City basement scene at their fingertips. Rumors and paranoia spread after musicians with phone numbers posted online began receiving calls from suspiciously inquisitive new “fans,” and house-venues succumbed to threats of being charged with everything in the book if even a peep came out from their basements.

After successfully scaring the bejesus out of the city’s music community, the precinct caught wind of an even greater storm coming over the horizon. The Vivian Girls, the blogosphere’s “it” shoe-gaze girl group, now set to perform at this year’s Coachella festival, were scheduled to swing by their old haunting grounds, January 4th, to give the kids a taste of pure Brooklyn hype. New Brunswick staple Screaming Females would join them on the bill, their own explosion onto the national scene still dormant until the release of their new album on Don Giovanni Records. Everyone and their grandmother were prepared for the years of bragging rights that a chance to see the Girls and Females go head to head would provide.

The New Brunswick Police Department, though, would have none of it! Those coppers decided it was time to show the ruffians who was boss once and for all. A new threat went up: if by chance the “illegal assembly of dangerous proportions” actually went down, the local S.W.A.T. team would come round and put a stop to it. The image of armed & armored officers tear gassing The Loft and pulling basement kids out by their collars seemed just too downright preposterous, but no one was willing to call their bluff. Luckily, The Court Tavern, one of the last bastions of beer and live music in this town, was more than happy to make their space available for such a high-profile event. The change in location, though, made all those under 21 years of age unable to attend, lowering the turn out as well as the morale.

But all was not lost. One of the highlights of seeing bands perform at the Tavern is being able to actually hear the music, thanks to the bar’s semi-professional sound system. The first to make use of it was Mirrors & Wires, a local instrumental surfrock act that impressively made use of a Theremin throughout their set, an instrument little seen/heard around these parts. Soon after, Screaming Females tore through their set with a professional ferociousness that left the crowd awed and their time onstage feeling all too short. After having had the opportunity to witness the group perform in basements for
the past three years, their sound hampered by poor PA systems, it was a pleasure to stand in the front row and actually hear every note, beat, and ominous lyric come from the stage.

The Vivian Girls, on the other hand, did not fare as well. The Tavern’s resident sound-guy could not get a grasp of the band’s
sound, commonly compared to Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound, and eventually mishandled their balance of echo and reverb. From the front row, where fans tried desperately to reapply their faces after the Females’ performance, an overwhelming cacophony burst through the speakers, sounding as dishearteningly different from the Girls’ studio recordings as possible. Even from the farthest corner of the room, where the mix seemed to settle, every song sounded exactly the same as the next. Even the stage banter felt uncomfortably tense, exacerbated by the catcalls of a shadowed heckler.

So, was it worth the hubbub? Will I brag about it for years to come? Of course, but not because I got to see the Vivian Girls live in a dive bar instead of a desert festival. If anything, I’ll casually mention that night sometime in the future because it was when I realized how ready Screaming Females were to finally bust out of this damn college town and get a taste of the success they rightly deserve.

And really, who’s going to stop them?

The S.W.A.T. team?

Pshaw.

(Originally Printed in The Rutgers Review Vol.38 Issue 1)

Stuffed in the Basement: Seal Club

The night Seal Club was born, its lead singer severed off a piece of his left index finger while making a puppet. Sitting in the third floor lounge of Rutgers’ Demarest Hall, Connor Walsh snipped away just enough for a nice trip to the hospital. “It took eight men to stop the bleeding,” guitarist Ed Vasconcellos III said. Returning to the dorm that evening with a finger full of stitches, Walsh jumped in front of his piano instead of calling it a night. “To this day I have a strange feeling on the side of it,” Walsh said, “and there’s a stain on the wall in the lounge.”

A year later, the whimsical yet gory circumstances surrounding the group’s formation continue to be a running theme through the music of Seal Club. A self-described “pop” group, the band’s eclectic assortment of instrumental know-how, mutli-genre influences and combination of anxious lyrics with upbeat melodies create a parade of fun at every show. “We play what’s nice and we make it nicer,” Vasconcellos said.

Walsh, who previously wrote most of the songs prior to entering college, has a tendency to trade in his keyboard for an accordion or glockenspiel to accompany his vocals. “I recorded a lot of the songs in my room during a depressed time in my life,” he said, “but they have taken on so much life now that I play them with my crew.”

Rhythm guitarist James Brehm has a constantly growing collection of FX pedals and instruments, ranging from whistles and harmonicas to singing saws. “When he plays the saw, it’s delectable,” Walsh said. “The harmonica…not so much.”

For bassist Thomas VonHalle, the group decided that though it would mean a lot of heavy lifting, an upright bass was essential to their sound. “I had previous experience playing with Tom back in high school, and I knew what I was looking for,” Walsh said, speaking of his work with ska group The Skautopsies. “It has a robust sound and I thought it would mesh well with my vocal melodies and Ed’s ‘unique’ rock sound.”

“I play the rock,” Vasconcellos added. “Well, I call it ‘the rock’...”

Rounding out the group is drummer Michael Pechter and the Club’s resident chanteuse, Nneka. “If we were being attacked by a lion, she could put it to sleep,” Vasconcellos said.

Though the Club spent the past year formulating a solid set list in basements and garages around the city, they have no plans to record anytime soon. “The thought hasn’t crossed our minds,” Walsh said. “We’re into not caring and throwing a good party.”

Walsh and VonHalle, current residents of Meat Town USA, are not worried about their lack of an actual album affecting their popularity as a live band.

“We’ve tried having bad shows. We’ve even tried not publicizing, but people still show up,” VonHalle said.

“We don’t have the power to play bad,” Walsh added.

Make sure to check out their amazing infallibility Nov. 14 at Meat Town USA, featuring Quiet Hooves, and the epic return of Screaming Females.

Stuffed in the Basement: Little Lungs

Squirming in their blood and filth, newborns tighten little fingers into little fists, kick their little legs and release bloodcurdling wails from little lungs. In the Spring of 2008, three drummers from three very different bands came together to give birth to New Brunswick’s own pair of Little Lungs. Their bloody little baby, though, seems to be growing up real fast.

It has been less than six months since Angie Boylan, of New York pop punk group Cheeky, and Jacki Sullivan, of now defunct Hub City drone rockers Tin Kitchen, began collaborating on songs fit for a separate group. In the new configuration, Boylan trades her sticks for guitar strings, Sullivan returns to bass and both trade off on vocals. “If one of us sings it, we probably wrote it,” Sullivan said. Along with current Helloids punk percussionist Josh Wolpert, who also has a hand in writing lyrics, Little Lungs successfully blend their styles and create an indefinable sound primed for New Brunswick basements.

Sullivan admits the group has a tendency to name certain parts according to their influences (“Oh, that’s the Jawbreaker part” or “Deerhoof part”) but pride themselves on keeping their music from being compartmentalized. “It keeps people from hitting their full potential,” Sullivan said, adding how their separate influences should allow them to have a constantly evolving song. “It’s going to get weirder.”

Compared to the amount of time they have actually been making music, Little Lungs are receiving the attention usually reserved for more seasoned acts. It was only July that they convened in the basement bedroom of Small Arms Dealer/Latterman member Phil Douglas to record their first seven song demo and have it picked up for distribution a month later by Detroit based label Salinas Records.

Even though their number of performances can easily fit on one hand, exciting news came late September when No Idea Records invited Little Lungs to join the 250+ bands playing at The Fest 7, located in Gainesville, Fla. The three-day Halloween weekend festival will feature well known acts as Atom and his Package, Bouncing Souls and Ghost Mice while also including New Brunswick staples Screaming Females and The Ergs. It seems that Boylan will have to pull double duty since Cheeky are also making the trek down.

“I’m surprised…not scared,” Sullivan said, “…and grateful.”
Make sure to check out Little Lungs October 10th at Courtlandt-land, along with Sea Creature, Pregnant, and Baby Guts.

Ya know, why not?

I've been "using" this "blog" as just a place to post clippings from my Rutgers Review articles, but really, I know enough musicians to be able to use this as a place to give much needed props to those ladies and gents.

GoodNightOllie Reboot, coming soon.

Sigur Ros's Heime / No Country for old men

Sigur Ros “Heima”

Probably the most beautiful, sleep inducing commercial for visiting Iceland that its tourism department could have ever created. Even aided with the EXTREME caffeinated power of Mountain Dew, within the first five minutes I was out cold. The adrenaline I had after realizing that I might have been snoring during my short nap kept me awake for the rest of the film. In a matter of no time I was bouncing along the countryside with Jón, Georg, Kjartan, and good ol’ Orri as they trekked across their native land playing post-rock melodies for free in fifteen unique locations, such as a ghost fishing town, an art shrine, an environmental protest, and a small coffee shop. One of the more odd aspects of the film was how Icelanders of all ages, from toddlers to grandmothers, filled fields and community halls to see what was probably the most exciting thing to come ‘round in years…or ever. I don’t know about your grandma, but mine’s not getting out of her chair to see a bunch of skinny white guys play ambient alien music while singing in some made up language, and I’m sure as hell not bringing my imaginary baby into an abandoned herring oil tank to listen to a rock and roll band. His ears are so tiny and fragile! But I digress.

The cinematography is amazing and probably convinced every hep cat surrounding me in the theater that the shores of Iceland are a viable spring break destination. Grab a wool sweater and you’ll fit right in with every single person in the country. The music is also beautifully performed, but seemed as though re-recorded after the fact. I do feel that the film is a tad too boring to be seen in a theater, with the band playing their more quiet pieces throughout the greater chunk of the movie. The only time they really go crazy is during the final concert performance in Reykjavik, but by that time I was more concerned with my EXTREME Mountain Dew filled bladder than the EXTREME rocking onscreen.



No Country for Old Men

I walked into the movie theater last week asking myself, “Hm, I sure do wonder if there’s country for old men.” By the time I walked out I had my answer. No. There is no country for old men.

That’s it. The whole movie in a nutshell. Sorry I didn’t preface with a spoiler alert.

The tightly crafted script, written and directed by the Coen Brothers, adapted from the Cormac McCarthy novel of the same name, centers around the actions of three characters: a distressed sheriff (Tommy Lee Jones), a Texas everyman (a mustachioed Josh Brolin) and an oddly coiffed hit man (Javier Bardem) and how their lives intersect around a satchel full of drug money found by Brolin’s Llewelyn Moss. Questions of fate, humanity and morality hang over each characters’ shoulder as the plot twists and turns along the Texan/Mexican border. Bardem is absolutely excellent as Anton Chigurh, a hit man armed with a cattle gun, silenced shotgun, and destiny-filled quarter. The quiet terror he instills is totally animalistic, and in some instances, akin to seeing Jaws’ fin pop out of the water behind an obliviously doomed swimmer. The resulting violence is masterful achieved by the Brothers Coen. A growing pool of blood never seemed more disturbing…or wickedly hilarious.

The movie, though, spends a lot of time distracting the audience from its main idea. I don’t dare reveal any more details. No Country for Old Men well deserves an after-film discussion, where viewers can dissect and reassemble every piece to fully understand what they just saw.

Take my word or don’t. It’s your call, friendo.

Film Review: Across The Universe

Julie Taymor, director of the new Beatles-fueled musical film Across The Universe, reminds me of a cute, freshman art school student who recently finished reading a book on the 60’s and is really “interested” in it. Oh, you know the 60’s! There was rock and roll with, like, Jimi Hendrix! And Janis Joplin (who drank a lot!) and um, they all took drugs! And rode on a bus! Oh wait, there was also, like, a lot of protesting! and Vietnam! And they all wore super cool clothes. Oh and do you know what her faaaavorite band is? THE BEATLES OMG! “Hey Jude” is THE best song ever!!!

You sit there and listen to her tell you about it because she’s pretty good looking, but you hope that if you stay long enough, wading through the bullshit, maybe she’ll make out with you soon enough. But she never does.

Taymor, though, is way past the age of 19 and has no excuse for making such a forced depiction of that decade, especially since she actually lived through the ‘60s. Made up of what could have been music videos for upcoming artists, the movie follows remnants of a “love story” plot, taped together with laughable dialogue taken directly from Lennon/McCartney lyrics. When the film Moulin Rouge quoted lyrics (Love is like oxygen! All you need is love!), they did so with a wink to the audience. Here, though, characters are dead serious when saying, “‘Where’d she come from?’ ‘Oh she came through the bathroom window.’” or “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together…I get it!”

All I wanted was love, love, love, Miss Taymor, and all I got was golden slumbers. ( OH SNAP DID YOU SEE WHAT I JUST DID THERE?!? ZING!)

Sigh…Goo Goo G'joob.

-Published in The Rutgers Review October 2007

Music Review: Kings of Leon "Because of the Times"

Kings of Leon
Because of the Times
RCA


The Followill boys are tired of America’s ignorance towards their band. Though a reasonable hit with critics, Kings of Leon have not managed to garner the recognition in their own country that their brand of southern indie rock has brought them across the Atlantic. On their third effort, Because of the Times, subtlety, along with the raw recordings of past albums, is kicked out the door with the bucket and replaced with the most excessive overproduction their Euros could buy. It’s as though the Kings went and bought bigger, shinier crowns, but no matter how hard they try, cannot keep them from falling foolishly around their necks.

This unexpected grandiose attitude, immediately evident in the over-seven-minute opening track, rules over almost every aspect of the album. Each song is just another opportunity to bury Caleb Followill’s southern drawl under massive echoes and backing vocals or to crank the guitars up to 11 as though they were impatient children screaming for attention. Even the screaming, their patented whooping and hollering, loses its novelty after the painful second track “Charmer.”

The question remains, though, that if Because of the Times was actually the Kings of Leon’s first record ever produced, or even second record for that matter, would it still be as much of a disappointment? There certainly are good, catchy, rock songs on the album that deserve some merit and would make any new listener happy. But when the last track “Arizona” queues up, older fans are faced with the faintest hint of what a more “mature” Kings of Leon record could have sounded like instead of this “larger sounding” collection.

Good luck conquering America, Kings of Leon. Just come back when you’re done; your subjects miss you.

-Published in The Rutgers Review April 10, 2007