Kzoo Reggae and Bob Marley Festiv's Preview

Don't panic; "Festiv's" the plural form of a(n invented) word abbreviated by an apostrophe ("festivities"), NOT a possessive-when-it-should-be-plural form of a word sloppily truncated into an abbreviation (fe-STIVs, not FEST-ivs).

Now that we have that all squared away, it's that time of year again: the Bob Marley "Reggae Legend" Birthday Bash. There's only one way to forget that it is BELOW zero out: sink into the velvety old-school goodness of Kalamazoo's best venue, kick back with a Red Stripe or several and bob along to some steel drums and scratchy, syncopated guitars; skulk in the shadowy back rows of the main floor with your crew, or jam by the speakers where reggae throbs at skull-vibrating volumes. Either way, kick back and just watch and pay homage to everyone's favorite Aquarian rasta. One thing I love about this festival is that it knows no demographic; I've been several times and it's really just a bunch of people who want to chill out and have a good time together, and a reggae show is really conducive to that. No politics, no drama, no race boundaries or dress codes or age limits-- all things that should never be synonymous with live music, but are all too common at shows.
     My mom said one time that all reggae sounds the same. Defiant teenage arguer-for-the-sake-of-arguing that I was, I scraped what I could from the bottom of my humble reggae-knowledge barrel, pointing out nuances of styles and sub-genres like dub, roots, dancehall, ska (but you already know that spiel if you've ever actually hung out with your weed dealer [how IS your glaucoma these days?] or your token bohemian sibling [which in my family... is me]), citing everyone from Burning Spear to Peter Tosh to Wyclef Jean to Matisyahu to the godfather of reggae, ol' Tuff Gong himself. And to be fair to my 17-year-old  incense-burning, corduroy-pants-wearing self, there really is a wide array of reggae sounds, or other Caribbean sounds which are sometimes mistakenly called reggae (like reggaeton).
     However (and life is a series of "howevers") it's kind of true: reggae is definitely a very specific-sounding genre. But maybe that's why you can go to a show and dance with people who look like Jerry Garcia dancing with people who look like Questlove dancing with people like me, and we're all having the time of our lives. Reggae has a magical universality to it which makes it such an amazing, fun, and listenable genre to so many people.
     So... I've said it once and I'll say it a million more times: it's about the music, not the scene. Even if you think it's not your thing, don your best hippie duds (i.e. your worst regular duds)-- and your dancin' shoes-- and get your (slow mo) two-step on.


Well anyway, the lineup of Bob Bash this year is... well, what is always is: Zion Lion's headlining. If you live in Kalamazoo you've probably seen them at Island Fest, Art Hop, Mixer On The Mall (whatever the fuck that is) or any other of Kalamazoo's lame social gatherings that are sadly the highlights of our year as a town. Even if you haven't, I'm certain you've heard of them; if you really haven't heard of them, I'll spare you the suspense: mostly Bob Marley covers, no matter the occasion. And, hey, while I will sure as hell be jammin' along to the obligatory "No Woman, No Cry" cover (which I'm anticipating will be covered by every band who plays tomorrow night; just go with it; your cries of monotony will be drowned by a chorus of inebriated singers-along) I'm kinda hoping ZL will bring it with a crunchy reggae jam sesh (yes, I only say "sesh" now)-- or something-- because, frankly, in the past when I've seen Zion Lion, it's been a little pedestrian. Played-out; sleepwalky; predictable at best. But like I said, it's reggae; it's not going to matter. (If you want a preview, check 'em out here; and no, don't bother with MySpace. Damn the man mon!)
      But what I'm really stoked for is Dread I Sound, an experimental dub reggae DJ from Kalamazoo. Dred I Sound concocts amazing dub remixes-- some with the ambient, spacey trippiness of classic dub reggae, some a little more clubbish/ dance-oriented; some are delightfully both. I've never seen this guy play, so I'm not really sure what he's about or what to expect, but after checking him out, I'm thinking it's going to be a good show.
     There's a third band on the bill, "Indika," but when I searched for them all I found was an Italian dance-indie band ("Istintivo, sporco... cantano i Depeche Mode." FYI, "Depeche Mode" in Italian is Depeche Mode!) and I'm thinking it's not the same band. So we'll see what's up with that. (Although this Indika is kinda good!)

So, in researching for this post I came across exactly one other reggae-oriented act in Kalamazoo: Lake Effect . I'm disappointed to say that Lake Effect is not playing at State Tomorrow because they are the best local band I have heard in awhile; I know I say that from time to time, but I am refreshingly impressed by this band. Singer Terrell Thompson's silky vocals call to mind Umphrey's McGee's Brendan Bayliss, but with more soul and a feel that is even more free and effortless. Lake Effect is a little more island-inspired pop/rock (think G Love, Jack Johnson, the Meters et al) than "reggae," but the soul is there, the flavor is there and I dig it.
     I found them on their ReverbNation page (the best site ever-- make an account and find me!) which, I thought, had better music than what was posted on their MySpace; check out "Reggae 1" and my personal favorite, the funky freefall "Stand Up" (not a DMB cover, as I momentarily feared).

So... I'm thinking we're in for a decent show on Saturday (but Lake Effect, where you guys at?!). And, it would be an injustice not to raise the question: where the fuck are the reggae bands in Kalamazoo?!

See you guys there (and buy a sister a beer [I like Red Stripe]),
-thejunkie

R.I.P.

American literary legend J.D. Salinger is dead today at age 91.

Although this post might not be in keeping with the theme of the rest of my writing here, Salinger is probably the hugest contributor to my writing-- my inspiration to write in the first place-- and, I feel, a contributor to who I am and my perspective on life, and I think it would be wrong not to pay tribute to him somehow. To me, he was more than an author, as "Catcher In The Rye" found me during the midst of a post-adolescent existential crisis; borrowed from a friend, that book flowed into my soul and permeated so much of my being that you could say it really has become a part of me. It's been the book I've reached for so many times when I just needed something and wasn't sure what, and sure enough, I've always found the answers I needed within its pages.

It's strange, then, that about a week ago, I felt that I was receiving many signs that I was supposed to read "Franny and Zooey," so I went to the library and checked it out. The librarian asked me if I had read it; I said no, and she replied "Oh, you're in for a treat." We got in a brief discussion about "Catcher," after which I went across the street to Something's Brewing and read nearly the first half of it at once.
     I finished it last night.
     Afterward, I was in the shower, somewhat morbidly wondering when Salinger would pass on, and found myself wishing I could hear him speak in person, at a seminar or some sort of lecture before that day came. And then, moments ago, I got an e-mail from my stepfather informing me of Salinger's passing. Needless to say-- and hopefully you read this without a hint of melodrama-- I was devastated (though somewhat intrigued at the coincidence).

I've never felt this way about the passing of someone I don't know-- a "celebrity"-- but I truly feel as though I've lost a friend. His words echo in my mind on a daily basis and bring me so much comfort, inspiration, and perspective every time I read him.
     So, J.D., this is my humble eulogy to you. Thank you so, so much for everything that you gave to us; thank you for being so much more than just an author. You leave behind a posterity of readers and writers who will sorely miss you for generations.

Humbly, respectfully, and sadly I offer my condolences to all of you who feel the way I do.

Jerome David "J.D." Salinger: 1/1/19- 1/27/10. You made me believe that words could change the world and that sometimes silence can speak even louder.

"Banjo shredders REJOICE! This IS your grandpa's folk music!"

I stood against a cold brick wall, clutching my Rod Stewart notebook against my chest like an airplane-seat flotation device. My glasses were fogging up like the windows of The Strutt itself, which nearly bursting at its proverbial seams with country-hippies, indie-hippies, aging/ old hippies, and an inordinate amount of lesbians (not that there's anything wrong with that). A snowstorm was raging outside as cops pulled people over on Stadium; their blue rollers looked like Christmas lights from where I stood inside the venue; we were jammed wall-to-wall; half- hectic, half- cozy, completely real and completely beautiful. Isn't that why we go to shows in the first place? What more does anyone want than to listen to music and be close to other people?
Nonetheless..

[Chris Dorman]
     My associate producer might take issue with this clip, as Chris Dorman is NOT a regional act; however, this was a local show and I'm reviewing it, goddamnit.
     Chris Dorman is from Vermont, actually. That's right, the land of Robert Frost (although [nerd sidenote] he was actually born in California); and, incidentally, the epicenter of East Coast neo-hippie culture, complete with a thriving folk-revival scene (and Ben & Jerry's, of course).
     Though technically a solo act, he took the stage alongside a bassist, whose upright bass was topped by a knit stocking cap like an unfortunately-proportioned man. Dorman's Michael Stipe-y vocals alongside beautiful, sad, capoed minor chords made for a somewhat interesting-- if not monolithic-- set; broken only by somewhat awkward performer-to-audience half-banter ("I believe in magical creatures... that they sometimes make us do things...") and even-more-awkward audience "participation" numbers (which he admitted to have played for a class of second graders who "kicked some ass at" this particular song) in which we were asked to rub our hands together to make rain sounds.
    I shit you not.
    Anyway... yeah, Chris Dorman was a little... different. Even for the folk sect. Interesting, intelligent, somewhat charismatic, and, yes, probably a little crazy. Probably not terribly unlike Robert Frost himself. Though I did find myself spacing out and singing "Man On The Moon" in my head quite a bit... and I don't even like REM. He closed with a song called "Family Farm" (available on his Myspace) and I found myself really kind of enjoying it, if not almost in spite of myself; as a mostly-lifelong folk fan I was a little uninspired by Dorman throughout most of his set, but when he let it out on this song-- a folky-sad ballad about mistreating "our land"-- I felt it. Dorman seems a born lyricist: "I was born a farmer's son. My father, he taught me how to sow. Told me that the land could teach me how to grow. If I could keep open my heart, never be apart from the ebb and flow of life, and I still hear the words, the one and only verse he sang before he died: well the land on which we stand is the only thing we have that can withstand the weight of our lives..."
     Maybe poetry is in the water out east. I'm pretty much on the next train to Vermont.

[Andru Bemis] {that's really how he spells it}
     So I'll get this out of the way right now, because I'm an up-front kind of gal: Andru was by far my favorite part of this show.
     To give you a mental image, in my notes from the show tonight I describe Bemis as "Slugworth from Willy Wonka with long hair in a hobo Halloween costume." (I mean that with as much love as possible {I'm trying to be a lot nicer on my blog lately}.)
     So... back to the music: Bemis is a VIRTUOSO on the banjo. YOU READ THAT RIGHT! He took the stage behind one of those five-stringed monstrosities on which I can't play anything but Rolling Stones songs (open G tuning-- music nerds, where you at?!) and rocked. the. shit. out. of. it. Honestly: when I watched him play I literally thought to myself, "what is he doing? is he playing through a loop station? is that a sample?" His hands and fingers and wrists and arms all seemed to move almost independently of each other, creating that sought-after banjo rhythm: effervescent, floaty; graceful but percussive. Truly amazing. In fact, it was Bemis' set that inspired the (strange) title of this very article.
     But enough about technique. Bemis' music is what I can only describe as authentic-- probably the most "authentic" feeling act I have seen in a long time, if not ever. It made me feel like all the other folk music I hear being performed on a regular basis is Taco Bell, and Bemis is my (hypothetical) Oaxacan-born grandmother's special vegetarian fajitas that she makes only for me, with love in every grain of hand-ground corn tortilla. Hypothetically- speaking, of course (but if only I had a Mexican grandmother).
     Anyway. After the glory of the first third or so of his set, he put down the 'jo in favor of a classical 6-string, of which I'm normally a huge fan-- and although Bemis' weird backwoods warble was complemented almost perfectly by the nylonny warmth of classical guitar sound-- but I found myself largely unimpressed by his guitar set (and, by the looks of things, I wasn't the only one; just sayin'). Alas, Bemis ditched the classical for his 5-string, in a glorious tent-revival stomp that brought the room back to life, and ended his set on (ahem) a high note.
     Pun intended.
     But anyway. I hate to admit this but one of my favorite parts of his set was a cover of "Coat of Many Colors," made famous by the lovely Miss Dolly Parton. Truly beautiful and, magically, without a trace of corniness; the kind of cover that makes me wish he had written it.
     Finally, (and please excuse the abounding literary references in this post), indulge me, if you will, in my final praise of Andru Bemis: his ditty "Huck Finn" (you'll understand why I referred to it as a 'ditty' when you hear it). A folk genius AND Mark Twain fan?! My entire being is the intersection of music nerdiness and regular nerdiness and, may I say: Andru Bemis, you have my heart.

[Her Folkiness, Ms. Daisy May]
     Excuse my corniness, and my tenancy for all things utterly cliche, but Daisy May Erlewine is folk royalty in Michigan-- I mentioned before that the Strutt was crowded tonight, and may I suffice it to say that an alternate title for this article was "Boogie Records Revival: Country Clusterfuck."
     Shit was PACKED-- and rightfully so. While Daisy May is further on the country side of folk than I tend to lean-- if you've never heard her, she sounds like Dolly Parton trying to sound like Alison Krauss-- you can't deny she has a decent following in Kalamazoo and throughout most of the state. And when I say following, I mean, a room packed shoulder-to-shoulder with fans-- not just fans who know the words, fans who listen, eyes closed with prayerlike reverence, emanating a near- palpable energy.
     However, honesty is my curse in life so I must say that I was mostly unaffected by Daisy May's set. It was really not until the third song of her set, the absolutely gorgeous ballad "The Shoreline" (up on her Myspace) which she described as "about a trip to Lake Superior in the winter," that I really began to warm up to her set.
     Do you remember in "Hustle and Flow" when DJ is talking to Skinny Black, and he's trying to convince Skinny to come back to Memphis? DJ says that in the future, if one day there is nothing left-- no humans, no buildings, no civilization-- you would still be able to put on Skinny Black's first mixtape and know everything you ever needed to know about life in Memphis. WELL... I feel like Daisy May, specifically, the aforementioned "The Shoreline" captures the essence of life in Michigan without ever really even talking about it. Not today, but speaking out of the context of time. Holed up in a hipster haunt as the snow falls, standing by myself with a Short's Soft Parade, listening to good old-fashioned midwestern folk-revival, it actually felt alright to be from Michigan.
     Even Kalamazoo.
     Sometimes I don't really hate this place that much.
     Anyway. I mentioned before that I really wasn't that into Daisy May's set. I'm kind of a fan of her guitar style: plucky; almost harplike on most of her songs. But other than the aforementioned "The Shoreline," and another standout piece, the gorgeous "Shine On" (which I first heard as a cover by Rachael Davis at the Kraftbrau many summers ago), I couldn't get as into Daisy May as I wanted to. I love what she does and I think she's a really talented songwriter; however, as I said before she is a little country for me. If I go folk, I go all the way-- bathtub moonshine folk or no dice. That's just how I roll. Daisy May even used to be like that, but she's gotten a little Nashvilley as of late. For my taste.
     I certainly enjoyed myself, though, as you have probably been able to glean thus far. The best part of the show, overall, was the hootenanny-style jam sesh that culminated after Daisy May's set. May invited Michael Beauchamp and (the adorable) Graham Parsons (who had both played sets before I got there. rats!) for a rousing rendition (I love that phrase) of Neil Young's "Only Love Can Break Your Heart." A half-in-the-bag hippie syndicate improvised a standing-room for drunken slow-dances and a singalong to rival the "Tiny Dancer" scene in Almost Famous. Honestly.

     Anyway. It's 3 AM (I got all excited and had to write this right after the show).
     Sweet dreams. Let it snow.
     I think I almost fell in love with winter tonight. Not sure how that happened.

Hugs,
-thejunkie

New layout.

Hello all.

You have perhaps noticed my bangin' new layout. Many, many thanks go to Jonathon Trousseau for his design work. Check out his photography at his site, The Silence and the Color (you can find a link under my Tasty Links, in the column to the right ---->)

Much love.

Brother Bill: Wild On The Whiskey

This review has been in the works for quite some time-- ever since I exchanged a crumpled $10 with a TA at my school for this album: a decidedly old-looking, should-be-on-vinyl, watermarked brown cover, with an out-of-place-looking parental advisory badge smirking in the lower right hand corner. Brother Bill...? Swear words? Weed and alcohol references aplenty? Don't mind if I do.

I had gotten a hold of another of Brother Bill's records previously-- a bunk live recording from the Kraftbrau (may it rest in peace)-- which I, frankly speaking, wasn't thrilled by. (Working at a music store did indeed have its spoils, local-band schwag among them.) While I do love a good live show-- even in a genre by which I'm not thrilled, i.e., country-- I don't typically connect with live albums, and this one in particular really just sounded like... how do I say this?... drunk hillbillies at a 21st century barn-raising.

But, Christ, how far Brother Bill has come. Like a dusted-off bottle of bathtub moonshine, Brother Bill has harnessed their spastic, epileptic-fit-of-five-bar-blues mania into something a little more polished, but still delightfully rough around the edges, in their impressively professional new release (out late '09), "Wild On The Whiskey."

Brother Bill, upping the tempo but clinging stubbornly to their country bootstraps, bash through all 13 tracks at breakneck speed with an in-your-face rockabilly that makes you want to drink fast, dance fast, get in a bar fight and get the hell out of there fast, drive fast (ideally not all in the same night)... putting on the breaks only slightly for their bluesy title track, the last on the record: a (relatively) gentle reprieve before you give it a second listen (or third... or fifth...). Their strongest songs are those playing up their mischievous (and oft felonious) shenanigans (like the anthemic opener, "Drink All Day"); they fall a little flat on the cliche country bullshit that dampens an otherwise balls-out progression of songs; for example the lackluster "16 Hours;" which contains such lyrical flatulence as "fishnet stockings and your hair done up right/ tell your old man you won't be home tonight."

And, I'm calling them out on the Lone Star State namedrops-- c'mon, fellas, country cop-outs? You're better than that (and... you're from Michigan). But the bottom line: this record isn't half bad. Aside from a couple sticky moments for a country un-enthusiast like myself, "Wild On The Whiskey" is well-rounded, intelligent in its own way, and a hell of a lot of fun. And while the album in its entirety probably won't make it into my permanent rotation, you can bet the farm (ha) that I'll be catching their next show.

Cute tagline: Lone-star? How 'bout 5-star? (Honestly: more of a 3.5 [are we doing half-stars?]) Brother Bill-- I hate country. But thanks for making a (semi) believer out of an indie snob.

But don't take my word for it (Levar Burton shoutout.) Check out their MySpace.

TVJ songpick: "Party Hardy Swing." [Usually what I like to do with a songpick is choose a lyric and let it speak for itself; let's go ahead and do that:] "Let's party hardy, rock n roll, drink a 6-pack and smoke a bowl." Having actually partied with at least one member of this band, I'll resist temptation to (actually) say "I wanna party with you guys!" But, if we learn one thing from this album, let it be this extra-special note to musicians; if you want free shots next time you play a show, write an entire album devoted your favorite poison. I know at least a few hick-rockers in town getting some free shots of Jack next time I see them.
-thejunkie

Good things.

First things first:
thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you (infinity) for your patience with my ridiculous lazy slacking.

Now: this is a real update. I'm cracking my shit down. If there's anything that affirms the reasons why I do this, it's the beginning of a new semester (currently day 2 of my 8th semester of school). Craaazayyy. But seriously: sometimes I forget that all I need to want to do this is the perennial feeling of listening to my iPod as I pull into the school parking lot or while I'm on my way to class and my prevailing thought is, "I don't want to go to class. I want to keep listening to this."

And that's why I write.

So thanks so much to those of you who are out there nagging me (some more so than others) or, at the very least, requesting that I write more and update more often. While I may respond with a little bit of an aggravated tone-- in my defense, I do have a lot going on-- it means more to me than you know that you guys want more.

One piece of (hopefully) exciting news to my readers (i.e. you, assuming you're still out there after I've been MIA for so long): I've made a decision to start going in more of a local direction with this particular blog (and thinking of starting others; those are still just ideas, so bear with me) and focusing mainly on bands from the Kalamazoo area-- shows, new releases, and general news, words on the street, etc.

SO (and this is the important part): I'm asking for your help. Here's what you can do:

-Any bands, musicians, or just music enthusiasts like myself, I would be eternally grateful to anyone who spreads the word about my blog-- link it up on your MySpace, Facebook, or your own blog, tell your friends, etc.

-FRIEND ME ON MYSPACE! That's right, I'm breaking a two-year MySpace boycott (call me a sellout if you wish. I just want to write and what is writing without readers?) You can find me here.

-Get a hold of me-- here, Facebook, or MySpace-- and let me know about any local shows, albums, jam sessions, or press coverage that you would like to see a clip about (even if they are your own!) or interviews that you would like me to conduct. Anything goes. (If you friend me on Facebook, please include a message so I will know you found me here... I usually reject friend requests from people I don't know. Sorry, I'm paranoid like that.)

-Keep reading, commenting, and generally being awesome. Because you must be if you're reading this right now.

Once again, thank you guys so much for inspiring me and, as always, for your love. Let's all do our part to keep the Kalamazoo scene alive and well.

XOXO
-thejunkie