Kenny Rogers is now 71 years old. And, as of a few years ago anyway, his boys can still swim.
Aftermath knows this because we were treated to a slideshow of Rogers' twin five-year-old sons - even some shots from the delivery room - as he sang the ballad "To Me" with the Houston Symphony at Jones Hall Thursday night. Cute kids and all, but it made for about five of the most squirm-filled minutes we've experienced at a concert, well, ever.
It was like being trapped in line at the DPS. All you want to do is renew your driver's license (or, in this case, hear "The Gambler"), but the guy in front of you insists on whipping out his wallet and thumbing through umpteen family photos. Thank God the Roaster didn't have any pictures of his pets, or we would have been so out of there.
Luckily, this was about as sappy and maudlin as the evening got - and we're talking about a show that also included "Through the Years," "Lady" and lesser-known but no less sentimental heartstring bullseyes like "The Greatest" and "Buy Me a Rose."
One can sit around all day and wax faux intelligent about where a band gleams their influences from. It's armchair quarterbacking for the kind of folks who wake up in the middle of Sunday afternoon and could give a good goddamn about 100 yards and monied monoliths of bro. For some people the best part of listening to music is trying to reverse-engineer each piece of band that comes through, and sadly finding greasy defective second-hand parts or amazing finding keen mechanisms built by the very hand of God. It's just how us music nerds survive.
So for the past week, every time Aftermath would find himself at the crossroads of trying to describe Florida's Surfer Blood, he kept reaching dead ends. Whether this means he needs to spend more time in the Internet woodshed listening to krautrock, Nuggets, or outlaw country remains to be seen. [Ed. Note: We're pretty sure we've got outlaw country covered.] But in the past seven days, everyone around him has either been likening his beloved Surfer Blood to a closeted jam band, a Weezer-ish barn burner, Vampire Weekend for poor kids or, as we ourselves put it just yesterday on Twitter, the "My Morning Beach Boys".
One of the true architects of hip-hop, Rakim stopped by House of Blues' Bronze Peacock Room Tuesday night to conduct a clinic in peerless lyricism. Rocks Off's lensman Marco Torres was there. Did you know Rakim is the nephew of R&B trailblazer Ruth Brown? We didn't either.
Click here for a slideshow.
It's been a long time since Aftermath has been to the kind of high-energy, high-theatrics rock and roll show that makes us totally forget ourselves, even if just for an hour. Monday night at House of Blues, Peaches gave us exactly that kind of show, a relentless assault on good taste, fashion, preconceived notions and musical genres.
We thought we had Peaches pegged. Shock-rocker. Gender-bender. We were hoping she'd come through and meet our expectations without being too corny or pedantic. We didn't expect a kind of show on the level of a low-scale Cirque du Soleil. Needless to say, she totally blew us away.
It's a shame MEN couldn't meet those expectations. Peaches' opening band features the glass-voiced Le Tigre alumna JD Samson on vocals and synth with Ginger Brooks Takahashi and Michael O'Neill on guitars. Their sound is techno-pop, and the boyish Samson's voice is the perfect compliment to the heavily electronic music behind her.
At times, like with the song "Simultaneously," MEN seemed to channel post-punk bands like The Cure and Siouxsie & the Banshees. At other times, though, they sounded like every generic night at a Montrose disco. At one point, O'Neill even put down his guitar to play a drill whistle.
Any drummer jokes, say the one about Ginger Baker and coffee both sucking without Cream, pretty much have to go out the window when you enter an expansive warehouse that includes over 100 boys and girls, and men and women, pounding on their respective kits. Sometimes in tandem, and other times to the same beat. Jesus, we didn't think this blog was going to be so rife with double entendres.
On Sunday afternoon, Rocks Off ventured to a hangar near Bush Intercontinental Airport, and the 2009 Texas Big Beat. This event helps raise money for the Mr. Holland's Opus Foundation and Cherish Our Children. Both charities aim to bring music to underprivileged children in schools, giving them another outlet besides the drugs and the street life they may see at home or in their communities. Wow, drummers are good for something besides delivering pizza and scaring away hot chicks.
It took Aftermath most of Friday to figure out why we were in such an awful blue funk after Thursday's Pogues show, especially after the band delivered a more brilliant set than even this 20-year fan thought they were capable of. But after leaving work early and relaxing for a while at home in the fetal position, we knew.
Some shows - particularly ones we've waited more than half a lifetime to see - we'd rather just be a face in the crowd, soaking up the music and the booze like everyone else instead of having to worry about arranging guest lists and photo passes, not to mention not getting so blasted we can't piece together a review the next day.
Well, sometimes the musical gods are as kind as they are crazy, because that's exactly what we got almost exactly 24 hours later in the very same space. Like the Pogues, Aftermath is so familiar with the Drive-By Truckers' catalog all we really need to do is write down the song titles; unlike the Pogues, we have seen nearly every DBT date in Houston or Austin for a solid decade, so at this point seeing them live is like keeping a standing date once or (if we're lucky) twice a year with an old, dear friend.
In Aftermath's opinion, there are few things more enjoyable than spending an evening together with friends at the beloved haunt that is the Mink. We're able to toss back a drink or four, catch up on each other's lives, and hopefully hear some really great music. So Friday night, we gladly made our way out to the corner of Main and Alabama to hear Springfield Riots, Ringo Deathstarr, and The Factory Party, along with the hopes that we would get to hear some new stories from the venue's lively door guys.
As we had never partaken of the sounds of The Factory Party, we were pleased to finally experience this band's brand kinetic of post-punk. Yes, there might be plenty of groups out there today borrowing from Joy Division and New Order (much less Interpol), but we didn't locate too many chinks in this Houston-based quartet's musical armor.
All of the core elements were present: the deep, thrumming bass lines; the chiming, echo-laden guitar riffs; strident, pained vocals; and the sort of relentless, syncopated drumming that forced us to dance no matter how hard we resisted.
FYI, the sign says "Enjoy the show." Assuming you could get in...
Aftermath was really looking forward to R. Kelly. When we were asked to cover the event we were a little hesitant, since modern R&B is entirely outside of our scope of musical knowledge, if not slightly outside our personal musical taste. But after mulling over it a little we began to see it as an educational opportunity, a chance to broaden our musical horizons.
It seems every time Aftermath encounters Justin Townes Earle live, the guy has peeled another layer off himself revealing another astounding bit of his promise. Barely three years into his career, Earle is seemingly moving at an accelerated rate, even if the casual listener or viewer can't quite discern what it is that's shaping up.
Opening for the Pogues Thursday night at the House Of Blues, Earle came out flying solo. His sideman Cory Younts left a few weeks back to take on other endeavors, leaving Earle all by his lonesome onstage. Younts' trademark harmonicas and mandolin were missed, but Earle filled in the blanks with his own manic-skiffle guitar lines. Being out front by himself gives Earle's songs, especially ones like "What I Mean To You" and "Poor Fool," a sweetly sad twinge. Most of Earle's songs are about walking the world alone, giving his solitary appearance all the more creedence.
Attention budding music writers, assuming there are still a few of you left who think getting into shows for free is a fair trade for your health, well-being, a decent paycheck and reasonably normal social life: It's not. It's pretty much the opposite. If you choose to go down that road, like we have, the payoffs get smaller as the physical, mental and social price of this life (and lifestyle) gets steeper.
Once you reach your mid-30s, every show you see will be like one of those '50s alarm clocks tick-tick-ticking away the remainder of your mortality. And not only that, it's like a joy-buzzer hardwired to your brain, poking and prodding you and asking you time and again, "Is this really how you want to spend the rest of your life?"
No. It's not. But this life is all we've known since we were 19, and damned if we know what else we're even qualified to do.
Can you actually use the word "shazam" in a review? Because that's what Aftermath was thinking at one juncture Tuesday night while watching John Gibbons and Eliot Fisk perform adapted Baroque pieces for the harpsichord and classical guitar. And yes, we did just say harpsichord.
The concert was held in the main entrance gallery of the Menil Collection, as part of Houston-based Da Camera's "The Romantic Spirit" 2009-2010 season. The setting, which was designed by renowned architect Renzo Piano was a perfect aesthetic complement to the works of Bach, Vivaldi, Albeniz and others which flowed over the audience.
The duo, Gibbons on harpsichord and Fisk on guitar, were stationed in front of Walter De Maria's vast yellow canvas, "The Color Men Choose When They Attack the Earth," and played an unamplified set to a full room of around 250 patrons. Some were there as Da Camera loyalists, some to experience the novelty of an unusual instrument, and some to pay homage to Fisk, who was the last direct pupil of Andres Segovia, the undisputed master of Spanish classical guitar who is to that genre what Rudolf Nureyev is to ballet.
Despite some technical difficulties that got things off to a late start, Rocks Off and several of our friends had a fine time at our "Helter Skelter Halloween" party Tuesday evening at Coffee Groundz. Special thanks to the one or two of you who actually showed up in costume - we told anyone who asked we were dressed like Johnny Cash, but we pretty much dress like Johnny Cash every day - and to the guys who showed us how to hook up the Rock Band guitar controllers without one of those wireless adapter doohickeys that mysteriously turned up missing after the Best of Houston party at Lucky's Pub.
We are finally starting to get the hang of Beatles Rock Band, especially the bass, and enjoy playing it more and more every time. That said, we have no idea how some of the folks who showed up Tuesday navigate those guitar parts. It just looks like a bunch of brightly colored dots to us, but we're learning. And Rocks Off's brother John is turning out to be a fine virtual drummer. He's definitely got blisters on his fingers this morning.
We are now in the midst of planning some sort of Rocks Off Rock Band Thanksgiving event for next month. We'll let you know more details as soon as we figure them out ourselves. See more photos from Tuesday after the jump.
Shortly after the release of Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace in 1999 - indeed, about 15 minutes or so into the movie - many (if not most) fans' hearts sank as they realized the 15-something years they had waited for George Lucas to fill in the narrative gaps in the backstory of Luke Skywalker, Princess Leia, Darth Vader, etc. had been spent in vain.
Lucas, it seemed, was more interested in creating new, action-figure-ready characters like Jar Jar Binks and showing off the CGI capabilities of his Skywalker Studios than bringing his modern-day myth to a satisfactory conclusion, though at least some of the problems had been rectified by 2005's Episode III - Revenge of the Sith. (The middle chapter, 2002's Episode II - Attack of the Clones, however, is still awful.) The wooden performances of many of the prequels' principals, especially Hayden Christensen in the pivotal role of teenage/twentysomething Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader, didn't help either.
Luckily, few if any of the problems plaguing the second batch of Star Wars movies can be laid at the feet of John Williams' score.
Wanda Jackson, unquestionably the true Queen Mother of rock and roll, was fashionably late getting on the stage Saturday night at the Continental Club. It was her seventy-second birthday, and she had played Austin the night before. Who could blame her for being a little slow to the drawl?
Miss Wanda backs a mighty rockabilly howl in her tiny frame. If you would have seen her anywhere else other than the stage at the CC, you would have wanted to make sure that she got into her car okay, or asked if she needed help to the parking lot with her groceries. But when she opens up her voice and that iconic voice comes forth, even the burliest rockabilly girls and boys in the crowd could do nothing but stare in awe.
By any number of measures, Dutch born DJ/producer Tiesto is an international musical superstar. He's been voted "Best DJ in the World" by DJ Magazine three years in a row. He performed at the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games in Athens, making history as the first DJ to do so. He regularly fills stadiums with 30,000-plus fans, and on Friday he was in Houston dropping his beats as part of his Kaleidoscope World Tour.
H-town-based promotion company Night Culture 77002 put together the show at Reliant Arena that ultimately drew about 5,000 people from a wide array of background and ages. Certainly there were some old-school ravers, but absolutely every other demographic was in the mix as well, and despite what one may expect, the event had less of a club vibe and felt more like a full on concert.
Although Tiesto has been making proclamations lately that his sound has expanded past the Trance category, Friday's set was nothing if not Trance. It was nuanced slightly with some sirenesque vocals here and there, and there were moments when he played with some polyphony; but overall it was a relatively standard roller coaster of repetitive, layered synthesized beats meticulously and seamlessly executed, and the crowd loved it. The sound system was phenomenal, reaching to the farthest corners of the venue and filling it with that deep bass that hits you between the sternum and the gut.
Fans in the crowd at Warehouse Live's Dinosaur Jr. show Friday night should have known what was in store for them when J Mascis' roadies began setting up his equipment. Six amps for a single guitar player. If you thought the show was loud, imaging standing three feet in front of them, like Mascis has for the last 25 years.
Aftermath finally made it through the security line in time to catch the last few songs from opener Lou Barlow, once friend and then foe of Mascis. The two went to high school together and were founding members of Dinosaur Jr. until Barlow left to work out his frustrations via his side project Sebadoh. Eight years later, Mascis disbanded Dinosaur Jr. and began to tour solo.
If you count all their side projects, Mascis and Barlow must have about 30 albums between the two of them. This makes for an interesting and diverse show once you get past the point of not being able to hear anything because of all the noise you're hearing.
Mop-haired Barlow opened by playing both bass and guitar with support from MIke Watt's guitarist and drummer in support of Barlow's solo album, Goodnight Unknown, released this month.
Barlow's bass playing has always been melodic, and his new work is no exception, but unfortunately, the sound at Warehouse Live was muddy at the low ends and so the songs sounded heavier than their album versions.
Two small signs on the filigree-ensconced keyboard stand read "BEWARE" and "WHORES." Whether an admonition or a threat remained alluring ambiguous through the Victoriandustrial set presented by Emilie Autumn and her Bloody Crumpets.
Like the joy division for Baron Munchausen's cast and crew, five corset-adorned harlequin harlots traipsed across the Meridian stage, bedraggled as the entertainment for Deadwood in James West's clockwork pocket of the Multiverse, but only a little worse for wear.
Initially, the stage act sans a band of any sort seemed more than a little contrived, but as the performers gained their bearings and the audience simmered down, the spectacle unfolded into a well-rehearsed sideshow promoted to main attraction through the obvious assets on stage.
Of all the still-living bluesmen whose careers were firmly established before the likes of Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, Jimmy Page, etc. came along in the mid and late '60s, the knock on Buddy Guy is that live, he is the most inconsistent. Conventional concert wisdom says an evening with Guy can either set your hair on fire or be a hand-wringing (not to mention wallet-wringing) exercise in watching someone who ought to know better go through the motions.
Aftermath has seen both sides of Guy in the past, and Sunday night at House of Blues the more-or-less full house got a little bit of both. Yes, there was a Cosby-esque amount of mugging and a standup-comic level of interaction with the crowd. Good and bad: He stopped Muddy Waters' "Hoochie Coochie Man" early in to advise someone down front to "Shut the fuck up a minute, man," but also mentioned more than once how, since he's already got a bunch of family here, he "just might" move to Houston.
"One thing I'm afraid of, though," he said. "Is that if I moved here, you'd get tired of me."
There are few experiences in life that act as true rites of passage: Learning to ride a bicycle or drive a car, or that first kiss with that special post-pubescent someone. Then there's virginity, both the kind that gets lost in between the sheets and the kind that takes place between one newcomer, several thousand fans and one or two bands.
In this reporter's case, the deflowering took place Saturday at the Woodlands Pavilion with Widespread Panic and the Allman Brothers. Could there be a better first-time experience with these musical lovers than the gentle yet ballsy bass work of Dave Schools? Don't bother responding, the answer is simply "no."
Opening up their first Houston show in almost a year with "Let's Get Down To Business," a blend of Southern rock with just the necessary amount of progressive edge, this is indeed what Widespread Panic intended to do. Along with "Party At Your Mama's House" and "Tall Boy, " it was easy to hear the fusing of jazz and blues in their musical vernacular, with a consistently powerful usage of melody and tone. The surrounding crowd responded as expected, raising half-empty beer cups and lighting up for the night's first toke of many.
Give them drugs so they'll shut up (please): Har Mar openers My Jerusalem
Rocks Off pulled into the parking lot of Super Happy Fun Land fashionably late Saturday night just in time to see Sean Tillmann (a.k.a. Har Mar Superstar, clad in street clothes instead of his usual layers of costumes) hanging out by the Dumpster with his arms around a groupie. We didn't know at the time, but this vision would set the scene for the rest of the night's events.
We arrived just in time to catch Austin/NOLA conglomerate band My Jerusalem, a six-piece featuring members of Polyphonic Spree (Rick Nelson) and The Twilight Singers (Jeff Klein and Dave Rosser). My Jerusalem play wall-of-sound style rock that filled up the room with the help of vocals from all six members, plus trumpet, keys and strings. They reminded us a tiny bit of Spain Colored Orange, if SCO had a fuller sound.
But Rocks Off has a low tolerance for annoying stage banter, and Klein got on our nerves with his constant cockiness on stage, asking the crowd for drugs and repeated references to the venue as Super Happy Fucking Fun Land.
Thursday night was probably Aftermath's fifth or sixth time seeing Early Man and Valient Thorr since we discovered them in 2005. It's shows like these that allow the setting aside of critical artifice to straight up jam out. There's no taking of careful notes or delicately and painstakingly dissecting guitar layers or song structure.
This isn't saying these two bands don't rock our nuts off at every turn or lack anything in the energy department. That's the exact opposite. We haven't gritted our teeth in sheer metal happiness like this since...OK, we actually do that a lot, some would say too much. Let's not fool ourselves. But between these two bands there's enough headbanging to keep all those sketchy pain clinics in town in the black for years.
Muse took the Reliant stage around 7:30 p.m., when concertgoers were still slowly trickling in to Reliant Stadium. The place was most likely less than half full (or half empty, depending on your outlook) yet Muse's thick, epic sound filled in the gaps nicely.
After making their entrance to Sergei Prokofiev's "Dance of the Knights" from Romeo and Juliet, Muse swung smoothly into foot-tapping new single "Uprising," handling themselves with confidence. After closing "Map of the Problematique" with the riff from Led Zeppelin's "Heartbreaker," they launched into a decidedly muscled-up version of 2006 smash "Supermassive Black Hole," enhanced for live performance with beefier guitar solos and a bitchin' FX pedal.
With time for only nine songs, Muse tried to include tracks from each of their albums, melding the various sounds with relative success (even if Aftermath did decide to head to the bathroom for lite-rock snoozer "Starlight").
A day or two before U2 (and love) came to town, a friend emailed us a joke. At least we think it's a joke. It really doesn't have anything to do with U2, except that it has everything to do with U2.
"I was so depressed last night thinking about the economy, terrorism attacks, World War III, global warming, my retirement savings, Social Security, my job, national health care and my credit card debt that I called Lifeline.
"Got a freakin' call center somewhere in Pakistan. I told them I was suicidal. They got all excited and asked if I could drive a truck."
In a concert that stretched from the International Space Station to the strife-torn streets of Tehran to a would-be martyr under house arrest in Myanmar, but never left Houston for a second, U2 owned the 60K-strong crowd at Reliant Stadium Wednesday night before (we'd wager) 80 to 90 percent of them even knew exactly what they were hearing.
Rocks Off is a little slow getting started this morning, because we're still shaking off the effects of the extraterrestrial satellite that fell to Earth in the vicinity of 610 and Kirby Wednesday night. The humanoids who came out - two squads; a trio and a quartet - seemed to be very interested in love. If you have any further information, please email us. Otherwise, get on your boots - it's going to be a bumpy morning.
Maxwell sure knows his audience. And not just all the single ladies - many of whom were up and dancing to Beyonce's ubiquitous hit the prince of neo-soul used as his intro music Tuesday at Toyota Center - but the men who love them, or at least want to get with them. "Fellas, you can see I'm setting you up right?" he said in one of his many asides to the crowd, shortly before crooning a bit of Al Green's "Simply Beautiful."
"If you can't go home with something after this, I can't do nothing for ya."
Independence Day in Arlington? Nah, just U2's ginormous 360 "Claw" stage.
It's a little less than 36 hours and counting until U2's 360 Tour stops at Reliant Stadium, and Rocks Off is starting to get excited. Really excited. Bono and the boys were in Arlington at Cowboys Stadium Monday night. "For about two hours, the U2 members sang and played with passionate precision," writes Mario Tarradell in the Dallas Morning News. "They backed up the spectacle with plenty of dramatic substance."
Meanwhile, here's a sampling of live-tweets from our sister paper the Dallas Observer:
"Lights just went down for U2. So many cameras and phones are out, it's obnoxious. #partoftheproblem"
"You haven't experienced frustration if you haven't listened to tens of thousands trying to sing with Bono as he changes up words, melodies."
"OK, now the stage looks like that thing that let's you go back in time in Galaxy Quest. Or any other movie, really. http://pic.gd/d2670d
"Bono just dedicated 'One' to President Bush, and wasn't even being facetious. Also, cats are living with dogs in perfect harmony."
"Cowboys Stadium is literally shaking right now. Crazy."
After the jump, see Monday's set lists from U2 and potentially show-stealing opener Muse. We really, really hope they keep "The Unforgettable Fire."
Who needs to go to an Alice Cooper show more: the 34-year-old satisfying his curiosity or the 61-year-old onstage for whom the gate receipts will buy many, many rounds at Pebble Beach? The 44-year-old whose eyes are blacked out like Alice's or the 25-year-old tweeting his ass off?
With a band member underneath each life-size, lowercase letter of his first name - Aftermath's favorite was the drummer comfortably cradled within the "c" - and a Halloween-ready hot nurse (reportedly his daughter, which opens up all sorts of Electra lanes) on hand to assist with the odd beheading, straitjacket-fitting or hanging, Cooper played ringmaster to his own "Theatre of Death."
For a good 90 minutes Sunday night, the man born Vincent Furnier in Detroit Rock City assumed a persona even older than "Alice Cooper": the Dorian Gray of heavy metal, a man whose songs grow younger, more menacing and full of "Poison" the more age lines accumulate on his weatherbeaten face.
"Hey man, you look lonely. How's it going?" asks a big jolly Juggalo, face painted in a distorted clown pattern with long wet brown hair hanging down into the white and black smear.
We had been sitting against the wall next to the soundboard at Warehouse Live, silently typing commentary onto the Rocks Off Twitter page. He grasps our hand in that two-handed Baptist preacher hold and smiles politely. We didn't expect kind fellowship at an Insane Clown Posse show that would put a megachurch like Lakewood to shame.
"Ah, I'm cool man. Just here checking out your party. This is unreal," Aftermath says a little sheepishly, not knowing whether this is how the night will end. We aren't wearing make-up and we actually may look downright out of place. The polo shirt and Converse probably don't help either.
"Cool cool, you are gonna love it. My name is Josh, and I'm from the Houston Juggalos. WHOOP WHOOP!" Josh bellows the last utterance to a friend of his walking by, like so many military cadences from back in the day, and says, "I'm actually from Santa Fe."
Our faithful Rocks Off lieutenant was last seen in the company of these people (and many, many more like them) at Wednesday's Insane Clown Posse show at Warehouse Live. We haven't heard from him since late, late last night, and are starting to get a little worried.
Aftermath has seen almost every single step on the road to fame Kings of Leon have taken since their debut album Youth and Young Manhood in 2003. We heard a track off that album in mid-2003, "California Waiting," on a radio show while living in San Diego that year and the band stuck with us ever since.
The first time we saw them live was at Meridian in 2006 at a free Camel cigarettes show. The entire band was still hirsute and on fire, coming off a weekend of debauchery at Austin City Limits, where they played a quick midday set. Lead singer Caleb Followill and the rest of the family band looked frail and feral, the way rock bands are supposed to. He had to drink a honey concoction between songs to keep his voice from breaking. With all the free smoke in the room, that couldn't have been easy.
In summer 2007, the band came to town armed with Because of the Times, an album which arguably broke down the pop wall that Youth and Aha Shake Heartbreak could not. Everyone took notice of the band, even though to those who read NME and Spin religiously they were indie-rock greybeards who were destined to be the next Walkmen. Aftermath covered the show that night for Rocks Off, back when it was still Houstoned Rocks and a ghost town compared to the Grand Central Station of news and clamor we are today. KOL put on an amazing show, opening with "Knocked Up" and running through their early work with a speed-addled abandon.
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