Blog — Page 267 of 275

Japandroids

7th St. Entry

Minneapolis, MN

July 7, 2012

When a touring band starts their set by saying, “It feels like we’re back home, Minneapolis”, the natural instinct is to go Okay, yeah sure buddy— I bet you said the same thing last night in Chicago/Milwaukee/Madison/Detroit/somewhere in Canada/etc.  But when Japandroids lead singer and guitar player Brian King said it to a sell-out crowd Tuesday night, the eager, packed-in audience opted to believe him.  Minneapolis, for all of our shameless self-loving scenesterism, can be a fussy crowd; often times offering our lesser-known hometown bands nothing but folded arms and blank stares.  That being said, we tend to treat out-of-towners—at least those with a good amount of buzz—really, really well.  So it comes without surprise that Japandroids, who are in heavy rotation locally on both 89.3 The Current and 770 AM Radio K, were welcomed with open arms.

Personally I was hesitant to believe the hype surrounding the Vancouver-based guitar and drums duo when their first album Post-Nothing was released in ’09, and admittedly, not for any justifiable reason.  Basically I wanted to hate them because I was already a Japanther fan, and these guys—being a another two man band with “Japan” in their name, who played punk-informed anthemic indie rock—were seemingly more popular and thus were a threat to my self-created DIY-loving-cool-guy world. After all, we Twin Cityans had already dealt with a similar situation a couple of times:  First, at the height of the early ’00 garage rock revival an Australian band calling themselves The D4 started making the press rounds, while our beloved bar punkers the Dillinger Four, who are affectionately referred to as D4, who had been killing it for years, went largely unnoticed outside of the smallish punk world.  Then, a few years later, the indie-rock universe was going bananas for Vampire Weekend, while our very own Vampire Hands had been creating  far more original and better music and for quite a bit longer but without the attention of Spin Magazine and Pitchfork.  So, while Japanther was not a TC band, as a fan of them, all the attention ‘droids was getting upset me just the same.  Then one day, seconds away from murdering the Internet because it wouldn’t shut up about Japandroids, for some strange reason—almost as if I was being controlled by a mind not my own—I went out and bought Post-Nothing.  I’ve been hooked on them ever since; snatching up their collection of old EPs No Singles in ‘10, and of course, the new album a few weeks ago.  In retrospect it was quite silly to try and dismiss a band—even without hearing them—based on the fact that they have a similar name and makeup of another band I already liked.

So, on the last night of their American tour, Japandroids landed at the legendary 7^th Street Entry in downtown Minneapolis (where the Replacements once played five nights in a row in October of ’85 and where Atmosphere did an eight night stand twenty years later) to blow off some steam before the long, show-less drive back to Vancouver.  Despite the hellish temperatures (a heat index up around 107 degrees Fahrenheit) King and drummer David Prowse played as if it had nothing left to lose; like they literally did live here and could just go home and pass out after the show.  They frantically and sometimes sloppily, bashed through every track from their outstanding new record Celebration Rock.  The songs that seemed to garner the most crowd participation were the lead-off single “The House That Heaven Built”; with its overabundance of ooh-ooh-ooh sing-a-long parts, the youthful drinking anthem “Younger Us”, and the album opener “The Nights Of Wine and Roses”; which was preceded by King urging everyone to check out The Dream Syndicate album by the same name, saying that the creation of Celebration Rock was influenced heavily by it.  The set was rounded out with select gems from Post-Nothing such as “Young Hearts Spark Fire”, “Wet Hair” and one of my personal favorites, “Sovereignty.”  It was an oddly touching few minutes, as the Minneapolis crowd, who has its own love/hate relationship with finicky weather, proudly sang along to the PNW anthem: “It’s raining in Vancouver, but I don’t give a fuck.”

Of interest was how, even though it was an 18+ show, the majority of the audience seemed to be in their late 20s to even early 40s.  (No doubt, a result of the Current’s affect on the local music scene—it’s undeniable, indie rock crowds have gotten older here since they debuted on-air in ‘05.  It’s something that is quite heartwarming to see actually.)  Near the end of the set they played the final song off of Celebration Rock, “Continuous Thunder.” Despite the band’s apologetic nature for playing “a slow one” it was near-perfect moment, as the lyrics, centered around lost love, resonated well with the us older attendees that may have a bit more life experience under our belts in that department.

The final song of the encore-less performance was a lengthy, raucous version of a Gun Club cover, “For the Love of Ivy”, in which it looked at times like the band might go into instrument-smashing mode.  They didn’t however, which was kind of disappointing, but they did look completely spent, as if they gave it everything that had left in them.  And that alone was completely satisfying.  Besides, everyone else down on the floor looked just as exhausted.  But we actually got to go home and pass out afterwards. Godspeed Japandroids!

Japandroids:  http://japandroids.com/

7^Th St. Entry: http://first-avenue.com/taxonomy/term/14

LeBron James is Four Titles and a Rape Allegation Away From Becoming Kobe Bryant: How the Miami Heat Winning is Bad for Basketball

Now I know that we here at Scene Point Blank are first and foremost a music webzine, and I respect that. But that doesn’t mean we can’t talk a little ah, culture from time to time; especially over here on the blog. Yes, the blog—this little nugget of mere existence inconspicuously tucked away in the shadowy, tumbleweed-rolling, less-traveled area of the site. Even on ye olden blogge it’s mostly music, what with it being the main area for concert reviews and festival wrapups and all. But if you’re not paying close enough attention, you might just miss the hardworking wordsmith Sarah giving a thorough and thoughtful analysis of a Catholic dating websites or every so often—as in four years ago—someone tossing out 140 character-esque micro-updates (which pre-date Twitter, I might add) about oddly enough, the Cleveland Browns. So, I ask you to forgive me in advance, or like, stop reading right now if you’re not into the non-music stuff, because I am going to talk about basketball for a minute. Specifically LeBron James, who along with his neatly—and very publically and shamelessly—assembled squad of bad guys just won the NBA Finals Championship last night. They beat the good guys, the Oklahoma City Thunder, in a decisive 3 games to 1.

I’ll spare you the details of the back story, as I’m sure most people that made it past that last sentence are familiar with The Decision and subsequent The Promise, and how up until 12 hours or so ago, the immaturity, premature celebratory thoughtlessness and downright ridiculousness of those “events” combined to simultaneously create the biggest villain(s), the most highly scrutinized player & team, and ultimately (and previous to last night) the most comical and unanimously applauded failure in NBA Finals history. Hell, even if you pay a minuscule amount of attention to pop culture—as in turn on a TV once in a while—chances are high that you know about LeBron James and the Miami Heat and how they didn’t win the title when they promised the world they would. After all basketball and the NBA in particular, is the one sport that has made the biggest cultural impact and successively stayed culturally relevant, pop as it were or otherwise.

As far as I am concerned, that last statement is an unarguable fact. It certainly isn’t hockey, as a good friend of my once implied. Oh no; of any other sport, it could never EVER be hockey. Culturally speaking—as in the culture of hockey and the culture of basketball—the two are very similar, yes. They have rabid fan bases, they exercise a steadfast unwillingness to accept the other as a credible sport, and they are racially dominated as it relates to the best players—traditionally speaking, that is. Not to mention, as far as throwback emblems go, both the NBA and NHL team logos look really rad on snap-back caps. But as far as cultural impact and relevance is concerned, basketball is second to none. Internationally, soccer, or as the rest of the world that isn’t the United States calls it, Futbol, is not far behind. But other than that, the only thing close—and I know you’re going to laugh at this but that doesn’t make it untrue—is professional wrestling. But that’s an argument for another time. Ultimately, hockey is a wealthy person’s game. Not everyone can afford all the equipment and ice time, whereas all it takes to shoot hoops is a ball and cylinder. Not to mention the obvious parallels and crossovers between basketball and hip-hop. And well, I needn’t say more about hip-hop’s relevance in pop culture. Also, there is your musical reference to make this SPB legit.

Anyway, I’m getting totally sidetracked here (which is fine since this a blog post, amirite) when all I really wanted to discuss was how sad it makes me that LeBron’s version of the Heat, in only their second year of existence, have won the Championship. In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that I’m a huge Oklahoma City Thunder fan. (When they are not competing against my hometown favorites, the Minnesota Timberwolves that is—shoutout to my boys K-Love, Ricky Rubio [get well soon], D-Will, and Michael Beasley [don’t trade him!]) And yes, I am disappointed that they lost, but what makes me most sad is that the Heat’s Championship win could possibly be the end of what I thought was a great, albeit brief, era in NBA fandom: the LeBron Haters.

Initially I felt a nagging uneasiness with my personal hating on LeBron. Traditionally speaking, I’m a certified Laker-hater, so I am no stranger to wishing ill will against a team, or specifically a star player—such as the completely unlikable out-of-court-settling-(alleged)-anal-rapist, Kobe Bryant. At one time it was comforting, as Kobe inches closer to retirement, that I could see a future NBA where I didn’t have to hate on someone. (As a Minnesota Vikings fan, let me tell you, it is hard living in a state that seems to be as equally populated with annoyingly calloused shit-talking Packer Backers. [Here’s an idea: if it’s so great, then move to Green Bay, you asshole.] Hating takes a lot of energy, believe me.) But then LeBron went and did that thing…and that other thing…and then had to audacity to wonder why people didn’t like him, and that made him even more unlikeable, and before you knew it I hated that motherfucker too. But I didn’t really want to. I didn’t like the feeling of hating LeBron and the Heat but I couldn’t help but hate. Nobody could help it. And then something really awesome happened because of that helplessness. LeBron’s heel turn (pro-wrestling terminology, hell yeah) became the unifying factor that brought together all of us basketball fans (that aren’t Miami) to zealously spirit a singular objective: Anybody wins but the Heat!

Eventually hating on LeBron and the Heat turned into something not at all stressful, but rather it was the opposite—it was, well, in a word, fun. We, the LeBron haters, analyzed every single missed shot and end-of-game decision to pass the ball rather than man-up, and tooled it into a justifiable means for our collective hating. It was a blast! As well, we dissected every little nauseating plea-for-approval-esque Tweet—whether it be teasing the idea that he would enter the Dunk Competition or riding Blake Griffin’s bandwagon after he rim-rocked all over Kendrick Perkin’s head. He was so desperate to be liked again, that it made us hate on him even more. What a gas! And we pretended to be mad as hell when the Heat came out to pre-game warmups wearing hoodies after the Trayvon Martin murder; postulating that they were more concerned with seizing the opportunity to sway public opinion back in their favor, than they were actually raising awareness and paying homage to Trayvon. Even though LeBron is an adult and a multimillionaire who lives in the public eye where unrestricted civic scrutiny is totally acceptable, we were treading dangerously close to bullying territory. Yes, we had a grand old time hating on LeBron!

And now, with an impressive team-driven Championship win by the Heat, and even more so, an incredible critic-silencing series of performances by LeBron, the hating will undoubtedly begin to abate. And I am completely saddened by this. My only solace is knowing that, despite winning the championship, LeBron can’t help but look at his Twitter feed (because you know he is) and see some of the last dying flames of #hashtag hatred rolling in, and wonder to himself, “Why do these people still hate me?” And that makes me laugh a little.

Here’s to hoping we can all keep the communal good times that are LeBron Hating alive and well. I for one am just not ready let it go yet. I mean there is always Dwight Howard next year, but that’s kind of a stretch. Come on everybody let’s stay hatin’ on this fool! After all, he promised "Not one, not two, not three..."

PS—How this all fits in with the sub-title of this piece blog post, admittedly, I am not really sure—I just thought it was a really clever of me, and I knew I should get up on the Internet before some hip-guy-sports & culture-writer from a blog website like, Grantland or Deadspin got to it before me. I call firsties!

Royal Headache, The Arrivals, Condominium

Triple Rock Social Club

Minneapolis, MN

June 9, 2012

It was with some intrigue and, admittedly, mostly trepidation that I made my way to the Triple Rock last night to see Sydney, Australia’s Royal Headache. Originally my curiosity had been piqued because Extreme Noise, the beloved local volunteer-run punk rock record store, was sponsoring the event. Rarely do they attach their name to something that isn’t completely worthwhile. Yet, my apprehension levels had skyrocketed right about the time I read Royal Headache’s press release, which stated “They craft tight, irresistible, R&B-inflected punk songs, and hone a universal message of redemption through passion.” Now I understand a thing or two about drumming up interest in a band, especially when paid to do so, so I was not scared off so much by the “universal message of redemption through passion” part. That’s just one of those puzzling strings of words that press release writers craft in hopes that it will give their product some attention. No, what made me cringe was the “R&B-inflected punk songs” part. Other than hip-hop or the increasingly rare musical side of Justin Timberlake, I don’t really get into “R&B-inflected” anything, let alone punk. In the early ‘00s when everyone was in front of the stage shaking their hips to the Bellrays or the Dirtbombs, I was at the bar irritably ordering more drinks, wondering how I got duped into believing this was punk. So, despite the chances being high that Royal Headache would be something I ultimately wasn’t going to enjoy, I begrudgingly drug myself off the couch and out the door to see what all the hubbub was about anyway. Besides, Condominium was one of the opening acts, and passing up an opportunity to see them would be foolish.

Condominium were as compelling as ever. If I had to guess, this was probably the first time many of the people present had seen them, as they were clearly the odd band out on the bill. Their brand of noisy, arty hardcore is best served in smaller rooms, but that didn’t stop them from winning over the sparsely populated crowd at the Triple Rock. Condominim has that It Factor, and they proved it again last night, just like they do every time out.

The Arrivals were next. Complete with the prerequisite beer bellies and beards, they played the type of music that, to the best of my knowledge, thrives amongst the pages of Raczorcake Magazine and annual festivals in Gainesville, FL. Unfortunately, at this point It doesn't come across as the loveable Midwestern pop-punk that it once was—now it’s more like schmaltzy classic rock. Not that all classic rock is bad (see: the Dazed and Confused soundtrack and its companion piece Even More Dazed and Confused) but this type was—it was just completely uninspired and tiresome. And made even more agonizing when they allowed the hopelessly unlikeable Jesse Thorson on stage during “Simple Pleasures In America.” Punk rock for bros, bro.

By the time Royal Headache took the stage they were well received by the small but enthusiastic audience. It was clear that the majority of the folks in attendance were familiar with the band’s record, as they were all singing along from start to end. I don’t know why, but I was slightly taken back at first by just how much everyone was into it. Bodies were gyrating at a feverous pace, believe me. I guess I was expecting there would be more people like me, which had not ever heard a lick of the band, but were there strictly on the basis that Extreme Noise put their stamp of approval on it. There were some—most notably Drew Ailes, singer of local hardcore standouts Brain Tumors—that looked a little bewildered by what they had stumbled upon, but for the most part, everyone seemed to be unabashedly enjoying themselves. It’s not hard to tell that Royal Headache comes from a punk background, as the band physically strikes a familiar hardcore pose—guitarist Law and bassist Joe, standing legs spread, heads bobbing; drummer Shorty pounding the skins on a smallish kit with intensity; Shogun the singer, stalking vehemently back and forth across the stage, holding the microphone close with both hands, and leaning out over the audience. If you saw these guys without sound, you’d think they were like Bear Trap or Manipulation or something. But, that’s the strange thing right there. Despite the ferocious energy put forth in appearance, the sound emanating from the stage was on a totally different level. It was sugary and sweet and clean and…well, it was pop music. There were certainly elements of soul, R&B, mod, and even ‘70s style punk, but by and large it was straight-up pop music. And they were playing it under a giant Extreme Noise banner behind that stage that said “PUNK ROCK.” Neither the band nor anyone boogying their asses off in the crowd seemed to be at all embarrassed by this and it was completely baffling to me. And in retrospect, that was actually pretty goddamn cool.

Royal Headache: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Royal-Headache/136799649689670

The Arrivals: http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Arrivals-Chicago/163820463656711?v=app_2405167945

Condominium: http://condominium-hellotomorrow.blogspot.com/

Extreme Noise Records: http://www.extremenoise.com/

Triple Rock Social Club: http://www.triplerocksocialclub.com/

Hot Water Music just released their new album, Exister, and recently spent a couple nights in So-Cal to warm up the new songs before they head out to Europe this . Scene Point Blank caught their show in Pomona with Touche Amore where they demonstrated that they have no intentions of slowing down.

I walked into The Glasshouse just in time to catch So-Cal natives, Joyce Manor. One thing's for sure, no matter where they play--basements, living rooms, or venues--they get the crowd going. Next up were Touche Amore. They ripped through their set with immense intensity. Having so many fans there only fueled the flames. The band debuted a new song to the So-Cal crowd while even throwing in stuff from their La Dispute split. It was a warm welcome and it was clear they had a foot in attracting a younger audience that likely have never heard a Hot Water Music album before. This reviewer can only hope those Touche Amore fans stuck around to appreciate the power of Hot Water Music.

Hot Water Music  stepped out and opened up with their ten year old, "Remedy." The passion was still there. If there's one thing Hot Water Music have going for their live show, it's that they have a grizzly bear rocking his heart out on stage. Chuck Ragan still stomps around the stage like an excited kid who just unwrapped a Tickle-Me-Elmo on Christmas morning. Ragan retained control as they went into their new album opener, "Mainline." As much as I like the studio recording, seeing it live was a whole new ball game--adding a whole new level of force to the track.

The band jumped back and forth between older tracks from A Flight and a Crash and newer songs like "State of Grace" and the rhythmic title-track, "Exister." It's always a joy when Jason Black gets his moments to take the reins. "Exister" was another new song that translated really well live. The older crowd that had taken over the dance floor were ecstatic when they jumped back to No Division's classic, "Rooftops."

One of my only gripes about their performance was they only played one track from The New What Next--"Giver." As they reached the end of their set they broke out fan favorites, "Wayfarer" and "Turnstile." It was clear the crowd had been hoping and waiting for the moment to yell out, "I must always remember: there's no point to surrender," and they did not take it for granted.

Fans wait for Hot Water Music to come back out and satisfy their thirst for more. Their arrive back on stage and begin playing the anthemic, "It's Hard to Know," to remind everyone to "live your heart and never follow," before ending the night with Forever and Counting's. "Manual."

Hot Water Music can still give a better performance than many of the younger punk bands going today. If you haven't had a chance to see their show, I urge you to. The dueling dynamic of Ragan and Wollard is enough to shake the walls, while Jason Black and Rebelo's rhythmic chemistry is something you won't find anywhere else.

There are a few cultural constants we all come to understand depending on where we come from, and growing up in Vermont is no exception. Amongst other things, many develop an unnatural appreciation for not having to smell cow shit. More common, however, is the universal love for Ben and Jerry's ice cream, a company with a classic story of two men with a common drive coming together and making a shitton of money. Equally universal to Vermont culture is the shared love of every single one of the major band that have come out of the state. By this, of course, I refer to the absolute above-all without-a-doubt second best jam band in the world, Phish. And when these two forces come together, their combined power can draw in nearly every person in Vermont.

All fifteen of them.

It turns out there is a world record for the largest cowbell ensemble. The Guiness Book of World Records currently lists this number as 640, which, despite all evidence otherwise, is apparently less than the population of Vermont. After what was surely the world's oddest conversation, Ben and Jerry's and Phish drummer Jon Fishman came together on 14 April and decided that, together, they could rally enough people to break this world record. Also something about raising money for flood relief. Whatever. That didn't matter. What did matter was that there was a mass gathering that involved a large part of my natural culture, and I had to be a part of it.

Knowing full well the risks, I set off to join my fellow percussive bretheren in an afternoon of song, camraderie, and inevitable ear drum damage. When I arrived, Ben and Jerry's were issuing cowbells to everyone who had previously signed up to be in attendance--and by some counts, that was upwards of 1,300 people, more than enough to secure a record-breaking performance. I got in line to receive my cowbell along with the rest of the folks who had compulsive punctuality issues. Unfortunately, we ran into a big problem.

Thankfully, I had come prepared with my own, sufficient percussive device. Others, however, had not been so lucky. They were stuck with a collection of second-rate instruments. But I could tell they were rallying together to get past this setback: they weren't going to let insufficient hardware get in the way of having a rocking, cowbelling time, no matter what. Empowered by their persistance, I stuck around, mingled with the folk, and enjoyed the beautiful Vermont afternoon while the stage was being set up. And slowly but surely, the stage came to erection, the band sauntered on, and in an instant, a cacophonous din of cowbells were raised skyward, of which no two managed to ring at the same time.

Not pictured: the dense, pot-fueled haze that had settled over the crowd.

The ramshackle band, led by Fishman on the cowbell, burst into a riotous set of cowbell-intesive tunes, eliciting many a clang of appreciation. The band started out with a cover of The Chambers Brothers' classic "Time Has Come Today", an incredibly popular and well known tune for everyone born half a century ago. The performance was preceeded by a warning from Fishman that the song "slowed down" in the middle, and he urged the crowd to follow him at this point while he banged the cowbell slowly. They responded with a generous, frantic ringing of their cowbells in something resembling assent and happily banged their cowbells along with Fishman, who nobly struggled to keep the tempo from being overrun by zealous cowbellers with all of the precision of a middle school percussion section. When the song reached its infamous and labourious decrescendo, the crowd had a difficult time keeping pace with Fishman, who kept pushing the tempo slower and slower; the strain could be heard in the crowd's reluctance to slow down, as strikes became less precise and more akin to general clusters of noise.

The band followed up that crowd-pleasing number with their tribute to Will Farrell and Christopher Walken, both of whom (for some reason) had declined to be in attendence that day. The song, a rendition of Blue Öyster Cult's classic "(Don't Fear) The Reaper", definitely got the crowd enthusiastic. In fact, if the crowd had been any more enthusiastic, the band would've had to give up for sheer inability to play that fast. Fishman also couldn't help but get into character a little bit for this song.

Much to the regret of everyone involved.

Having run out of songs that actually had cowbell in them, the band rounded off their performance with a couple of songs that had cowbell forcefully inserted into them. They ended the main set with Bachman Turner Overdrive's "Takin' Care of Business" , a hard-rocking common time jam that no single person seemed to be able to hit the correct beats on. Finally, a version of the ever-popular tune "Hang on Sloopy" by The McCoys followed for an encore, pleasing absolutely everyone who still cared about popular music from 1965. Cowbells clamoured and rang in a sonorous display of gratitude as the band ended, leaving the crowd to linger and bang their cowbells for several hours afterwards, as noted by everyone in the city who was trying to sleep later that evening.

All things considered, it was a pretty wonderful event. Something like 1,600 people showed up to play in total, smashing the previous world record, and more importantly, the day's events gave testament to the combined power of Ben and Jerry's and Fishman preying on Vermonters' sense of shared culture.

Oh yeah, and a lot money was raised for Hurricane Irene relief in Vermont, which had suffered massive flooding and hundreds of millions of dollars in damage statewide from the storm in late 2011. Phish's Waterwheel Foundation, which had organized the event, actually has raised several million dollars itself to contribute. So, there's that, too. Sometimes I do like living in a small state where we do have a very definite sense of community. It's the only way something like this could've possibly worked out.

The only thing that could make this feel more like Vermont would be maple syrup in the mosh pit.