According to Moskovitz, the band will collect money to donate to Partners in Health, which has an office in Haiti and has been providing medical and food aid for the last 10 years.
Method Man & Redman, Ghostface Killah
Lincoln Theatre, Raleigh
Thursday, July 23
The silence that fell over the Lincoln after an enjoyable (though not spectacular) set from Brooklyn’s Duo Live was puzzling. With nearly a half-dozen DJs in attendance, it seems like someone would have been spinning records to keep the room buzzing during the 20 minute break before Ghostface Killah made his way to the stage. Perhaps the lack of house music was for the best, though, as the onslaught that followed from the Wu-Tang emcee and Method Man and Redman’s Clan/Def Squad alliance meant that we needed to save all the energy we had.
An ostensible mistake this morning on the venerable All Music Guide: Michael Jackson, dead since May 25, 2009.
The pockmarked path of devoting your new band to a vintage sound rides bumpy at best. It’s often a process of osmosis, though, that leads one band to sound like a whole bunch of older bands—less looking directly in the rearview mirror for something to recreate and more just playing some variation on what’s funneled into your mind.
New York band The Pains of Being Pure at Heart has received an unusual amount of comparisons to its predecessors. Some have been fair, like early My Bloody Valentine or the Jesus and Mary Chain. Others, like Blink 182, have just been plain weird. It’s an interesting question: Does a band need to have an original sound to matter? And should the band be discounted if the sensors of past musical obscurity and good ol’ age are working to that band’s advantage? Maybe it shouldn’t be that simple, and usually, it’s not that simple.
Not long after moving to town, I remember seeing a particularly great set from The Countdown Quartet at Humble Pie, the longtime Harrington St. restaurant in Raleigh. In fact, my roommate and I have talked about Ray Duffey's drumming that night—in particular, the flawless swing he pulled from his pockets that night—ever since. Lots of Raleigh favorites—Kenny Roby, The Rosebuds, Countdown—played a lot of gigs at Humble Pie early this decade, but music's been mostly absent at the place for several years.
Peter Lamb, who went on to play saxophone with The Countdown before the band played its farewell show in August of 2007, is looking to change that:
Viking Storm, pt. II (Hammer No More The Fingers, The Future Kings of Nowhere, The Dry Heathens, Deleted Scenes, The Beast)
Duke Coffeehouse, Durham
Saturday, April 4
Hammer No More The Fingers could have been upstaged.
There was the matter of the 16-foot Viking warship—resting across the Duke Coffeehouse stage, adorned with shields representing each of the nine bands that comprised the Viking Storm lineup. Then there were the Future Kings of Nowhere, resurrected as a team of lanky (Minnesota) Vikings, purple jerseys and crisp white football pants included. And, of course, a Final Four victory for the Tar Heels.
But the night, as expected, belonged to Hammer. And the standard for album releases in the Triangle, as expected, was raised.
Viking Storm, pt. I (Tooth, Caverns, The Bronzed Chorus, Pink Flag)
The Pinhook, Durham
Friday, April 3
Mere observation be damned.
As Durham powerhouse Tooth packed itself onto the cramped Pinhook stage—rightfully headlining night one of Viking Storm—the band's charged gallop churned every body, mine included, in the front half of the room to a flailing froth. It's a testament to the band's intensity and deep, cutting grooves that they could drive a room full of people to hurtle themselves at one another at a show where moshing had no precedent prior to the headliner's set. Mere observation was impossible.
Tuesday, March 24
We're driving to Chicago right now. We've just finished listening to Stephen Colbert's audiobook I Am America & So Can You for the second time. It's 5 a.m. in our world, but we just crossed into the Central time zone, so technically it's 4 a.m.. We decided to leave Detroit after the show tonight so we could make it to Chicago for an 11:00 a.m. interview with Heave Media. We thought about staying in Detroit, but we were afraid we might hit rush-hour traffic in the morning and miss the interview.
Time and space are both weirdly compressed at South by Southwest, which you don’t realize until you’ve done the festival for two 12+ hour days. You see a dozen shows in a day at a half-dozen bars, and don’t have to walk all that far to see them. It’s different than something like Bonnaroo because you’re traversing city blocks, not fenced-off pastures, so you don’t feel like you’re part of some separate music colony as much as that you sort of own an entire downtown. SXSW is a microcosmos of music cultures, a huge disposable music scene that feeds off Austin (and vice-versa) for four days that feel like a month each. Thus, on any single day, I could feasibly cycle through weeks worth of emotional states, weird bodily pains, friend-and-band sightings and stages of inebriation. On Thursday, my second 12+ hour day in a row, I came to an important realization, one that might seem very obvious: sometimes, for long stretches of time, South by Southwest can suck.
During South by (look, that's what the cool kids call it), news ripples through Austin like taco wrappers in the breeze: Who's scheduled to throw down at the Fader Fort with whom, who's pouring the strongest margaritas gratis, just which Vivian Girl just ducked into that Portajohn yonder. So what was on everybody's lips Wednesday, as the tech geeks from SXSWi said their farewells to Austin and the, uh, tech geeks from the music portion of the program were ushered in? "Man, Wednesday sucks."
Yep; in the middle of the single greatest gather of bands since, y'know South by Southwest 2008, there were a lotta folks wandering around without a plan, griping about the lack of luster in whatever showcase they "had" (this is groaned more than spoken) to go to. Legendary sorts like Roky Erickson and Echo and the Bunnymen took to the showcase stages last night, as did theater-fillers like the Decemberists and Camera Obscura, and just about every indie band under the sun who could catch an early morning flight popped in at a day party or two. And you know what? It did suck. Kinda.