Catching Up

Last night was the first that I’ve spent at home in about a week, so I’ve got to dredge hardcore through memories of the past, I don’t know … five? … concerts I’ve seen, starting with…

International Playboys, Season to Risk and NoMeansNo, Wednesday, October 4, at the Record Bar.

This was the best night of rock I’ve seen in KC in at least a couple of months. No one’s heard of the Playboys, which is a damn shame. It’s not surprising, because real, pure rock and roll is about as popular these days as chimpanzee humor. They hail proudly from Missoula, Montana, and I discovered them accidentally when I came across an abandoned copy of their second album, Sexiful, in my office over a year ago (they have a new one out awesomely titled Snake Blood Hangover). I tossed it in the CD player and the first strains of “The International Playboys Get a Bottle of Wine, Go to the Beach and Get Fucked Up” set my eyebrows on fire, and the mid-song change to a funked-up Zep stomp scraped my forehead off with a metal spatula. The rest of the album rocks along the same lines. Your girlfriend will hate it. Snake Blood‘s a bit choppy by comparison — it sounds like they got trashed before recording it then twisted back up on speed to get it done. Still good listening, though, especially when you’re trashed.

Live, the International Playboys cook. Singer Monty Carlo has a voice like Bettye Lavette crossed with Bon Scott, all wail and gravel behind his woodsman beard and shaggy head of curly locks. They all dress dapper — slacks, ties, vests — but they’re from Montana (not LA or Brooklyn), so it works for them. Some other dude was the only other person out on the floor the entire show, but that didn’t stop the ‘boys from pummeling through their set and tearing the stuffing out of a cover of the Who’s “Young Man Blues” to close the show. There is so, so much to be said for rock that ignores everything that happened in music after about 1969.

Then again, the next two ’80s-’90s-bred bands on the bill tore it up, too. First was the annual Season to Risk reunion. Last year’s StR party fell on Halloween, and the band members wrapped themselves up like mummies. This year, there were no costumes — save singer Steve Tulipana’s sweet aviator mirror shades — but there was plenty of monstering around. Being a transplant to KC, I’m not too familiar with StR’s catalogue, but most everyone in the suddenly huge crowd knew all the jams. Westy (DJ, scenester) and Cruz (DJ, scenester, Esoteric frontman) even got to enjoy screaming into the mic a few times from the pit.

What struck me about the show was how relevant Season to Risk still sounds. If they had just started up and were all mid-20s, they could probably have the exact same run they had ten years ago. I get CDs from indie labels all the time — especially of late — that totally mine the post-hardcore genre that Season stood atop in its day: frequent rhythmic changes; skronking guitar; atonal, guttural vocals; and hard, hard beats. It’s good when you’re in the mood, and if there’s any bit of savagery lurking in your breast on a bonny spring day at the park, it’ll bring it out and you’ll attack and eat someone’s dog. Also, your girlfriend hates it.

Here is probably the best place to read some background on NoMeansNo. They’re touring in support of their latest, All Roads Lead to Ausfahrt, which is their tenth full-length. So, yeah, they been around awhile, and they’re still weird and not tired — or tiring to watch, unless, that is, you keep trying to start a mosh pit the way I did. I figured, hey, these guys have worked their asses off for 20 years and have seen some wild shit go down at shows; let’s surprise them with how hard we can throw it down here in KC. (And, yeah, I mighta been a little tipsy). The band’s older fans (mostly dudes) would neither participate in the mosh or move away from the front row, but they would give me a good shove from time to time, sending my sweaty body across the floor and into someone else who was standing still. At least Lethal D and a really cute, short girl with freckled arms were into it with me.

And I hope NMN bassist and lead singer Rob Wright appreciated our efforts. Sweating profusely, he had the look of a very satisfied, very drunk old man whose face is permanently twisted by constantly grinning at all his own twisted thoughts. His two partners in the Vancouver band — Rob’s brother John on drums and vocals and Tom Holliston on guitar — also looked the part of men who were into punk before it became fashionable because they were outcast geeks in high school and now they’re shorts-and-Converse-wearing rock gods. Their set must have spanned well over an hour, and I was beat before they finished, guzzling ice water in the back and running my hands through my sweat-soaked hair. They took their punk-grounded experimental, jazz-fused hardcore as far as it could go and still rock — only once did they go a little too far and sound like Primus.

I left satisfied and sobered up enough to drive, and I passed your girlfriend on the way out. She looked cranky.