Bombs Away
Wooo.
What’s up with this coming-into-work-the-day-after-our-nation’s-birthday business? I could have easily put in a full day’s work yesterday then celebrated at night and slept all day today. Instead, my patriotic ass is hungover, perhaps still a bit drunk, from blowing shit up and drinking stuff down until 4 in the morning. Last night’s local music highlight: watching Anti-Crew frolic in a mountain of foam the size of a Buick. There wasn’t really anything musical about that, but it’s important to recognize the sources of your favorite artists’ inspiration.
Speaking of which, one of my favorite DJs in town is selling off his record collection in preparation for a move out West. If you ever found yourself cocking an ear to sounds spun up by Oz McGuire and wish to equip yourself with some of his grooves, hit him up at honestozgood@yahoo.com.
Friday was probably the best-quality live music night of the weekend for me. I caught Jon Yeager, Shearwater and the Court and Spark at the Record Bar. Yeager’s show continues to improve now that he’s got a new backup band, featuring an ex-hardcore bassist (who, I’m told, has had to rein in his rather hyper stage presence) and a lead guitarist who uses a lot of chorus-y effects to produce shimmering textures. Shearwater, a band out of Austin who’s album Palo Santo has been in heavy rotation on my stereo lately, sounded just as good live as on record. Singer Jonathan Meiberg has a voice reminiscent of Win Butler, but, unlike the Arcade Fire frontman, Meiberg doesn’t sound like Adam Sandler when he gets loud. The band’s songs have a baleful quality, and with Meiberg’s banjo plunking slowly, they have kind of a Cold Mountain feel (minus the Jack White). My only point of criticism for Shearwater would be that if you must have a 40-year-old drummer named Thor who has raggedy blond hair and hairy shoulders, don’t allow him to wear a tank top.
I wasn’t blown away by the Court, who are from San Francisco, but I did dig their matching white suits — not to mention the bass player, who looked like a young, 6-foot-8 Patti Smith. Despite being named after a Joni Mitchell song and sounding on record like the countrified moody bluesers Lambchop always wanted to be, they got all jamband up on stage and grooved until the bar lights came on.
Saturday brought a great DJ set from messrs. Edwin Morales (Konsept) and Stevie Cruz, who lit up Neon at the Record Bar on Saturday. Although it did clear up more space on the dancefloor for me to boogie down to Technotronic, it was unfortunate that more people didn’t come out. I’d never heard a DJ mix Sigur Ros over a dance beat before. Bad ass.
Sunday night at P. Ott’s, Omaha’s gospel-garage slaying Brimstone Howl opened up for the Pink Socks making for a bass-guitar-free, loud-as-fuck, kick-your-ass rock show. I must confess that even though I wrote a column on the Pink Socks, I had no idea what “pink sock” was slang for (NSFW). Guys — ew fuckin’ ew.
I hate to leave you with that image, but I gotta go get some Chipotle. Mmm…carnitas.
