Weekend Highlights

I think I aged 10 years this weekend. One day soon, the doctor’s going to say to me, “You’re only 33, but you’ve got the body of a 90-year-old.” And then he’ll say, “Will you hold it next to mine?” And I’ll get molested by an M.D. (who will later turn out to be just a lowly nurse practitioner) — all because of my devotion to the KC music scene.

Friday, I went down to the sewery-smelling West Bottoms for a show at the Pistol Social Club by Vaz, which a bunch of older scenesters had been frothing over. It’s an LA-based band that only people who rudely drop the esoteric term AmRep into conversations know about. So, I should have known that because some old music buffs were geeking out over the show it was probably going to be one of those concerts where you get cred points for going but don’t enjoy yourself at all. But no matter who’s playing, the Pistol’s usually a great place to see a show. It’s a loft, and the shows there are technically private parties, so it’s BYOB. The Record Bar dudes often book more outre bands there when they already have a show planned at their home venue. That night at the RB, there was a Neil Young tribute show with performances by local musicians, so they (and by “they,” I mean Billy Smith) booked Vaz at the loft.

When I got there, Billy was taking money, and a small crowd of minors were gathered around a dirty artschool punk band called the Creepy Aliens. (You gotta love those college bands where everyone comes to school with equipment they bought in high school, and they start a band and allow way too many people to be in it, and only one of them has a decent amp, and the bass player only knows one riff, and it’s from a Dream Theater.) Shorts must be the new hipster thing, because the Aliens’ singer and one or two audience members were showing some hairy, scrawny leg. This kid, the singer, was all over the place, stepping up onto speakers, pacing, jumping, and doing flips onto his back. The music was three-chord punk and pretty worthless — basically a trampoline for singer antics. I will credit the Creepy Aliens for coming up with the pussiest idea for a punk song ever, which was being unable to find “this totally awesome Vegan margarine” in the grocery store and going crazy. Hence the title, “The Earth Balance Crazies.”

Next up was This Is My Condition, the one-man-band project of Craig Comstock, and, as usual, he rocked. Between songs, he took deep gulps from a giant thermos of what could only have been mad bear juice. The artpunks in shorts freaked out inches away from Craig’s drums the entire set — except when he was playing slow stuff.

The crowd had gotten noticeably older but, sadly, no bigger by the time Vaz started bashing out bottom-heavy waves of over-thirties sludge rock. I talked to Anna Cole, who is now engaged to her band’s guitarist, Andrew Kirk. Congratulations to the happy Anvil Chorus couple! Hear their sweet music here. Sorry, if I, like, wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about that.

Saturday, things didn’t get any quieter. I got to the Record Bar in time to catch most of a set by The Occupation, a group comprised of some very talented vets, including Bill Cave (vox), Chris Braun (guitar), Dan Weber (bass), Chris Fugit (drums), and One Other Guy (guitar). They sound like math rock mixed with postpunk to me, but everyone has a different take. Weber says the band’s most obvious influence is The Jesus Lizard. Chris Tolle, of the Belles, says they sound like a bunch of band’s I’ve never heard of. And he’s probably right.

After The Occupation came Sirhan Sirhan from San Diego, which drew a huge crowd, probably because its members used to be in beloved local bands Overstep and Molly Maguire. These guys were actually scary, with their furious fist-to-the-throat rock, red backlights, smoke machines and assassin-referencing name. If I was in a biker gang and ate acid for breakfast and tortured hippies, I’d listen to Metallica. But if I had a couple dozen tattoos, a wife, a kid, a mortgage, a vegetable garden, and an affinity for music that made me feel young, I’d listen to these guys.

Third, The Esoteric ripped the joint before a slightly diminished crowd. The latest news with that amazingly loud, punishing and electrifying Lawrence band is that they have a new album coming out. It’s going to be called Subverter and will be on Prosthetic Records. Go to the band’s site for details.

As I was driving home after the show, I was blocked from going down my street by an ambulance and a police SUV. I took the alley to our back parking lot, and walked around front to see what was going on. There were about four paramedics and four or five regular people out on the sidewalk in front of the neighbors’ house. One of the non-paramedics had apparently knocked down part of a stone wall, as two rocks the size of sofa cushions lay on the sidewalk. There were no crashed cars and no signs of actual violence, so the scene was a bit of a mystery. However, one of the guys was drunker than the rest. As soon as I noticed how drunk he was, he rapidly projectile vomited and swooned backwards into the arms of his comrades, who laid him on the sidewalk. One of the paramedics pressed on his gut and asked him if it hurt, but the general mood of the scene — drunk people and paramedics both — was of lightheartedness. Another medic took a plastic neckbrace out of a package, throwing the plastic bag into my neighbor’s garden (nice), and fastened it around the drunk dude’s neck. They put some more harnesses on him and strapped him to a spongy board with handles in it and put him on the stretcher — and this is when it really got good. The paramedics started quoting Monty Python’s Holy Grail. Someone started off with the bit about the swallow, then, one of them jumped to “He’s not dead yet!” which was pretty hilarious, given their cargo. And, the kicker — as they rolled him into the back of the ambulance: “Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!” I swear it happened.

And then Sunday… man, no luck. I still had to rock out, and here are some pictures to prove it. The Last of the V8s played P.Ott’s in celebration of the birthdays of guitarist Jay Zastoupil and Ryan Mattes (both this week, days apart). I actually dragged my wife out to this show, promising her a spectacle of rock mayhem and nudity, and we weren’t disappointed. (Unfortunately, however, there was no nudity because Mattes, the one who usually strips to his skivvies, said that he [a] couldn’t find his “panties” and [b] had a really gnarly-looking bite mark on his flank. He didn’t mention how he’d acquired such a wound, but I suspect it was either [a] his girlfriend, [b] the postman, [c] a snapping turtle, [d] a cow or [e] two or more of the above, in a joint assault.)

The opening act was a new band called Crazytalk, and they were sort of a V8s Lite — waaay lite. To me, they sounded like they had practiced a lot but played very few shows. The singer, who took off his shirt early in the set, had a strong, clear voice, but the band lacked physical energy and just plain wasn’t loud enough, despite their expensive, new Gibson guitars. Props on the admirable cover of “Tie Your Mother Down.”

The V8s understand that tone begins with a guitar plugged into an amp, and that’s why they sound good no matter who the sound man is or — as in the case of a P. Ott’s show — whether there even is one. Also, despite Ryan Mattes’ reputation as a wild exhibitionist, the guy can definitely sing. It’s the kind of voice a singer is born with, and once he realizes he has it, there is nothing to do but join a rock and roll band and abuse his voice as ruthlessly as possible with whisky and cigarettes and by never ever singing a note that isn’t equipped with a coffee can full of tonal gravel. Bassist Chico Thunder and drummer Kriss Ward help out with staccato backing barks and yells.

Here are four of the best pictures I took at the show. Keep in mind, there was plenty of straight rocking out, but I couldn’t help but shoot a few of the crazier momens, like when (1) Mattes burst a blood capsule on his forehead; (2) a couple of guys served up a dinosaur pi�ata to the band, which Jay Z smashed with his Flying V guitar, sending candy everywhere, which Ryan put on his head; and (3), Ryan jumped ass-first onto a pan of cupcakes. That last picture is just a good one.

And, like all V8s shows, nobody got hurt. Except Ryan.