Peopleodian | Dear Human | Baruch The Scribe | Western Giants (Rubber Gloves) So we've already discussed a lot of these local groups in recent months, particularly the awfulness of Baruch the Scribe and the surprisingly intriguing sounds of Peopleodian, an interesting project with one of the worst names ever. Dear Human play an effective brand of instrumental math rock that isn't and probably won't ever be my thing, but fans of the genre will likely appreciate much of it.
Titus Andronicus | Soft Environmental Collapse | Bizzaro Kids (Sons of Herman Hall) What I do with a band like Titus Andronicus? Or is it that I know exactly what to do, since we've been through this so many times before. Their first recordings consisted of pretty passable melodic rock; sloppy and impassioned without sounding too stupid. Casual follow-up listens would reveal, along with the bias-flaring occurrence of their subsequent signing to a larger label, what often occurs with so many bands of this ilk: They started acting more serious, had a "concept" for their new record, and started trying to rewrite some normo rock classic like Music From Big Pink or Rum, Sodomy, And The Lash or The Queen Is Dead, but through the band's own collective modern filter. So many once-exciting bands trade in their youthful flame and eventually settle for trying to make a record that's beyond them, and recording it as a band they are not. So many bands have done this over the years; the once-solid Dr. Dog as a recent example comes to mind, as does the aesthetic arc of Paul Westerberg's entire output and eventual descent into adult contemporary music. In Westerberg's defense, he just kind of peaked early. For some bands, it's better for your career to ditch the rough demo-sounding stuff, as it will maybe even ensure that you are played in dark-wood bars and suburban Irish-inspired pubs for years to come. It doesn't however always hold one's interest the way that those earlier recordings will.
Even more dubious is the band's choice of basing their new record around a Civil War-theme. Yikes. These things are all fine on their own; concept records, pub rock, The Civil War. But mix them altogether and you have a somewhat pretentious mess.
A well-respected venue head I know suggested yesterday, that it would be better to find people that are actually into the specific genre of the shows that are written up, and maybe this is a good example. Though the person was referring to punk rock and punk-pop leaning bands, it might be better to ask a "Senior Analyst Of Melodic Bar Rock" to cover this show. But I actually dispute that method. We definitely like punk and melodic bar rock, but only if it's well-done. That's a no-brainer, right?
Earlier today, I actually heard a Trey Johnson song that I liked more than anything on this band's new record. Does that mean I'm "maturing" or getting lamer? It had a guitar lick that almost sounded like Curtis Mayfield. Not bad.
live review - justice yeldham - majestic dwelling of doom 8/27/10
“Merde!” In 1896 this opening line to Alfred Jarry’s play Ubu Roi echoed through a Paris Theater. In case you do not speak french or have never seen a Godard film, the word means "shit," which is exactly what quickly hit the fan that evening. Upon hearing the utterance, the crowd ignited into a flame of critical brutality-- to do a thing as bold as cursing in a public performance was simply unheard of in civilized society at that time, and the patrons revolted, storming the stage and burning the place down. In the past century or so we have obviously moved into a different level of acceptance when dealing with artistic expression, but there are still hidden corners of the planet where art is being produced with the same intentions as Jarry's, namely to shock and assault the audience for the betterment of all involved. Friday night’s show at The Majestic Dwelling of Doom by Australia's Justice Yeldham was a night that I won’t soon forgot and has left me with many unanswered questions about what to expect from a musical performance, especially when a performance becomes hi-jacked as this one did.
I arrived fairly late to show, around midnight, and I stepped up to find the usual cast of characters socializing outside along with some unseen faces. Some of those faces were very fresh faced, yet any innocence that these young-uns carried in would be dismantled within the next 45 minutes. After making the rounds, a sound of indecipherable electronic screeches began to pulsate from the revolving doors of the Doom manner. Time to party.
As with most acts like Justice that I have minuscule to no knowledge of, I did as little research as possible before stepping in, purposely avoiding the Weekender post, which was very hard to do. I like to be surprised. I entered into an already crowded room with the fanatical noise heads and curiosity seekers perched as safely close to Justice as possible. Laid before him was a multitude of effects and distortion pedals which he knelt before like a priest before the altar. Pressed firmly against his face was a piece of glass which he played by the way of screams, moans and a contact mic.
The music was not discernible from most extreme noise that I experience. In my post a few days ago over the Dharma/Pocket Change I spoke of the control that an artist can exude in the face of seeming chaos. There is a sense of safety one experiences as an audience member when in the hands of a confident, focused performer, and this is what kept Yeldham's performance, essentially a man chewing on glass, from being a freakish oddity and instead rendered it a piece of art to absorbed. The music was intense and hypnotic. Watching him play this instrument, seeing and not understanding the way he created the caustic sound that filled the basement, was an experience unlike any other. The looks of delight and energy the audience was giving off kept the affair a communal one, the synergy at noise shows is unrivaled.
You could tell by the degeneration of the glass that the spirited but exhausting final stabs were meant to bring a close to the powerful performance. Then a challenger entered the ring. The man who in hazy retrospect must have been 7 feet tall looked like a rejected Street Fighter character from an Alabama meth-farm with his tattered sweat pants and natty dreaded (or just unwashed) locks. By this time most of the curiosity seekers had exited, leaving a group of about 30 or so to finish out the set. It was quickly apparent to the audience that this guy was either part of the performance or here to upstage it. After much reflection and Internet research, I’m still not totally sure one way or another.
His initial enthusiasm was not out of the ordinary for a wasted noise dedicate, but I think he knew that he had missed most of the performance and therefore needed to make up for some lost time. From his pants he pulled out something sharp that from my vantage point 3 feet away seemed to be a razor blade. As if in a trance he began to slide the edge across his forehead, each slice about a inch in length. There was a moment of clarity at witnessing this almost ritualistic exercise, and I watched in awe as the blood began to flow from the wounds and drip into small puddles upon the floor. The noise blocked out any sort of rational thoughts I could have in the immediacy of that moment. I stood there enraptured by the combination of wonderment and fear that rushed through my veins as the events unfolded in real time.
“I hate you!!!” screams Yeldham as he raised his instrument above his head and brought it down with brute force upon the devoted fan’s skull, sending glass in all directions (luckily by this time most people had made their way far from him). He smelled really bad too. The impact of glass on skull obviously didn’t help the fresh wounds which continued to ooze all over himself and the basement, making the place looking like a crime scene. As everyone made a beeline for the exit I saw Yeldamn take the man and give him a very cautious hug. This sight gave me relief from the tension balled up in me that I was unable to identify at the time, but now attribute to the joy of knowing I had just witnessed a finely orchestrated performance by, if not rehearsed, a dedicated visual artist committed to pushing the boundaries of violence, music, performance and the role of audience members. I would later find I was wrong.
“I challenged the Train, and the train won!” Our mystery man belted out before exiting the performance . I scanned the damaged that had taken place, not taking any pictures out of fear they might be confiscated later by police as evidence. There was a certain transcendental awe that swept up over my body, facilitated by alcohol consumption, that I had to snap myself out of in order to head out side and get away from the smell of sulfur.
As I exited the space I could already hear the rumblings of what had happened amongst the patrons that spend their entire time out side. I was jumping from conversation to conversation trying to put together the pieces from fragmented re-tellings. I heard talk of him being a schizophrenic who was suffering from a break down, that he had to be pulled off the train tracks earlier when going head to head with it and that he may have also shoved glass up ass earlier in the evening. All of which I found out later to be true. Then my investigation was suddenly interrupted and the story quickly became all too clear.
“I HAVE SEX WITH CHILDREN EVERY NIGHT!” Without having to give a second thought to who it might be, I turned around to see the man taking the pew to deliver his sermon of delirium. “I will destroy you Zionist” he began to scream at the young men trying to reason with him. “..but I am an Atheist man!” You really think that is going to help, buddy? This quickly escalated to the guy grabbing these guys by the collar and in case you forgot, all the while still dripping blood. This change of scene plus the impending police sirens coming down the road let me know it was time to gather my posse and get the fuck out of there.
After finally finding my queasy compadres, we headed across the street to the car. By this time the police had already arrived, and this mythical beast that was thundering around minutes earlier was now subdued by the fuzz to a mere mortal like the rest of us. Turning away from that sad scene I saw Justice crossing the street at the same time as me. “great set, I really enjoyed it” I told him with a smile and a non cynical thumbs up. He looked at me and for a brief second the worry and concern that was all over his face dropped and he acknowledged the compliment and quickly went back on his way.
What a night. I know that this review spent more time speaking of a crazy dude instead of the music which was the centerpiece of the show, but to me it is all one in the same. Jarry would be proud.
post script - Big shout outs go to Natalie V Davila, the Doom crew and Rob Buttrum who put their necks on the lines and clean up blood to bring us great shows like this. Thanks to Bradley Santulli for the video.
I hate to self importantly inundate you with our various press profiles of late, but we are surprised at the amount of interest ever since we announced our imminent finale. You may be surprised to see that we did an interview with The Dallas Observer's Pete Freedman for their DC 9 At Night blog. Freedman starts off by stating:
For the past five years, We Shot JR, for better or worse, has been a fairly prominent player in the local music scene...
What do you all think? Has it been for the better? Or for worse?
Also, bummed to hear about the once-ample parking available at the Phoenix Project, having to be done away with. Click here to read why.
FRIDAY
Black Friday With Anthony Stanford | Keith P | Ben White (Fallout Lounge)
Justice Yeldham | Solypsis | Drums Like Machine Guns | Heavy Medical | Depths/Filth | Ascites (Doom): You may have heard of Justice Yeldham. He's mostly known for his technique of shouting into, and on, and...through a sheet of amplified glass, which often cuts him, and leaves him bloody at the end of a performance. He represents everything that annoys, bothers, or scares people about this type of music and performance, and then goes beyond all of that even. I would actually love to see this show. I have always enjoyed the videos and recordings, but I pass out if I nick myself shaving. I may just have to stomach it, because this seems lie the best lineup all weekend.
This show also marks the birthday of House Of Tinnitus-organizer and Lychgate noisemaker, Rob Buttrum, who helped put this show on at The Majestic Dwelling of Doom, so wish him a Happy Birthday. His shows have been a joy to see over the years and I have always found his aesthetic filter to be one of the most discriminating, as well as one of the most intelligent in the area. He's always been one of those people so rare in any music community; someone that knows how to say that all-too powerful and seldom uttered word: "No." Happy Birthday, Rob. You completely fucking rule.
ADD: Rodrigo Diaz/Oleg B (The Cavern-upstairs-) SATURDAY Drug Mountain | Dust Congress | Daniel Francis Doyle | Drink to Victory (Rubber Gloves) This is Drug Mountain's last show, and that's a shame, but at least this lineup is completely solid. Unfortunately, I believe they are almost completely sold-out of their twelve inch, if not just a handful of copies shy.
El Cento | Orange Peel Sunshine | Les Americains | Diamond Age (Kessler) The description on the invite mentions something about Diamond Age being a "self-contained" project, implying a solo project, and if that's the case I really want to see how this is pulled off. I keep missing this guy.
