The King Brothers Play Nasty Rock in S.F.; The Pattern's Punk/Soul Boogie; Tim Easton Plays Austin
Kimo's, San Francisco's trannie bar turned rock 'n' roll hovel, was a punk-rock sweatbox this night from the moment I got the smeary black stamp inked on the back of my hand. The black-walled, windowless coatroom of a club is jam-packed when the crowd reaches 100, so the 130 or so darkly clad nightcrawlers yakking with their booze breath were stuffing the place till you could feel their perspiration drench the carpet.
My friend warned me that the King Brothers were a dirty rock band. He said these Japanese firebrands take the Stooges' revival sound and bend it in angles most other bands can't reach without breaking all their strings. This, and a couple Jack and Cokes, sounded like my kind of medicine. But before I could get my prescription filled, I had to wait in line. The opening acts were tests of self-control. First there was the Ghosts, a band with white sheets over their heads. When they opened their set with the line, "We've been practicing now for hundreds of years," it was hard to tell which was worse, their Cramps-style "Monster Mash" rock or their sense of humor.
Denver's the Hellmen were next, playing swampy rockabilly that wasn't as interesting as the naked Asian babes video poker game my friends were squandering dollar bills on downstairs. The Hellmen did play one redeeming song at the end of their set, a slow-burn number that added some horns for a tune that would make a good soundtrack to some Tom Waits/Milla Jovovich arty flick.
But you know, I wasn't at Kimo's to stick my hands in my pockets and ponder the darker aspects of life, I was there to rock. And luckily Funhouse finally took the wheel next and revved the sound up in the right direction. At first I wasn't too keen on the lineup. I mean, they had chicks in the band, and there were never any chicks in the original Stooges. Then the Iggy Pop stand-in had these pants on that I swear to God shrink-wrapped his dick so tight that no matter how much you tried to stare at his mic your eyes kept dropping down to his crotch. Once they started playing, though, either the booze was doing its trick or Funhouse was actually pretty good at resurrecting that Detroit rock feeling. Sure, my friends nitpicked that the drums weren't exactly as Scott Asheton had played them, and the singer didn't seem to be wrestling with the same kind of self-loathing that made Iggy roll around in glass, but even without all the blood it was great to hear classics like "TV Eye" and "I Wanna Be Your Dog" played live by a band bathed in red light that knew how to rock. By the end, the girl on guitar played like she could really break your spine in a million places and walk away before you could ask her to hand you some crutches. Finally the night was looking up.
After midnight, the unassuming Japanese kids who had been mulling around at the back of the bar took the stage with their guitars and their suits blazing. These were the King Brothers, and they were from Japan and they were here to punch holes in our rock 'n' roll world and they were going to say every single word they sang or spoke to the crowd except "Thank you" in Japanese and they didn't give a fuck if we could understand because they were not there to make us understand anything but the earsplitting noise shooting sparks out the sides of their instruments. These were the kids who never scared their teachers in school but definitely should have, because now they were playing hard garage licks that made the juice run down our legs. Just in case we didn't get it, they got in our faces to make sure we got it, the guitarist wildly fingering his strings as he bodysurfed above the small pit. The Brothers were climbing onstage, cramming between the Christmas lights and the amps as the sweat rolled down their faces, or charging through the crowd like bulls on a mission to spear the red flag. This was messy, crazy, frayed at all the edges hotrod rock 'n' roll that you couldn't touch till it stopped 'cause it was always a live wire. And when they did finally stop, the King Brothers were just the spark I needed to relight my fuse as I whistled past the sluts and the sex shops to start the long 2:30 walk back home.
It had been a long afternoon of drinking draft beer and subjecting friends and band members to posing with my white polyvinyl jacket. To fulfill my need for amusement I decided to take photos of people rocking out, posing seductively and walking on their hands?while wearing my Western-embroidered jacket?thus hoping to make "The White Jacket Goes on Tour: Polyvinylish Texas" a reality. Several beers and laughs later, we put the camera away, left an afternoon showcase and headed to the Alternative Tentacles show down the street.
Inside Room 710 was one of my all-time favorite video games: Pac-Man. Not many stand-up 80s video games excite me like Pac-Man or his better half. Just as I had cleared the fourth screen without dying, the Pattern took the stage, so I left my potential high-scoring game and headed toward the other side of the room.
I was excited to see this five-piece boy band from the Bay Area, even though I didn't know much about them except their music had been described as "punk/soul boogie" and their lineup was definitely all-starish?Christopher Appelgren (Peechees) on vocals, Jim Anderson (Blackfork) drums, Jason Rosenberg (St. James Infirmary) guitar, Andy Asp (Nuisance) on guitar number two plus Carson Bell (the Cuts) keeping rhythm.
They opened with their Gold Standard Laboratories (GSL) "Finger Us" single, a sultry-punky song that has more to do with being fingered for a crime than anything sexual. But that's just my interpretation, as the cryptic vocals stray far from anything decipherable. Much like the Peechees, Chris' raw, nasal, high-pitched snarl remained true the entire set; as did his sexual pelvic thrusts, crotch grabs, orgasmic facial expressions and befriending of the microphone stand. But it was the fashionably dressed guitarists who stole the show with their revved-up, soulful riffs that lingered somewhere between retro 60s beat/r&b and Memphis soul. All the while Jim kept the band together with his fast, hard-hitting punk rhythms.
In addition to the action-packed stage movements and psychedelic light show there was a tombstone that read "The Pattern?San Francisco, CA" holding Jim's kick drum in place. For some reason it reminded me of the 18-inch Stonehenge from Spinal Tap. I smirked as I thought about the dwarfs dancing around. Then remembered that midgets horrify me, and tuned back in for the two-minute, danceable hit, "Breakfast," the A-side to their Alternative Tentacles 7-inch. Chris sang kind of sexy-pathetically: "You don't fix me breakfast/You don't know/Oh come on/Fix me breakfast/Then please go," and it featured a great tambourine/drum/guitar/bass breakdown toward the middle. The Pattern had the audience hooked after only a few songs, then ended their set within 30 minutes, leaving most of us wanting more. But with only three recently released singles (Alternative Tentacles, GSL, Gearhead), I'm not sure they had much more material to offer.
I decided to take in some last-minute shopping before the concluding night of SXSW. Each year I try to purchase some sort of memorial tchotchke or Western-styled item of clothing. This year, I was lucky enough to score a white snap shirt with embroidered orange and brown stars and two Winchester rifles across the back shoulders. After my purchase I convinced my good friend Alison to head south on Congress to the New West Records' showcase for some good ol' country music. We had seen enough rock music to save our souls, and when in Texas why not do as the Texans do?
Because the funds were running low, we opted to take advantage of public transportation. The bus. Fifteen minutes later, we crossed the bridge, saw the amazing old cars outside the Continental club and walked into Yard Dog. Yard Dog is definitely more of a store than a venue, but during SXSW they set up a tent in the backyard for live music that's usually in the country, alterna-country, pickin' & a grinnin' vein.
We were here to see Tim Easton. I used to see Easton play when he was with the Haynes Boys, and sometimes he drops by the Lakeside Lounge here in New York. He's an L.A. transplant from the Midwest, but he's always had a heart for country music; plus he has the voice and strumming abilities to make anyone a fan of this type of music.
When we arrived, the place was packed full of fans chugging down the free drinks and taking advantage of the burrito bar. I ran into a few old cohorts and a New York acquaintance or two. Alison had never seen Easton, or heard him for that matter. I was thankful in that she pretty much went wherever I did all four days and trusted me when I described Tim's songs as being like Ryan Adams'. Tim's new record, The Truth About Us, is his debut on New West Records and features members of Wilco (although live he had his Ohio friends Rosavelt backing him up). Easton's songs tend to be about heartbreak, like a slowly twisting knife in your heart, yet are beautiful at the same time, kind of like Adams' Heartbreaker. With all the free beer and food and hay covering the floor the fans sang along and yelled for more. Apparently there were even folks there from his past place of residency, Franklin County, OH. Easton thanked his band for studying so hard and played the requested song all about the women from Franklin County. Alison was so impressed and wooed that she snapped a few photos. Then we headed back toward Sixth Street to start our last evening of debauchery.