Last night I had the opportunity to check out Kolyma, Russ De Sena's new band, at Bickett Gallery. Bickett's a great place to hang out -- comfortable atmosphere, cool people, good art (usually) -- but it's just not my favorite place to see live music. The main room is a deep L shape, which means there's really only a small area in which you can actually see the band. The acoustics are too echoey and it's too well-lit (it is a gallery, after all). It truly is too bad that the neighborhood is so down on them having shows outside, where they have a gigantic open yard and a nice stage.

The result is that, even though I saw and heard Kolyma (though not for the entire set), I didn't really get a good feel for them. Before the show, guitarist/singer Crowmeat Bob described their sound as "a French car-wreck" and then said something about a Norse pagan ritual. From what I heard, the car-wreck part is an apt description (not that that's bad). Bob and Russ (best known form his stint in The Chickens) are both talented, creative players who specialize in controlled chaos, some of which was amazing, and some of which went in one ear and out the other. I'd like to hear them in a better-sounding situation, but maybe that would just defeat the purpose.

Without a doubt the most interesting bit was Jennifer Thomas' tortured vocals and manic stage presense. She stomped around, seemingly oblivious to everyone else in the room, collapsed, jumped up, and collapsed again to beat on the floor with a stray drumstick, all the while screaming like a troubled child who hadn't gotten her proper dose of Ritalin.


The opening "band" consisted of two guys creating ominous trance-like soundscapes with a bunch of pedals, a guitar, a lap-steel and a sound-effect toy found at a thrift store. It was cool to hear; deathly boring to watch (though it did go on a little too long for my taste). It would have made a good sound track to some sort of silent black and white sci-fi movie. In fact, it kept reminding me of such created by one of Xopher's friends. I would suggest that they get in touch with Xopher and show that film at their next show, but it already has a soundtrack of its own.

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Check out my story on Rob Halford in today's edition of The News & Observer. As a long-time Judas Priest fan, I was honored to get the chance to interview him. He was incredibly friendly and easy to talk to. I told him I got his autograph in 1982 following a show in Greensboro, and he thought that was funny. Actually it kind of made me (and probably him) feel a bit old. He told me he hoped the band's show Tuesday at Ozzfest brought back a lot of good memories. I'll report back and let you know if it does.

Here's my take on Velvet Revolver.

Genre: Rock
Band: Velvet Revolver
Title: Contraband
Label: RCA
Release date: June 2004
Rating: Two stars

I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Axl Rose. Even with his Botoxed face, goofy hair extensions and inner demons, I’d take him back right now as the rightful singer of this Guns ‘n’ Roses spin-off. Sure, it’s true that Velvet Revolver isn’t just made up of old G’n’R members (specifically Slash, Duff McKagan and Matt Sorum), but the pre-release hype sold the band as “Guns ‘n’ Roses with the guy from Stone Temple Pilots on vocals,” so it’s understandable that comparisons will be made. Scott Weiland, “the guy from Stone Temple Pilots,” is a better singer than Rose, who always sounded like a cross between Ethel Merman and a cat fight, but his voice isn’t as distinctive and his lyrics aren’t as good. Slash, one of the best rock guitarists ever, manages to appropriate several Led Zeppelin riffs on this CD, making Velvet Revolver’s music sound derivative and unoriginal. The overall result is a lot less than a band this talented is capable of.

I owe my friend Monty an apology. He kept insisting that absolutely nothing would be happening at the Office Friday night before 1:30 a.m. That's when breakbeat DJ Baby Anne from Orlando was scheduled to play her set. Certainly, I thought, that was a bit of an exageration. If I got there around 11 or so, something would be going on. That's how I ended up leaning on the bar, watching two kids in visors and baggy polo shirts half-heartedly moving on the dance floor.

Bored out of my skull, I dedided to take an anthropological look at what the kids were doing. As the floor gradually began to fill up, I saw a variety of moves, many of which looked like a strange mixture of the Moonwalk, Sufi whirling and Tai Chi. The boys danced alone, while the girls danced together in a circle. And I do mean boys and girls. I was easily old enough to be these kids' mother. As I was watching an impromptu breakdance battle, one whippersnapper looked over at me and said, "You don't come to things like this very often, do you?" I'm going to lie and tell myself he meant that I was too classy to be at an event like that.

Here's a more thought-out review of TV on the Radio:



New York trio TV on the Radio is the kind of band that leaves reviewers scratching their heads. Their sound is fresh, and the songs are catchy, but they absolutely refuse to be pigeonholed. That forces us to describe them by throwing together a bunch of other bands, you know, like “Peter Gabriel meets Art of Noise, meets Sonic Youth all standing on a corner singing Doo Wop with Mahalia Jackson.

There’s no denying that singer Tunde Adebimpe sounds a lot like Peter Gabriel. Judging from some of the pretentious lyrics on the band’s mesmerizing debut CD, “Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes,” he thinks he can write like him too. But, regardless of what he’s singing, his voice has a bluesy, earthy quality that contrasts perfectly with the band’s otherworldly, swirling melodies and syncopated beats. On the CD’s best track, “Staring at the Sun,” Adebimpe and guest vocalist Katrina Ford wail like two choir members who are really feeling the spirit. Underneath is a clanging mass of electronic beats and handclaps, throbbing bass and ringing guitars. Other songs, like the opening track, “The Wrong Way,” and “Don’t Love You” follow the same formula, sounding like selections from some futuristic hymnal. Perhaps that’s the key for those of us who still want to fit them into a niche. It’s gospel, but from a Bizarro world.





To see and hear for yourself, go here to see the video for “Staring at the Sun.”

I've had the privilege of seeing two phenomenal shows lately. On Sunday, May 9th, Miss Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings played at Kings Barcade. They were at Local 506 in Chapel Hill the evening before and the scenesters were a-buzz. This was a show not to be missed.

I didn't quite know what to expect, despite the fact that Mr. X had played their new CD for me earlier in the evening. Evidently it just went in one ear and out the other because I didn't even remember hearing it. The same certainly cannot be said about the show. Sharon Jones is an old-school Tina Turner-style soul wailer. She has a helluva voice, and she knows how to work the audience. She whooped and hollered, shimmied and shook while her backing band (three horns, drums bass and two guitar players -- one of whom, my friends and I agreed -- was really hot) kept a tight groove going. Even the most jaded scenesters were sweating and dancing their asses off. I found out later that after most of us left, the band came out and did another full set.

This past weekend was Artsplosure, the downtown Raleigh music and art festival. We missed Bobby Rush, but were just in time to see the Charlie Hunter Trio. Mr. X has seen them before, and he's a huge fan. I had never seen him before, and hadn't listened to much of his music. I did know that he plays both the bass and the melody on a crazy eight-string guitar. I can barely manage either of those, so I can only imagine the skill and discipline it takes to keep it all together.



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Now I know dancehall is taking over America: The new Skippy commercial features a bunch of animated elephants dancing around a Carribean scene while another one toasts over a dancehall beat. It's a good marketing move on Skippy's part. What's better to eat when you're stoned than a peanut butter sandwich?