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Dave Kendall, Where Are You?

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MTV’s 120 Minutes makes a comeback.

By Derek Phillips

It didn’t seem like so long ago that I was sitting in front of my TV late on a Sunday night waiting for the start of MTV’s only show dedicated to “alternative” music; the only place you could see videos of the bands who were never going to compete with the corporate built pop princesses and dancing buffoons of Top 40 radio or the meaty head-banging sludge so often played on “real rock stations.” In fact, it was just last Sunday. My respite from awful music of the 80s turns out to be the same today: 120 Minutes, the only alternative.

But then the 90s roared in with the sonic assault of grunge and suddenly all the jocks I hated in high school were embracing the markings of punk. As Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Sound Garden and even the Meat Puppets and Mudhoney started to sell records, the programming dopes and marketing hacks started to reposition their radio stations to reflect the new trend and suddenly every FM station in America was vying to be the “Only Alternative.” MTV was in on it too, putting alternative acts in high rotation during prime time programming hours. Hell, even the Flaming Lips had a hit in the 90s. Soon alternative lost its meaning and 120 Minutes became irrelevant.

Well, just as history repeats itself, so too do the trends of our past. Mainstream radio is once again constipated with teen pop and cock waving metal. So too is MTV with the “Mandy Moore’s Diary” and the unexplainable hype of a half-wit mullet-head named Andrew WK. But thankfully, 120 Minutes again has a place.

I recently cancelled my cable in favor of Direct TV and with the switch came MTV2, a music station that actually plays music videos. And lately, I’ve found myself in the exact same place I was 10+ years ago when the high school me waited until midnight for the hip, decidedly English host, Dave Kendall to give me the scoop on bands I’d only read about in NME or heard on mix tapes from friends and European penpals. Today, Dave is gone but I am still seeing videos of the coolest bands in the world that, I am convinced, never get airplay on Top 40 Radio. In the last weeks I’ve seen videos from Beulah, International Noise Conspiracy, The Hives, The Strokes, The White Stripes, The Shins, Phantom Planet, the Toilet Boys and more. (Damn, I just heard the Strokes and The White Stripes on 94.7, Chicago’s NEW Alternative! Could this be starting all over again?)

Is 120 Minutes cutting edge? No. I’ve yet to see a video or heard mention of the Icarus Line, Modest Mouse or my own Riviera. But it’s cool just the same and good to have a place where kids who don’t shop for music at the mall can find good shit.

Articles

WHAT DID YOU FUCKING SAY?

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During ESPN’s Sunday evening premiere of “Season On The Brink” – chronicling basketball coach Bob Knight’s embattled 1985-86 season at Indiana – actor Brian Dennehey as Knight dropped more F-bombs than Archie Bunker at a Village People gig. Meanwhile, on CBS, the network ran onsite footage from the 9/11 disaster with unedited audio. Finally, HBO continued its fine tradition of extreme cursing: The characters in “Six Feet Under” seemingly added the Darkest Expletive to each exchange of dialogue. Three different networks, three very different programs, unified by one word. However, the use of Fuck in “Six Feet Under” was not excessive; rather, it was realistic. This was proven by the frequency with which the word was uttered in real life, by firefighters, victims, and the filmmakers, during CBS’ 9/11 special. But Fuck’s appearance on ESPN is what’s at issue. It marks the debut of the F-word on an advertiser-supported broadcast or cable network. And it suggests that network television’s continued flirtation with rough language – “NYPD Blue”; “The West Wing” – will only inch further down the blue path. But don’t mistake Glorious Noise as a voice of concern for the gentle ears of impressionable children. What’s at stake here is far more important. If regular broadcast television takes a blasé attitude toward Fuck, what happens to the nature, enjoyment, and power of saying it in the first place?

“BABY BABY BABY YOU SURE LIKE TO FUCK!”

Jon Spencer swears creatively. Yelping the above line at the beginning of his sexified rocker “Full Grown” (from 1994’s Orange), Spencer’s observation is affirmed by bandmates Judah Bauer and Russell Simins’ off-mic hollering of the Infamous Cuss. The song even ends with one long scream of the word. “Full Grown” is a rollicking, sloe-eyed rant about Spencer’s desire for an experienced bedmate. There’s no pretense in what he’s suggesting – “Take a whiff of my pant leg, baby” – and saying Fuck so much illustrates his point. “Baby Baby Baby you sure like to get busy” just doesn’t have the same vitality. So that’s creative cussing. And that’s rock and roll. It’s part of what makes rock – even in this day and age – rebellious and cool. After all, until Sunday evening, you weren’t allowed to say Fuck on regular TV. You still can’t say it on the radio. (Just ask Howard Stern or Chicago’s Z-grade worm shock monkey Mancow Muller, who’s been fined over $30,000 by the FCC for language indiscretions). No matter what you think of Fred Durst and Limp Bizkit, their cover of “Faith” is a whole lot cooler with Fred’s “Get the Fuck out!” line left intact. Similarly, have you ever tried to listen to a “clean” version of your favorite hip-hop album? Get the fuck out, indeed.

This is what we’re in danger of losing – the power and pleasure of saying or singing the word Fuck. For the relationship of rock music and swearing will be forever changed if the taboo is removed from the F-word. And “crunk,” the emerging slang term favored by tastemakers such as Missy “Misdemeanor” Elliott, is NOT a valid replacement. Because replacement is impossible. Fuck is a non-renewable resource – it has continued to reverberate in human culture since the word’s inception, continually finding new ways to wend its way into the speech patterns of everyday life. (The late 20th century popularization of the multi-syllabic drop-in comes to mind – e.g., “Do I want another beer? Abso-fucking-lutely.”) To hear this most famous of invectives uttered with casual frequency on major network shows – “Everybody Fucking Loves Raymond!” – would destroy a forbidden currency that helps keep rock and roll alive.

As an impressionable teenager, I can remember buying a Guns N’ Roses single during the Appetite days – maybe it was “Paradise City” – which featured the album track “Mr Brownstone” as its B-side. Each night, I’d listen to that song, anxiously awaiting the part towards the end when Axl refers to Mr Brownstone as “that old man, he’s a mean motherfucker.” Of course I’d heard the term before. But it was boring when the right fielder on my little league team said it. Headphones on, sound turned to 11, to hear a rock and roller swear with such mirth on something that I could buy at the store was powerful to me. And it makes the music more powerful, as well. Parental Advisory labels have done nothing to hinder the sale of albums with curse words. For many artists, the stickers are worn as a badge of honor. And when swearing’s done correctly, by guys like Jon Spencer or Ice Cube, the word and song take on new resonance.

Rock and roll – the term itself – has never been made of candyfloss and pixie sticks. It encapsulates everything dirty and sexy about the music in a simple phrase, built from the ground up to piss off parents and priests. Throwing an F-bomb into the mix is the equivalent of lighting up in church. After all, what else can you say when you watch Jack White tear off power chords as Meg pounds the shit out of her kit? “Fuck.” What word are your lips going to form when you see footage of the Rolling Stones in their prime, diluting sexual chemistry into pure rock heaven? “Fuck.” In one syllable, it represents and summarizes the over 50 years of history behind the phrase Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll. And if it, as just another “jag off” or “damn” or “asshole,” becomes Andy Sipowiz’s new favorite epithet, rock’s in trouble. Signs are suggesting real rock and roll will again become a viable economy in Pop Music, 2002. If Fuck – in all its simplistic, gutteral, and rebel glory – isn’t in its arsenal, then we’re in trouble.

And somewhere, Billy Idol will retire his sneer in dejected sadness.

JTL

Articles

Pros(e)

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“No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money,” wrote 18th century essayist, poet, novelist, editor, reporter Samuel Johnson. For Johnson, writing = work, and it seemed to him that anyone who performed work for someone else without being rewarded for it (presumably, voluntary, charitable work is its own reward) was simply stupid. You should therefore be aware before you go any further that I am paid nothing for my contributions to GloNo (nor is anyone else whose work appears on these pages) and that we actually spend money to keep this site up and running.

Arguably, we are densely stupid.

In a comment appended to the post about GloNo celebrating its first anniversary, Sab indicated that he is a professional writer. While not wanting to provide a biography of my colleague, suffice it to say that he works at a magazine that provides him, in return for his writing (and editing and affiliated activities), money and other benefits. Because of that exchange of writing for money, not only is he not a blockhead, but he is a professional.

Consider a prostitute. I’ll call her “Sally.”* When Sally is working, she is exchanging sexual activities for money. Consequently, she is a professional. But what is Sally when she is involved in performing those very same acts and she accepts nothing in return? Is she any less a professional then, or is professionalism a state of being that exists only when there is an economic exchange involved? (One might also wonder what Sally was the time she was involved in performing sexual acts just prior to the first time she did it for money.) It is a curious thing to consider the words professional and prostitute. Perhaps being called a “pro” isn’t exactly what it seems.

When Sab is writing for GloNo, he is still the same person who is writing for an employer; in fact, he may be doing his GloNo writing during the period of time that his employer is purchasing from him.** So while Sab is temporally making money because he is ostensibly doing something of value for his employer, he is actually doing something that puts him in an entirely different category. Perhaps instead of putting him in the “blockhead” category, it would be more appropriately labeled “amateur.” (Lest anyone think that I am being unduly harsh on Sab, let me note that I, too, am a “professional” writer, so all that is said of him in this context can be applied to me.)

For some reason, our society seems to value less the endeavors of amateurs than that of professionals. Consider, however, the Olympic athletes. They are amateurs. (At least while they are participating in the Olympics; professional sports figures are permitted to play in the games through some bureaucratic ledger main.) Does anyone believe that any of those athletes would be better if someone was paying them to do what it is they do? Would sponsorship make them better athletes?

Which, finally, brings me to the subject of music. It seems as though musicians who are professionals are also valued more than those who play for the love of their calling. In fact, many of the arguments regarding the downloading of songs for free can be said to have their basis in the nature of professionalism. Consider a musician. I’ll call her “Sally.” When Sally is exchanging her musical performances for money, she is a professional. Let’s say Sally performs a song and takes nothing in exchange for it. It is precisely like a performance she just previously executed for money. What is Sally when she does this performance for free? Let’s say that Sally records a performance. It is put on a disc. She is getting money for that work if she works for a recording company (or if she runs her own company). Someone buys that disc and copies it into a digital format that’s offered on a website. Someone else downloads the song. No money is exchanged. The argument is that Sally is being robbed because she is a professional, with her professionalism being predicated on her making money as individual copies of her recorded song are purchased. When she decides to play for free, it is her decision. She gets to be an amateur when she wishes to be. But the non-economic-exchanged extraction of her music by a download (or by some other means, such as taping) is considered a theft of property. Yet the definition of “property” becomes somewhat confusing in that a recording is a nth-level copy of an original, and typically, the original, or the authentic thing, is what is perceived to be of value due to its unique existence.

A problem with what could be construed as musical theft is predicated on the type of contract that exists between the musical performer and the organization that provides money for that performance. Let’s return to the example of Sab and the magazine company he works for. That company pays Sab $X per year. There are certain assumptions behind that $X. Fundamentally, is the publisher’s determination that by paying Sab $X, it will be able to derive revenue of $X + 1, and therefore make a profit. Let’s say that the magazine has a circulation of 100,000 one day. The publisher decides that he will increase the circulation to 200,000. Suddenly, Sab’s work in the magazine will have twice as many copies. Sab will continue to make $X. He is not paid on the basis of a percentage of his work in some volume of copies. In fact, because his magazine is taken by the publisher and placed on the Internet, there is arguably an infinite number of copies of his work out there. The publisher owns the work. Sab doesn’t. He has entered into a contract in which that relationship is spelled out, wherein he is paid $X. (One assumes that if he wins the Pulitzer Prize he’ll receive a bonus from his publisher, but there is no guarantee. Further, one would expect that his salary would be increased as a result of the Pulitzer because the publisher would assume that it would garner a greater audience, which would result in the possibility of $X2 + 3. Once again, no guarantee.)

In the case of musicians, the deal that tends to be constructed is one that is based on volume. That is, the performer gets a piece of the gate: the more units sold, the more the musician makes (or the less she owes). Presumably, this protects both parties (i.e., the musician and the recording company). That is, if the musical recording hits it big, then the artist gets to share in a greater percentage of the reward; the recording company doesn’t get it all. If the record tanks, then the recording company is out but a modest amount (and depending on the deal worked out with the musician, it may be that the musician needs to change her profession in order to pay back the advance that the recording didn’t recoup). In effect, this is almost a lottery mentality. Perhaps what needs to be done is to reconstruct these relationships between musician and recording company such that there can be an assurance of a more mutual benefit for each party without the exploitation of either. To say nothing of the exploitation of the buying public.

The whole issue of professionalism is one that seems to result in work that is less extraordinary than it otherwise might be. Of course, as mentioned, this is being written for nothing. Or maybe for the love of words: Call me a “pro.”

* “Sally” is used in the two wonderful album titles, “Chasing Sally Through the Alley” by Robert Palmer and “Sally Can’t Dance” by Lou Reed.

**Much of this was actually written during a plane trip that I was taking for my so-called “day” job. However, the ticket for the trip was not being paid for by the company that employs me, but by a third party. So what does that make this?

Articles

THE MOUNTAIN GOATS

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THE MOUNTAIN GOATS

3/8/02, The Empty Bottle, Chicago

Johnny Loftus

“Hey everybody, We’re the Mountain Goats!”

And with that, John Darnielle and his acoustic guitar launched into his headlining set at Chicago’s Empty Bottle. That’s the joke – Over the course of numerous albums as the Mountain Goats, Darnielle has never recorded with much more than his own earnest vocal chords and guitar, straight into the no-fi mic on his archaic boom box. His driving, wordy songs sketch out tales of wac relationships, true love, and booze. Often, they turn into a history or geography lesson, as if Darnielle’s conducting a refresher course for his legion of indie rock followers, who were too busy writing Sebadoh lyrics on their notebooks to listen in class.

In the late 1970s, Jonathan Richman’s short hair and old-world romantic sensibilities were opposite to, yet somehow an intrisic part of, the punk/new wave movement that was thriving all around he and The Modern Lovers. Spiked-belted East Village fancy boys pumping their tatooed fists to “Dignified and Old?” It happened. Similarly, Darnielle’s clean-cut looks and complete lack of pretense set him apart from the groups/artists surrounding Mountain Goats albums in the record collections of his constituency. And yet, the vintage clothing set is rabid for his acoustic troubadour witticisms. On Friday night at the Bottle, Darnielle’s self-effacing nature, chuckling anecdotes, and folksy delivery made for a sort of Prairie Home Companion for indie kids.

Darnielle is a talented songwriter. But his formula of a straightforward guitar line, clever turn of phrase, and emotional, barely restrained vocal delivery inevitably wears thin. After half an hour of jangling chords and heartfelt singing, the line between the Mountain Goats and the average stool-rocker at your local open mic night is in great danger of being crossed, or destroyed altogether. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Guys who serenade crowded lounges each weekend with acoustic renditions of “Allison,” “Ain’t No Sunshine,” and “Secondhand News” serve their purpose.

But what’s really separating John Darnielle from those guys, besides a gamut of releases on pedigreed labels like Emperor Jones or 4AD? The meat of his songs, the lyrics, definitely contain more emotion than the average busker. To be sure, Darnielle on Friday had at least 20 professional hipsters passionately singing along with their impossibly normal hero. But if Garrison Keillor books a club tour, will he get the same reaction?

JTL

Articles

STRAIGHT OUTTA BELLEVILLE

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Uncle Tupelo Gets the Reissue Treatment

It’s unclear what strain of moonshine was mixed with how many parts distortion and Hank Willliams to create Uncle Tupelo. But ten+ years removed from their existence, the work that its founding members have gone on to produce validates Tupelo’s recordings as not simply lucky noise labeled “genius” or “important” by hipster reactionaries. In its earnest mixture of ragged black T-shirt punk and Appalachian rhythms of hope and despair, fellow songwriters Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy captured the day-to-day of Midwestern America, which they then harvested into themes: bored, drunk, and looking for a way out.

We’ll never know, but the band’s particular alchemy may have been experimented with elsewhere, in some uncharted American basement. After all, it’s not like they invented a new, never-before-seen color. Nevertheless, it is the music of Uncle Tupelo that’s knee-deep at the alt.country water source, heading up a bucket brigade that has led to “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” and No Depression magazine, Winona-dater Ryan Adams’ career, and Universal Music’s newly-minted Lost Highway Records. While not directly responsible for any of these examples, Tupelo’s early catalog is constantly cited as the progenitor of all things y’allternative.

Farrar and Tweedy know this. Ever since their parting of ways after the Anodyne tour of 1993, the two have followed separate musical paths united by an oft-stated wish: Don’t make us the two-headed Moses of Insurgent Country. The work of Son Volt and Wilco is steeped in the same American musical landscape that inspired Uncle Tupelo, but the two songwriters have been conscious of letting their respective post-breakup work develop on its own. To that end, Tweedy’s Wilco has emerged as an Americana tableau art-rock experiment, while Farrar has played it a little closer to the vest with Son Volt, travelling down dark highways reminiscent of his Tupelo days. (Lately however, Farrar has diversified a little. “Sebastopol,” his current solo project, is an airy mix of pop-ish arrangements and the Bakersfield sound.)

Part of what keeps the vitality (and legend) of Uncle Tupelo’s early work alive is that three out of their four records are out of print, and have been for quite a while. Rockville Records is no more, and Tweedy and Farrar had to jump through some hoops to regain the rights to 1990’s No Depression, 1991’s Still Feel Gone, and March 16-20, 1992, their last for the erstwhile label before Anodyne, the 1993 swan song, released on Sire Records. Rights secured, March 19 sees the release of Uncle Tupelo 89/93: An Anthology, a retrospective to be followed by remastered, repackaged additions of Uncle Tupelo’s entire Rockville catalog, with bonus tracks and outtakes to boot.

The tracklist, according to the Columbia/Legacy press release:

1. No Depression

2. Screen Door

3. Graveyard Shift

4. Whiskey Bottle

5. Outdone

6. I Got Drunk

7. I Wanna Be Your Dog (Prev. Unreleased)

8. Gun

9. Still Be Around

10. Looking For A Way Out (Acoustic Version)

11. Watch Me Fall

12. Sauget Wind

13. Black Eye

14. Moonshiner

15. Fatal Wound

16. Grindstone

17. Effigy

18. The Long Cut

19. Chickamauga

20. New Madrid

21. We’ve Been Had

This is an extremely comprehensive song list. It embodies the highs, the lows, the beer-soaked rock and roll moments, and the puke-stained tear jerkers, all of which define Uncle Tupelo’s influential sound. And for fans of “California Stars,” the compilation will likely achieve what the press release boasts: “So if you haven’t heard them – or maybe just heard of them – now’s the time to re-discover on of the most important bands of our time…”

Cynical comments aside, it will be interesting to see what the reissue of Uncle Tupelo’s catalog will do for the band’s confusing legacy as heroes of a genre they unwittingly created. And how will the re-issues effect the Farrar and Tweedy’s current fanbases? Will the re-emergence of the old material, in conjunction with, say, the long-delayed physical release of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, finally give Wilco the boost into the big time that is allegedly always around the corner? Probably not, and that’s by choice. Wilco left their old label for a reason, and it wasn’t because Reprise was encouraging their avant-garde take on Americana. But whatever happens, and whatever Uncle Tupelo’s legacy really is, the upcoming reissues will be important as documents to four years’ worth of incredibly honest, rocking, sad music, that deserves to be listened to on its own merits, and not built up as some sort of golden calf in a cowboy hat.

JTL

Articles

Belly of the Beast

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They’re losing their labels. (Comparatively) young and old, alike. Mariah Carey doesn’t sell as many as they’d hoped. Gone. Bought out for more millions than she’s likely to be able to spend on minidresses, Manolo Blahnik shoes, and spas to keep her in shape to wear them. Rod Stewart is dismissed. The answer to the question he’d ask about whether he’s sexy is now answered in the negative. It has been for some time. But hope springs almost-eternal in the dark hearts of label execs (“Maybe there’s another ‘Maggie May’ in him. . . .). And there are other performers. Plenty of them.

Some would say, “Good riddance.” Others will be happy enough with their existing recordings. And there will be new acts.

But this situation points to something that should be of at least moderate concern to many people, people who might imagine that the punking of Carey and Stewart and Bowie and. . . is nothing to fret about.

One of the arguments that’s made when there is the consolidation of two businesses is that there will be greater scale and efficiency. The scale is straightforward: 1 + 1= 2. The efficiency is more disingenuous. What this says is that if there are 5 people in one company and 5 people in the other, the post-merger result won’t be 10, but probably 6. The other 4 will be considered redundant.

But there is an odd characteristic of the Consolidated Beast. It is hungrier than the two smaller entities. Hungrier for revenues. Perhaps this is because one of the two bought the other. And this is often more like a shotgun wedding than a love-driven elopement. The union costs far more than what’s available in the bank. So profit margins matter. Big time.

The question that’s asked of artists today is “What have you done for me lately?” And the answer had better be good. Damn good. Ridiculously good. And “lately” means “right now.”

This is not a sob for Mariah and Rod and the rest. Rather, it is about others, countless others. The consolidated music industry means one thing: Hunger for hits. Insatiable hunger. The stomach is always growling.

Sure, there are independent labels. Plenty of them. And to be a musician is not necessarily to be a millionaire. It is more likely not to be one.

But the sad part about the current state of affairs is the difficulty to reach other ears with music. Fresh ears. It is difficult for people to find new bands (or bands new to them). These independent labels have limited reach (the Internet notwithstanding).

The issue is distribution. And the big-box retailers are stocked by the few, not the many. And the independent outlets dwindle (rent, utilities, help, inventory, etc. are all ever-pricey), and even those that exist tend to be able to do no more than to handle more, but not lots. And this tends to be regional music, not something that is going to get play from coast-to-coast. It is a Balkanization of the industry. And the big acts will be those that have been manufactured by the corporations, manufactured with all of the passion they apply to chunking out Wonder Bread.

Articles

I know it’s only rock and roll

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Brian Jonestown Massacre
Live at Schubas in Chicago, February 26, 2002

By Derek Phillips

If I could stick a knife in my heart
Suicide right on stage
Would it be enough for your teenage lust?
Would it help to ease the pain? — The Rolling Stones

There’s a term in boxing that describes the kind of fighter who will never get a shot at the title, never make the big money and slightly more often than not lose the fight. Club fighters make their living by facing better opponents night after night and getting their asses kicked. The one thing most Club fighters have in common is heart. They go up against tough odds night after night for the meager paycheck and the love of the sport. Brian Jonestown Massacre leader Anton Newcombe may have lived a past life as a Club fighter.

Brian Jonestown Massacre's Anton NewcombeBJM took the stage at Schubas last night in front of a Chicago crowd equal parts hipster and meat head hell-bent on heckling and drunk on the anticipation of indie rock’s chief historian of classic psychedelic folk/rock. Since 1991, BJM has put out stunning records reminiscent of the Stones’ Satanic Majesty’s Request and Rod Stewart-era Faces. The band’s reputation for explosive live performances precedes them at every tour stop. Chicago was no different and that initially worked against an ailing Newcombe, too sick to sing properly but displaying the heart that makes real rock worth it all.

After nearly 25 minutes of noise jam, Newcombe addressed the audience and told them he couldn’t really sing and anyone who had problem with that could get a refund (albeit, only a 1/3 refund). He then promised to do his best and entertain those who stayed. And entertainment like this can’t be found on E Television.

Frustrated with the guitar volume on stage, Newcombe ordered his band to turn down, which they dutifully did — but not enough. At the start of the next song, Newcombe screamed to “fucking turn down so I can sing!” At which point he proceeded to attend to the task himself and turned down lead guitarist Jeff Davies’ amp. Davies took issue with the pull of rank and tried to turn back up, which sent Newcombe back to his cohort’s amp for more fine-tuning. This went on throughout the entirety of the set and threatened to derail the performance. For the first half hour of the set, Newcombe’s voice continually failed him and his temper flared. To some this may sound like the amateur antics of a mediocre bar band, but to those of us who believe in rock and roll and the power of live performance it was a display of dedication and just like a seasoned club fighter, a dedicated Rock band can be dangerous.

At some point the crowd divided. Drunken knuckleheads who too often are showing up at hip shows stepped up the heckling and one moron threw a full beer at the band. And that was the turning point of the show. Just as a fighter can snap-to at the sting of an unexpected overhand right, the Brian Jonestown Massacre came together and took on the idiots among us. The drunken bottle thrower got slapped around a bit and escorted out of the club — by his none-too-pleased girlfriend — and Anton introduced a song called “Johnny Marr is Dead.” Guitars growled and the rhythm took hold. The band was off and continued to rock the crowd for another hour.

Newcombe’s voice never did come to his rescue but the Massacre’s rhythm section did. The rhythm section makes or breaks a good band and can save the life of a limping performance. Last night the Brian Jonestown Massacre rhythm section held steady a constantly fluxing show with deft drum fills and throbbing, melodic bass lines. All Club fighters have a punch that can take out the best contenders, that’s how they stay in the game. BJM’s sucker punch is the rhythm section.

And like those of the best Club fighters, it wasn’t a perfect performance, but that’s the point. In a world where digital manipulation of tones and click track drums can suck the soul out of any song, the Brian Jonestown Massacre slugged its way through perfectly crafted pop tunes and space jams and for two hours last night saved rock and roll.

You can relive this show on the Digital Club Network.

Rock and roll can change your life.