Who says progress is good?

Inventions of the digital age — internet, mobile phones and hybrid vehicles — certainly make living more convenient, but does any of it mean our lives are better?  Do you really need that status update from your Uncle Joey in Fairbanks, AK?  To have the office call you when you’re taking in a vista at the Grand Canyon?  To know the government can track you into a a port-a-john at Lollapalooza via the GPS in your phone?

Instead, let’s consider regression.

Think back to a time before Goldman Sachs ran the economy, when Twitter was something dirty you tried to do to your girlfriend under the dining room table at dinner, and when Michael Jackson was still black.

If you wanted to hear new music, you listened to one of three radio stations or risked going into that shady-looking independent record store to hazard a conversation with that creepy guy behind the counter who had that funny, skunky-but-sweet odor you wouldn’t learn about until high school, which sort of reminded you of Uncle Joey from Fairbanks, AK

Weren’t things better then?

Judging by their set Tuesday night at the House of Blues in Anaheim, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club probably thinks so.

For a band that’s built a career by wearing their influences on their sleeves, BRMC has notably improved over the last decade by increasingly boiling their music down to its most basic elements: guitar, bass, drums and voice.  While they were quickly tarnished by the critics with (numerous, but mostly favorable) Velvet Underground and Jesus & Mary Chain comparisons upon the release of their debut, BRMC has nevertheless avoided charting a course set for originality.  Which is to their credit, as the results have almost always been impressive, and quite honestly, given the cluttered, post-internet music landscape, refreshing.

If J&MC and Velvet Underground taught us anything, it was that it was perfectly fine to not really know how to play your instruments as long as you looked bored, acted cool, had bad hair and stole liberally from those before you.  Drugs also helped.  BRMC has since taught us that doing that and being adept musicians are not mutually exclusive.  Having shed some of their shoegaze and psychedelic tendencies over the years, they have arrived at a place where — quite simply — they rock.  They hard, they rock good and they rock often.  And with every release, they seem to do fulfill that formula by doing more with less.

Such was the case Tuesday night, where for nearly two hours they demonstrated cuts from their freshly baked 2010 release, Beat The Devil’s Tattoo, and plundered their own vaults for a showing of some serious stomping, rootsy, garagey, no-frills rock ‘n’ fucking roll.

BRMC quite simply killed it with “Ain’t No Easy Way Out,” “Six Barrel Shotgun” and the title track to their latest longplayer.  They found moments for quiet reflection as well, with bassist Robert Levon Beet and guitarist Peter Hayes taking solo turns during a mini-acoustic breather partway through the set, but only long enough for the crowd to adjust themselves before the pummeling began anew.

Their encore saw them level those gathered with “Shadow’s Keeper” and a matching bombastic light show — which could have triggered epilepsy in event the least photo-sensitive audience members had they not been subject to the ninety minute-plus raucous display that had come beforehand.  Even a drunken audience member who was obnoxiously shouting to posses Peter’s nuts, and demanding he remove his pants for that purpose, was not enough to derail what as ultimately a “had to be there” performance before a packed house.

Nine years after their first (stateside) release, BRMC’s initial effort is now unquestionably considered a bonafide classic.  And there’s no reason the same won’t be said for the rest of their catalogue, providing they stay away from such modern inventions as Autotune, electric keyboards and mainstream popularity.

Progress be damned.

Truffle Jones filed this report from his trailer on the set of Hardcastle and McCormick: The Movie

Tags: Ain't No Easy Way Out, Anaheim, Beat The Devil's Tattoo, black rebel motorcycle club, BRMC, House of Blues, Jesus And Mary Chain, live review, michael jackson, Peter Hayes, Robert Levon Been, Shadow's Keeper, Six-Barrel Shotgun, Velvet Underground

MusicZeitgeist.com was selected as one of the top twenty best music review blogs by ClickitTicket, a popular theater, sports and concert ticket agency.  I am certain this is no small part due to the consistently thorough, on-the-scene reviews posted by our excellent volunteer writers led by the amazing Truffle Jones and Ascender.

“To help you sift through the multitudes of music-related websites we have made a list of the top 20 music review blogs. After visiting these sites you’ll want to buy so much new music that you might need to get a MP3 player with more memory. “

Sure, it isn’t a Webby, but we humbly accept and are grateful for the acknowledgment. We are a completely independent site and do our best to bring you unbiased opinion on music as soon as it grabs our attention. It is nice to know the audience is listening.

See the complete list of Top 20 Music Review Blogs selected at www.clickitticket.com

Tags: audience, awards, best music, music reviews, top 20 music, Truffle Jones

As the year comes to an end and would-be music scholars take up quills to compose their best-of lists, there can be no doubt that goth-punk-shoegaze act The Horrors’ Primary Colours will rank high among the likes of Phoenix, The Antlers and James Yuill as some of the most essential music of 2009.  Unlike most artists, The Horrors not only dodged the sophomore slump phenomenon that typically plagues follow-ups to promising first efforts, they defied it outright by reinventing themselves with a set of tunes that bears connection to those on their 2007 debut, Strange House, in artist name only.

Whereas Strange House comes on like a leer-filled, baroque take on Birthday Party fare, replete with unnecessary spates of creepy silent-film organ, Primary Colours yields a far more expansive and far more dangerous environment.  Gone are the cartoonish Nick Cave bellows, gone are the bludgeoning sonic attacks.  Instead, there’s a less-insistent but far more compelling landscape to absorb over time.  Entry points made easily accessible through 80s-style pop synth hooks and Richard Butler-ish vocals are instantly challenged by motion sickness-inducing walls of noise and rhythms that evoke the footsteps of a stranger following you with intent to harm.  If Strange House was an in-your-face encounter with an assailant in a clown mask, Primary Colours is a night spent looking at your face in a funhouse mirror, and whatever haunting occurs is in your mind, by way of your own devices.

Disappointing then, that The Horrors’ show at the Fonda earlier this year in support of The Kills was by all accounts a failure.  Whether it was the faulty sound, truncated set or simply the pressure of performing in front of crowd impatiently awaiting someone else (it certainly couldn’t have helped that The Kills’ Alison Mosshart had just been minted by Jack White as the voice of The Dead Weather), The Horrors failed to leave much of an impression.  So while many L.A. music fans were collectively shitting themselves in anticipation of Thom Yorke’s solo performance trifecta the first weekend of October, The Horror’s return headlining bid at the El Rey was far from sold-out.

But of those present, many were decidedly in the know, clad in the narrow black-and-white stripes which are the calling card of serious Horrors fans.  Those lacking the stripes made-do with makeup and plenty of black clothing as expected; less so was the presence of a large female contingent.  Another surprise was in store at the front of the stage — which was almost exclusively helmed by pubescent girls — requiring a second look at the night’s show ticket to make certain this was in fact a Horrors’ concert.

It was to high-pitched screams emanating from those fans that The Horrors marched on stage before proceeding to plough through Primary Colours with a terrible ferocity.  While Primary Colours in recorded form is a subdued albeit spooky body, the band made certain live the audience knew this was the same group that made Strange House feel like an ice pick to the ear.  With the new material thusly invigorated, the crowd responded in kind, some of them screaming themselves hoarse at breaks between songs.

Through the night, guitarist Joshua Third’s eruptive mechanics firmly established him as this generation’s Jonny Greenwood, and, if his musical acumen wasn’t enough, his mop of hair and stage moves ala Film School/Nightmare Air guitarist Dave Dupuis invoked a different sort of appreciation from a portion of the crowd.  The presence of so many females became apparent each time Third reached the foot of the stage, whereupon amidst the glow of cameras and cell phones, packs of girls were visible straining with all their might just to touch his feet, which he kept tantalizingly out of reach.

It was difficult to tell for certain given the dark stage setting, but it seemed that Third, vocalist Faris Badwan and the rest of The Horrors were nursing small smiles by the time the end of the set rolled around.  Unlike the Fonda show, up to this point, disappointment was non-existent (though the addictive Oriental theme to “Scarlet Fields” seemed conspicuously absent from the mix when that number was performed).  If it appeared unlikely The Horrors could improve upon the near-perfection they had thus far exercised, they would momentarily exceed expectations once again, when they took the stage for a second time.

Complete bedlam erupted as Strange House selections “Gloves,” “Count in Fives” and “Sheena is a Parasite” exploded from the stage during the encore.  Just as Primary Colours material had been improved over its recorded form, the encore material took on a new life to match, maintaining the intensity of the original versions while having been streamlined to razor-like effectiveness.  Any subtlety present earlier in the show was now done away with as the band pummeled their instruments and the crowd pummeled each other in response.  Though dated, mosh pits themselves are far from unusual – unless it’s one that’s fueled almost entirely by estrogen – and the scene on the floor of the El Rey was something like what you could expect if Rob Pattison was personally giving away free Clinique samples at Lilith Fair.  Badwan, for his part, made do by introducing the heel of his boot to anyone who attempted to gain access to the stage, and did so with added alacrity to the lucky (?) few who succeeded.

If The Horrors previously had in mind that they had something to prove to L.A., they must have left town knowing their mission was unequivocally accomplished.  Their fans seemed dizzy with lust when the house lights came up, with many camping out at the stage to gather scraps for memorabilia or even catch another glimpse of the band.  Far more subversive and engaging than anything to be found on the new corporately concocted Twilight: New Moon soundtrack, the music of The Horrors is the soundtrack for a generation who probably feels like they have a few things of their own to prove.

What the future holds for both of them might surprise us all.

Tags: Alison Mosshart, Birthday Party, Count in Fives, el rey, Faris Badwan, Fonda, Gloves, Jack White, Joshua Third, live review, Los Angeles, nick cave, Primary Colours, Richard Butler, Scarlet Fields, Sheena is a Parasite, Strange House, The Dead Weather, The Horrors, The Kills, Thom Yorke, Twilight New Moon

My friend’s response to news I had scored a ticket to Hope Sandoval & The Warm Inventions’ ludicrously sold-out show at Hollywood Forever’s Masonic Lodge last Tuesday was “I thought Hope died of an OD.  Who knew?”

Who knew indeed?  On the heels of Bon Iver’s fawned-over early morning concert outdoors on Hollywood Forever’s cemetery grounds just a few days before, it seemed that lightning was striking twice:  a show helmed by the whispy voice perhaps best known as Ms. Mazzy Star, in the dim-lit confines of the infrequently used, church-like Masonic Lodge, was about as perfectly conceived formula for concert magic as any since — well, since Bon Iver played outdoors at the cemetery just a few days earlier.

But while attendees to the Bon Iver event were awoken after an all-night slumber party for the start that performance, Hope & company’s show had the exact opposite effect on this occasion.

To be clear, I’ve done a fair share of baby makin’ practice to the strains of Ms. Sandoval, be it accompanied by the lush, bluegaze alt-country-ish sounds of Mazzy Star or the 2001 Warm Inventions’ release, Bavarian Fruit Bread.  So it’s not like the lethargic qualities that define Sandoval’s music were hitherto unknown to me.  In fact, various one-off guest contributions aside, you could quantify anything she sings on as sort of an aural turducken:  sleepiness wrapped in slumber surrounded by a dream.  But sometimes too much of a good thing results in…an OD.

Things started well enough, with Sandoval & company taking the stage in near-darkness to the enthusiastic applause of KCRW Angel Donor-types who had patiently sat through a Warm Inventions-sans-Sandoval set while sipping wine and commenting on the elegance of the high-ceilinged, poorly ventilated venue.  With the stage lit by a few simple candles and the room chandeliers turned down low, the mood was set for the Warm Inventions, now armed with Sandoval, to unleash some serious baby makin’ soundtracks upon the crowd.

And at first it was good.

Then it went bad.

It’s hard to find fault with anything in the performance per se; as far as stage antics go, Sandoval has always run the risk of being outshone by a fire hydrant or telephone pole.  Which is to say, really what you’re watching when she performs is paint drying – but paint that sings with an intoxicating trademark voice.  So to say the performance was lacking, eh – lacking what?  It was never “having” to begin with.  It’s always been about the voice.

Assumedly as a compensatory measure, the set was accompanied throughout by film projections – primarily old-timey footage of people dancing, or flowers — which were blended together with other elements by multiple projectors in the balcony, providing sort of visual mash-ups, with the gentle fluttering sound of the film running through the projectors adding an extra element of romantic nostalgia to the experience.

But somewhere around the one-hour mark, that sound of the projectors went from charming to annoying – like candy wrappers at a movie theater – and simultaneously, the hall chairs became uncomfortable, the room became too warm, and the music — which thus far had primarily featured cuts from Hope & company’s latest, Through The Devil Softly — became monotonous.

And while it’s clear that the majority of those present remained as enamored as ever with Sandoval, more than a handful of people silently vacated the proceedings, never to be seen again.  Suddenly the hottest ticket in town became less elite, as empty seats pockmarked the room for the back half of the set and encore.

It’s not that HS&TWI’s set lacked dynamic.  Within its own parameters, the material swelled from whisper-silent to waves crashing on the shore (albeit small waves), and Sandoval, for her part, repeatedly added harmonica and glockenspiel to mix, which should have kept things fresh (truth be told, Hope rocks the glock like nobody’s business).  But really, all that delicate sweetness, in absence of well-conceived delivery devices, like say — better songs — left the effect of being adrift at sea during an inescapable case of the doldrums.  Sure, the sunsets are amazing at first, but eventually, you need the wind to pick up.  You know, so you can get your ass out of their and not like, die.

To that end, energy levels spiked during older numbers such as “Charlotte” and “Around My Smile,” but it was contextually apparent that wasn’t so much a result of those songs being more familiar as they are just altogether better songs than the newer material (play “Blanchard” against either of the two songs mentioned above and the point will be proven).  If fact, it leads one to wonder why it took eight years for HS&TWI eight years to issue a follow-up full-length to Bavarian Fruit Basket.  Clearly, that time wasn’t spent accumulating a mass of killer material to pick from for the new record.

Other show highlights were things that actually had nothing to do with the band, such as a roadie changing a candle on stage in the middle of a song, or fans snapping flash pictures of Hope at the encore break and show end, despite the dozen-plus signs posted around the premises that read “Absolutely NO Photography.”  And it’s hard to forget the couple in the balcony who got carried away with their own baby makin’ during the encore and accidentally turned the room lighting on full, which for Sandoval, must have been something like being immersed in scalding oil.

All in all, it wasn’t that the show was awful, say like Cat Power circa 1998, Ryan Adams circa 2002, or Coldplay in general.  But it did little to live up to the legacy Sandoval blazed with Mazzy Star, and generally left the impression that HS&TWI’s place in the current popular culture landscape is probably best relegated to a Grey’s Anatomy soundtrack or some similar, fleeting music supervisor-placed location, rather than a full evening’s proposition.

Yes, the sound of Hope Sandoval & The Warm Inventions is something best taken in small doses.

Like heroin.

Photo “in the Shadow of a Flower” by Hamed Saber under Creative Commons License

Tags: Around My Smile, Bavarian Fruit Bread, Blanchard, Bon Iver, Charlotte, glockenspiel, Grey's Anatomy, Hollywood Forever, Hope Sandoval & The Warm Inventions, KCRW, live review, Los Angeles, Masonic Lodge, Mazzy Star, Through the Devil Softly, turducken

Girls who go all slutty at the sound of British accents couldn’t have done any better than be panty-free at the Avalon last Friday when U.K. rock icons Manic Street Preachers played L.A. for the first time in 10 years.

The male-to-female ratio was easily 20-to-one and American ears attempting to decipher crowd chatter would have done well to bring am interpreter, as the majority of the audience was audibly not of this continent.

For the uninitiated, the anchor of this Welsh trio’s lore is that talented-but-troubled writer and rhythm guitarist Richey Edwards disappeared, all mysterious and Eddie of Eddie and the Cruisers-like, shortly after the release of the Manics’ critically shouldered but commercially lackluster The Holy Bible — his car being found abandoned near a bridge popular with those into one-time base jumping and musing over the latter half of Shakespeare’s “to be…or not to be.”  While his family gave him a solid 14 years to reappear, they finally declared him dead late last year, with their announcement followed shortly by the release of the Manics’ latest album, Journal for Plague Lovers, featuring – wait for it — songs composed entirely from Edwards’ left-behind lyrics.

If ever there were a time for Edwards to make a Michael Pare-ish comeback, this would be it, but as it stands, Richey’s comrades have gotten on perfectly well without him; they played plenty as a trio before fully recruiting him into their fold, and likewise played without him well before his disappearance — while he was doing a stint in rehab — ostensibly to foot the bill for his treatment (come to think of it, that’s a better reason for suicide than most).  In fact, the Edwards-free Manics have become one of the U.K.’s most celebrated bands, achieving not only widespread commercial success,* but the usually elusive critical acclaim to go with it.  Of course, here in America, the sum of their sales and accolades has translated into… relative anonymity (see also: Placebo, Supergrass, Stereophonics, Tindersticks, Jarvis Cocker and until recently, Muse).

If they were at all dismayed at the prospect of playing an undersold L.A. club date, however, it didn’t show; the Manics brought their arena-style A-game to the Avalon and spent the next hour and forty minutes rocking the socks off their countrymen and the handful of former students aboard, record store clerks, college radio djs and label types who’ve actually heard of them here in the former British colonies.

Early in the set, bassist Nicky Wire – who, with his bleached bangs, boat captain’s cap and white sportcoat easily could have been mistaken for a member of a yacht-rock band, or possibly Duran Duran’s John Taylor (25 years out of time) – took a few moments to comment how chuffed he was to see their new album had made the in-flight playlist during their trip across the pond, although their next number, “Jackie Collins Existential Question Time,” had been left out “apparently for being too offensive.”  When the crowd murmured their disapproval, Wire agreed the rationale was beyond him as well, adding “but they’ve got the whole Coldplay album on there – how offensive is that?”

Shortly thereafter, as singer/guitarist James Dean Bradfield took up an acoustic guitar for the first time in the set, he told the tale of how their next song had undergone some serious revisions before being released.  By way of explanation, he noted he had demo’d the song by himself one night while Wire and drummer Sean Moore were at supper, who then offered only one comment after hearing the product of Bradford’s toil upon their return: “that sounds like Coldplay, ya prick.”

If any of these anti-Coldplay comments were cheap ploys to garner favorable crowd response — they worked.  Judging by the response, the only thing Manics’ fellow countrymen hate more than selling tax-free tea to colonists are bands who steal from the likes of Joe Satriani.

Or dress like gay pirates.

After a brief solo acoustic set courtesy of Bradfield, things simultaneously ramped up and wound down with older, more familiar material, eventually putting the final coffin nail in their career-spanning set with “You Love Us” and “A Design for Life,” which Bradford preceded by stating “we have a policy of not doing encores, so be sure to applaud after this song because we won’t be back – we’ll’ve blown our load.”

Moments later, Bradfield spun the mic toward the audience, who were clearly blowing their own loads carrying out the song’s chorus of “we don’t talk about love/we only want to get drunk.”

Come to think of it, maybe the Avalon wasn’t the place to be Friday for girls who get all slutty for British accents – after the Manics’ thunderous ball-draining set, it’s doubtful any of the men there would have been of much use.
*While it’s expected that a death, disappearance or case of LSD (Lead Singer’s Disease) would permanently derail the career of any band, the outcome of the Manics’ trajectory from the time of Edwards’ Houdini act to now is far from an isolated incident; rock annals are littered with acts who’ve been perfectly accepted, if not more so, after the loss of a key member, including New Order (nee Joy Division), Alice In Chains, Journey, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, The Libertines, Van Halen, Def Leppard, INXS and Genesis. Even the former members of Creed killed time with the commercially successful Alter Bridge while they awaited Scott Stapp’s resurrection after he was crucified under Pontius Pilate, suffered, died and was buried.

Tags: A Design for Life, A Journal for Plague Lovers, Avalon, Coldplay, Eddie and the Cruisers, Holy Bible, Jackie Collins Existential Question Time, James Dean Bradfield, Jarvis Cocker, lead singer's disease, live review, Los Angeles, Manic Street Preachers, Michael Pare, Nicky Wire, Placebo, Richey Edwards, Sean Moore, Stereophonics, Supergrass, Tindersticks, to be or not to be, You Love us