Music to Your Ears
A Gingerbread Homecoming—It's been less than a year since the Gingerbread Patriots dusted our desert from their keyboards and moved to Portland, Ore. But since they're so gosh darn sentimental, they couldn't stay away for long. Bless their little indie-pop hearts.
Flyer on the Wall
Some of the fine print says: "That's right. RollerCon, the international all-female roller derby convention, is looking for certified EMTs to volunteer their time and talents this summer, Aug. 8-12, in fabulous Las Vegas, Nev.!" Perks include undying gratitude and a nice little vacation in Vegas (paid for by you, but nice nonetheless). For more information, e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org. (LM)
Say "chick rock" and you die
If there’s one thing The Ettes aren’t, it’s a chick band. While both their lead vocalist and drummer are of the female gender, that doesn’t fit them squarely into the “chick” category, and they’d like you to know it.
Caleb Miles Comes Back
You would not believe how many bands have named themselves A Murder of Crows. But only one lived in my Walkman throughout early high school until the tape, thin and weary from overplaying, snapped apart one time too many. No amount of scotch tape could aid its redemption. Little did I know this was an early Albuquerque band, around in the late ’80s and early ’90s.
In any regular situation, if "live recording" and "garage rock" were uttered in the same sentence, I'd shudder with the conjured mental images of some horrifying Frankenstein made of Kiss and Jet. But this album, released by a fairly reliable label, is an exception. With lo-fi sound quality and elements of psychedelia, it's more like a respectable partnership between The Brian Jonestown Massacre and The Velvet Underground. Except this is Black Lips, who are, to make a metaphor (and as their album art might suggest), more like the comedic flesh-eating plant Audrey Jr. from Little Shop of Horrors, just as we are the Seymours, forced to serve our master.
New and Fertile
Young band mines innovation from inexperience
The guys in The Fertile Crescent don't know they're kind of geniuses. Or maybe they're in disguise as four shy 20-year-olds who mumble a little and say "like" too much. It's almost a shame to let them in on the secret that the music they're making is more innovative and well-constructed than a lot of what's put out by bands who've been on the scene for years and years. Sure hope they won't let it go to their heads.