Friday, Dec 2: Mother Nature's Luminarias
The Daily Word in Gonorrhea, Evacuations and a New Earth[ Wed Aug 31 2016 11:17 AM ]
An “anti-wrinkle” vibrator cause a plane to be evacuated at the Sunport yesterday.
NPR's newest documentary Noteworthy follows musician Miguel in-depth to learn about his creative process and influences.
Soooo, gonorrhea is nearly untreatable now.
An invisible epidemic has been sweeping across the nation affecting kids.
Do you love the '70s?
Tired of Earth and all the shit we have to deal with? Well, pack your bags, because it looks like you have an option to leave.
The Stuffed Animal Band
Friday, Aug 12: Shoulder Voices Album Release Party
Vans Used to be for Skaters, Now They Just Mean You Like to Rock
Monday, Aug 1: 2016 Vans Warped Tour • Atreyu • Good Charlotte • pop punk • New Found Glory • rock • Mayday Parade • Motionless in White • metal • Waka Flocka Flame • rap
Rock Jong Il Rocks Out
Saturday, May 7: Rock Jong Il • punk • Suspended • metal • Russian Girlfriends • rock • Get Action • punk
Monday, Mar 7: Metal Yoga Mondays
A Black Sabbath
Sunday, Mar 6: Punk Rock Flea Market Record Exchange and Matinee Showcase Featuring Adam Hooks
Sunday, Mar 6: Punk Rock Flea Market Record Exchange and Matinee Showcase Featuring Adam Hooks
Punk Ass Girlfriends
Saturday, Feb 6: Russian Girlfriends • rock, punk • Leeches of Lore • stoner rock, psychedelic • Hanta • stoner rock • The Talking Hours
Riding Waves into Santa Fe
I don’t go to Santa Fe to see shows often. The only other time I’ve traveled there for a show was to see my favorite band for the first time early 2015, and that was at a venue on the edge of Santa Fe, so you can say I’m not familiar with their scene. The two venues I’ve been to there are pretty similar and notably different from Burque places; they’re older and have a more traditionally New Mexican aesthetic, have more seating and there’s a noticeable range of age in concert-goers.
My friend and I walked through a passageway and entered Skylight Santa Fe into their bar. We got our beers and headed up to the top floor of the place and sat above and to the left of the stage. I looked at the crowd and saw the wide range of ages amongst the concert-goers; people in their teens to their mid-40s were all eagerly waiting for the show to begin. The crowd gathered as the first band, Cayucas, began playing onstage but left a large space between them and the band.
Cayucas is a fraternal duo from southern California which is obvious when you hear them. The excellent SoCal lo-fi, surf pop band was joined by a bassist and drummer for their tour. Their calm melodies are fantastic, especially when combined with mellow vocals and a subtle sense of nostalgia thrown in every so often instigated by the distinct surf rock reverb. During their song “High School Lover” lead singer, Zach Yudin, got off the stage and slow danced with an audience member. When he got back on stage he said “I wish I could go back to high school because I’d be crushing it.”
Opening bands aren’t given enough credit. Even more so, the bassists of opening bands aren’t given enough credit. The touring bassist of Cayucas—who I didn’t catch the name of—is so skilled and extraordinary: he could weave in and out of working with the drums and guitar while still being able to throw in solos flawlessly.
During the wait for the headliner, Surfer Blood, the crowd had abandoned the gap between themselves and the stage. The band appeared and began without introduction; the cheerful melody joint with understated, gloomy lyrics and monotone vocals (and occasional shouting) is why people love Surfer Blood. The steady backbeat of the drums was mesmerizing. While Surfer Blood has a calm stoicism vibe, it’s clear that they enjoy being on stage and performing.
The crowd was much more energetic and loud after Surfer Blood took to the stage. I don’t go to many “mellow” rock shows, but it was interesting to see how some of the patrons danced as if it were a punk show instead of a chill California-sound show.
At the end of the night the two bands combined on stage and performed three covers. They all randomly interchanged their instruments between songs so everyone got a turn, but since it was Cayucas last show they got more time. Both bands seemed to have a ton of fun and the crowd did even more so.
During the last song, many of the teens in the audience went onstage and danced with the band. My friend and I left quickly into the cold night as we discussed heathen youth and came back home to Albuquerque.
"A Thousand Rooms in a Thousand Colors"
Tryptophan and THC
Friday, Nov 27: Danksgiving 2015 • Mondo Vibrations • Dre Z • Pocket Full Of Dub
All About That Washtub Bass
Ben Miller Band • rock, bluegrass, blues
Mainlining the Melvins
Step by step, I wonder into Launchpad (618 Central SW), each foot coming closer and closer to what seems to be a natural unison. I'm late as usual, but the wave of approaching sound sends my brain into an anticipatory flutter. The clamorous BOOM of drums begin to flow into the veins of the ground, straight through my arteries and directly into my heart like I'm mainlining each crash and thump as burning metal into my veins. As the last foot reaches it's destination, I realize exactly what I've stumbled into. It takes a moment, an isolated, but rewarding moment, to realize I'm in a pit of sonic obliteration.
As I look towards the stage, I see three figures, covered from head to toe in scarlet – almost silhouettes – taking the idea of sound to an increasingly devastating level. An explosion is occurring, right before my very eyes, in the form of a human named Terri Gender-Bender. She sways and screams, she strums her guitar like an accelerating hot rod burning off the flesh of god; she rocks! Along with Terri, Jamie Aaron Aux handles bass and Chris Common plays the sticks. It's a finale, a consequence of my tardiness, but it's all I needed to hear, to understand. It's an aural bomb and I'm riding each sonic boom with full cooperation, all the way into the apocalypse.
The band quakes in unison to a litany of head bangs and devil horns, offering sacrifice like appeasement for the immensity before them.
As the last note bends itself into forced cooperation and the feedback of the amps release all the demons everyone was holding in that night, Le Butcherettes finish their set and receive a loud cheer from the crowd. I watch them walk away into the dimly lit background of the alley. I stand in absolute amazement of what I just heard. It's hard to believe that great rock n roll, in it's true trail-blazing form, still exists on planet earth. But I witnessed it first hand, in the form of Le Butcherettes.
The noise dies down and I hit the wall like gravity intends me to. Observing the crowd, I feel a certain camaraderie. The show attracts a variety of black-haired lion manes and sweat soaked battle jackets with scars of experience you couldn't count on one hand. But no matter what the musical affiliation or statement of fashion, we are all there for the same reason. A reason that binds our brains and hearts into motion, anticipating the unadulterated and refined crunch of what is to come. As I begin to delve into the analytic recesses of my mind, I hear the music halt, and a cough-like noise begins to fill the building. It's a sound loop, a repeating exertion of human reflex, as if clearing a palette. I recognize it as the cough from Black Sabbath's “Sweet Leaf” – the song begins to play as I see a robed man take the stage.
Two more men, with sticks and bass, take their rightful places on stage. What appears to be the eye of Horus – patterned into gold on the robed mans black cloak – stares into the crowd, as if to observe the worthy and destroy the undeserving. Aleister Crowley comes to mind, a powerful charisma surrounds the stage. Then a sound, distant at first, grows into a overwhelming cloud of distorted catastrophe. The deep CRUNCH of the first chord sprays black all over my red veins and I know exactly where I am. I know exactly what this is. This is the FUCKING MELVINS!
Buzz Osbourne displays a concentrated focus, Dale Crover begins his smash into oblivion one ball- blasting beat at a time. Jeff Pinkus raises his shivering metal bass into the air, guiding the increasingly kinetic headbanging in the crowd. The crowd thickens near the stage, and and the transformation process begins. First it's a few, then more and finally many begin to scream, sweat and convulse in awkward and intense unison. We continue, forming a sludge as we come together in our love for the brutalization of eardrums and bodies. The sludge grows thicker and thicker, and from each chord comes a melting wave of music that forces our nervous systems to disconnect from our heads – shaking those motherfucking skulls like we're trying to rattle a pick out from the body of an acoustic guitar.
My feet shake and my head bangs. They don't stop for one blinding moment, not even when Buzz Osbourne breaks the sonic wall for a cover of the Butthole Surfers “Moving to Florida.” As Osbourne shouts “And I'm gonna build me the Atomic...” we all scream “BOMB!” in anticipation. He waits, and whispers “bomb”, breaking back into the bass-blasting segments of the song, and demonstrating a masterful understanding of the music surrounding him.
Osbourne shreds, Crover blasts, Pinkus pounds and the show winds down to the last song. Jumping from the shadows like the blast of a supernova, Terri-Gender-Bender enters, immediately breaking into what seems to be an interpretative dance to summon the spirits of punk and metal. She aids the Melvins in building the climax of the show. With one last blast of soul and energy, the show ends with Osbourne saluting the crowd like the commander in-chief of sonic crunch.
They all leave their instruments on, generating deafening feedback to drop us all down from the musical high that had been keeping us up for hours. Dale Crover is the last to leave. Like the proverbial bridesmaid catching the bouquet on her best friend's wedding day, I jump into the air to catch the drumstick he throws to the crowd.
I didn't catch it and fumbled with it as it flew to the ground. But I fought for it and came out victorious with a new souvenir of one of the best shows I've been to in a really, really long time. As the band leaves and the crowd dissipates, I walk straight towards to the door, drumstick clutched in hand.
I stroll to the parking lot, attempting to regain my serious loss of hearing, I reflect on the show. So many other people have seen this band, and they have played a myriad of cities and venues. But I now have my own triumphal moment. In the back of my mind, I know – with the utmost pride and certainty – that even if it's just a fragment of the bands long prolific history, I got rocked the fuck out by the Melvins.