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V.24 No.47 | 11/19/2015

Event Horizon

Tryptophan and THC

Friday, Nov 27: Danksgiving 2015 • Mondo Vibrations • Dre Z • Pocket Full Of Dub

Work up some post-Thanksgiving munchies or dance off your food guilt this week at Danksgiving 2015.
V.24 No.37 | 09/10/2015
Paul Moore

Alibi Picks

All About That Washtub Bass

Ben Miller Band • rock, bluegrass, blues

Get ready for gritty, mud-stomping tuneage from the heart of the country.
V.24 No.29 | 07/16/2015
The Melvins
Mat Hayward


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.

V.24 No.11 | 3/12/2015
Blue Öyster Cult ... now
Courtesy of artist


Bad Oysters: A short, strange evening with Blue Öyster Cult

Alibi resident rocker Wrathchild reports on a concert that left comatose concertgoers feeling blue.
V.24 No.9 | 2/26/2015
Kim Gordon
Alisa Smirnova

Get Lit


Kim Gordon returns to UNM SUB on memoir tour

We preview founding Sonic Youth member Kim Gordon’s new memoir Girl in a Band. Gordon will appear in conversation with Alibi Managing Editor Samantha Anne Carrillo at the UNM Student Union Building on Sunday, March 1.
View in Alibi calendar calendar
V.23 No.46 | 11/13/2014
Get Action
Eric Williams

Show Up!

On the Record with Get Action

Hometown supergroup releases 7-inch

Wherein Captain America relates Get Action’s origin story in preview of their vinyl release party.
View in Alibi calendar calendar
V.23 No.29 | 7/17/2014
Mötley Crüe circa ’80s
Courtesy of artist

Show Up!

God Bless the Children of the Beast

Crüe shouts at the devil one last time

Wherein August March chronicles the aural history of the best damn hair band in the world.
View in Alibi calendar calendar
V.23 No.27 | 7/3/2014
Ted Nugent of yore
Carl Lender

Show Up!

Stars, Bars and Guitars

Putting the Nuge in New Mexico

Wherein August March considers the problematic history and extremist, right-wing beliefs of Merican rock star Ted Nugent in preview of his Burque gig.
View in Alibi calendar calendar
V.23 No.12 |


Ty Segall Band Put Their Finger On It

It took a moment to realize the guy drinking Coca-Cola in front of a van on Central Avenue was Ty Segall. By the time I snapped it would have been awkward to say "Ty Segall!" I did, however, notice that one of his fellow band members had a choice Gram Parsons record at his feet. My girlfriend remarked that Ty was much younger looking than his music sounded. In other words, the show last night was young, beautiful, older than its years—and in good taste.

The excellent Launchpad sound could have been a hundred times louder for my taste, but it was pretty loud. There were a couple complaints that Emily the drummer wasn't hitting her kit hard enough, but I have to disagree. All around groovy fuzz and beats with harmonies on top. The band played tunes from the Castle Face record to Melted, Sleeper and beyond. Please come back to 'Burque soon, Ty Segall.

V.21 No.33 | 8/16/2012

[click to enlarge]

Flyer on the Wall

It’s a Circus

Gwyneth's birthday freaktacular features the rock stylings of SuperGiant, Fatso, Icky & The Yuks and Mother Death Queen. Take in the spectacle on Saturday, Aug. 18, beginning at 9:30 p.m. at the Launchpad (618 Central SW). Admission to the 21-and-over event is $5. (JCC)

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V.21 No.32 | 8/9/2012

[click to enlarge]

Rock and Roll Fantasy

This typeface is not absurdly tough, yet its pointiness and near-illegibility lends a special aura of mystery that suggests magic, action and adventure. Find those things on Friday, Aug. 10, at the Launchpad (618 Central SW). Tenderizor, Glitter Dick, Contortionist and Drought conjure rainbows in the dark (and the like) beginning at 9:30 p.m. Admission is 21-and-over and $5. (JCC)

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V.21 No.31 | 8/2/2012

[click to enlarge]

Non Sequitur Cultural References

I don’t know what homicidal 1989 comedy Weekend at Bernie’s has to do with rock bands Call It Art, Rebilt, My Heart The Hero, Parachute Picnic or Sweet Weapons. Hopefully only this flyer. See them play at the Launchpad (618 Central SW) on Saturday, Aug. 4, starting at 9 p.m. The 21-and-up show is $5. (JCC)

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V.21 No.29 | 7/19/2012

[click to enlarge]


Partake in dark, synthesized rock action with Mrdrbrd, Witchbird, Between the Lines and Geophage at Boro Gallery (Downtown at 317 Gold SW) on Friday, July 20. Admission is by donation. Festivities begin around 7:43 p.m. (JCC)

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V.20 No.47 | 11/24/2011
Maynard James Keenan as seen in   Blood Into Wine



Vintners who rock

A grape revolution has made wine accessible to the middle class. It’s also made vintners of some rock stars. Joseph Baca looks at who has taken up the Bacchanalian indulgence.
V.20 No.34 | 8/25/2011
The Dirty Novels

Aural Fixation

The Exploding Plastic Inevitable

Andy Warhol was among the most iconic and prolific visual artists of the 20th century, a highbrow and low class culture cultivator of profound influence. The pop artist is just as recognized for his soup cans or Marilyn Monroes as he is for the silver New York "Factory" where those works were produced (while his Superstars and other celebrities milled about, glamorously bored). But Warhol was also an avant-garde filmmaker, publisher, producer and dabbler in performance art. One facet of this multidimensional career was The Exploding Plastic Inevitable, a series of traveling multimedia shows that occurred between 1966 and 1967. The shows featured Warhol's films, dancing and performances by Factory regulars and house band The Velvet Underground.

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