By Benjamin Leatherman
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Troy Farah
By Roger Calamaio
By Mark Deming
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Brian Palmer
The second annual New Times Music Awards Showcase is history. And--let's see, how can I put this delicately?--it kicked total ass. Just more than 11,000 people came to the party, most venues were consistently packed, the DJ showcase went off, and, overall, we're feeling about like the girl with the most cake here at New Times command central. Partly because we don't have thousands and thousands of yellow plastic wristbands to rid ourselves of in an environmentally responsible manner. I swear, about two weeks before the festival, those little bastards started to multiply like tribbles. I think they mated in the office at night.
Seriously, though, that fat a bump from the first year of a multigenre, local music festival to the second (the Showcase drew just more than 7,000 last year) buffs the event to a nice, bright afterglow. Hey, good party, man. The only glaring problem was Touch pulling a no-show in the third time slot (of four) at the Mill Cue Club. Bad Touch. No bold type. And, really, no big deal. It's not like there weren't other viable options. At the same time Touch was supposed to be playing and wasn't, Earl C. Whitehead and the Grievous Angels had a healthy crowd crying in its cups of food coloring, sugar, artificial flavor and Everclear just across the street at Fat Tuesday. Big Pete Pearson and the Blues Sevilles painted a packed house at McDuffy's several shades of blue. And Kongo Shock presided over a scene of frenzied dancing at dusk in Hayden Square that got downright pagan. Kongo's set was a clear case of the right band at the right time at the right venue, and its hour of music was peak in all respects.
Point being, one band flaking did not a huge hassle make (except for Cue Club, who got jacked). More bothersome for me was all the kids who got turned away from seeing the DJs at Club 411. A lot of under-21ers were barred from the industrial, punk and hip-hop shows as well. What can I say, except that sucks. But we just couldn't work it out with the City of Tempe to have mixed audiences at more than one venue (Valley Art Theatre outside), and we had to let all the venues sell booze to make their money. Sound. Lights. Space. That shit's not free, know what I'm saying? Still, it was harsh to watch music fans get shut out for being too young. Also, as I sat there at my desk early on a Monday morning all cotton-mouthed and brain-shriveled, I have to admit I'm seriously questioning the wisdom of holding such a music festival on a Sunday night. The key concept here is recovery time. As in need for and lack thereof.
Anyway. Let's roll some more tape: Honeybucket got its groove on early with a fresh opening set at Balboa Cafe. Lead singer Justin Palicki nimbly sidestepped a partial stage collapse with nary a break in his flow at the mike. The sleeper sensation of the fest, though, was Lady J and Blues Ratio, who tore up Beeloe's with a fire-and-ice set of Afro-Cuban-flavored jazz. I was playing venue hopscotch during their time slot, and after bouncing down the stairs from the Owl's Nest--where Hans Olson was churning out eerie, gutsy solo blues to a noisy crowd that seemed more concerned about its hamburgers than his vocals--I wheeled around the corner on Fifth Street and chanced into one of the most glorious live-guitar solos I've ever heard soaring up from Beeloe's. I don't know the Blues Ratio guitarist's name, and I didn't have time to find out, which is a shame, 'cause he is damn good. So good his solo made me howl, and helped the world make sense for a few minutes.
Post-Beeloe's, I popped into Valley Art Theatre, where Godless orchestrated a show that felt like a scene from a Clive Barker story. Seething assaults of industrial rock blasting in a run-down, pitch-black, vintage movie theater that reeks of Pine Sol and popcorn. The only light was a strobe that cast grossly extended shadows of the band members on a drop curtain behind them. Quite effective in sum, actually, and, in truth, Godless was the only band that made Valley Art work for it instead of against. But I wasn't in a bad-acid mood, so I split for the Valley Art outdoors stage, where Fred Green was jamming hard under a hot sun (talk about contrasts). Chronic Future was up next on the all-ages tip, but got the freak-show treatment from the mostly older crowd, who gawked like it'd never seen 15-year-old kids playing tight rock 'n' roll before. The high (or low, depending on your belief system) point of Chronic's set came with lead vocalist Mike Busse yelling "you fucking slut" while a group of prepubescent girls at the foot of the stage screeched like Beatles fans. Chronicmania: Conservative dads, fear for your little girls.
Back inside Valley Art, Slugger powered through a cover of Bikini Kill's "Statement of Vindication." Lead singer Yolanda Bejarano is such an awesome vocalist it almost made it seem all right to watch a punk band while sitting down in a movie theater. In other p-rock news, Bullyrag played its first paying gig ever, cooked well-done with extra volume, to a Ziggy's crowd of mostly thirtysomethings in Korn and Green Bay Packer tee shirts who, by some cosmic grace, totally got into the ruckus. Go figure. Mad At 'Em closed out a punk double-header at Ziggy's, going on right after Bullyrag and drawing a more typical crowd, with lots of punk chicks. Mad At 'Em's singer was reportedly power-puking from the flu in the hours leading up to the show, but still did an expert job. The band's drummer had a newly broken foot and had to switch-hit with his left foot on bass kick, but still managed to boot half his kit off the stage, midsong, and keep going. The unofficial New Times Music Award for "sheer will to rock" goes to Mad At 'Em, no question.