Crib Notes

MICHAEL O’NEAL: Is this my doppelganger?

(Photo taken from Michael O’Neal Singers’ website)

This afternoon, I got an e-mail with the subject line “MOS e-News: Summer Singers present SONGS FOR A SUMMER’S NIGHT.” Initially, I thought it was a piece of spam, but my curiosity was piqued, so I decided to open it. (My CL bosses shouldn’t worry … I opened the e-mail from a mobile computer.) It turned out to be a concert notice for the Michael O’Neal Singers, a symphonic chorus from Roswell with more than 100 members.

But here’s the weird thing. The group’s website address is www.mosingers.com, just like my name! Very bizarre.

At any rate, the group performs Mon., Aug. 27, at Roswell United Methodist Church. It will sing a repertoire of pop classics by Aaron Copland, Leonard Bernstein and others.

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KINDERCORE: Back from the dead

(Photo taken from Kindercore’s MySpace page)

One of the biggest gaps in our music coverage this year has been a dearth of stories on the Athens scene. Yes, the collegiate city lies an hour-and-a-half away. And frankly, I hate making that drive, man. I made tentative plans to go to AthFest (apologies to Michelle Roche) and considered attending Popfest, too. But that long-ass trip dissuaded me from heading up there.

But I’m well-aware that Athens has long nurtured a historically important musical community, which is why we’ve often covered it in the past. Kevin Griffis’ Sept. 4, 2003, story on the mysterious Jeff Mangum, leader of the late great Neutral Milk Hotel, continues to be one of CL’s most popular stories in its archive. (That story can be accessed here.)

So yeah, CL likes Athens. And one of the most unexpected stories to emerge from that far-flung region has been the return of Kindercore Records. In the early ’00s, Kindercore was THE face of twee pop, thanks to happy-happy (and sometimes obnoxiously peppy) bands like I Am the World Trade Center, Of Montreal, Dressy Bessy, Maserati, Japancakes and other stalwarts. Then, in 2003, the label collapsed under a flurry of lawsuits. I don’t want to get too deep into it, but it’s safe to say I’m surprised Kindercore managed to return from the dead.

Longtime label owner Dan Geller, who also fronts Ruby Isle, is throwing a well-earned “Reanimation Celebration” at Caledonia Lounge Sat., Aug. 18. If you can’t make the trip, check out the new Kindercore Records website. It’s rich in multimedia content, from videos and flash animation to comic strips, music and cultural essays.

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Rufus Wainwright last night at the Tabernacle

(photo by Perry Julien)

Rufus Wainwright may be “tired of America,” as he sings in the first single from his current album, but he still has 11 cities to sweep through on his stateside tour before hitting up Europe, Australia and Japan.

From the looks of it, he’ll be keeping an eye out on things while he’s gone — maybe even by tuning in to LOGO, the gay cable network that Democratic presidential hopefuls debated on last week.

That’s right, Republicans. Rufus is watchin’.

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“Welcome to the Variety Playhouse, may I take your order?”

“Uh, yes. I’ll have the pop-star combo No. 3 with the extra-catchy sing-along sauce. For here.”

When Ben Kweller, aka BK, plays a show, which he did twice this week in Atlanta, toes tap, young girls swoon and the whole crowd sings along. Kweller’s got a knack for the kind of pop that made teenyboppers scream at Beatles shows. But he’s not formulaic; he’s for real, writing clever and heartfelt (if sometimes a little sappy) lyrics.

At Tuesday night’s Variety Playhouse performance, Kweller bounced around on stage, curly locks flopping, as infected by his melodic do do dos and ba ba bas as the crowd was. He did a rocking acoustic cover of the inescapable “Ice Ice Baby” (what is it with my generation and that song?) and picked a bit of the Deliverance theme – OK choices, but not as exciting as his “La Bamba”/“Twist & Shout”/“Undone (the Sweater Song)” trio at Sunday’s Unplugged in the Park.

The set list contained ditties from all three full-length albums, including “Commerce, TX” (Sha Sha), “I Need You Back” (On My Way) and “Thirteen” (Ben Kweller).

(Photo by Ray Lego)

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When Janelle Monae first revealed that Purple Ribbon would collaborate with the Atlanta Ballet, it seemed to make sense. After all, her upcoming Metropolis (and hey, I know y’all are sick of CL gabbing about it) is a highly operatic piece.

But now it looks like the whole camp, namely Big Boi, will take part in the production. In fact, it’s called Big with Antwan “Big Boi” Patterson and choreography by Laurie Stallings. You can read the press release here.

I’m nervous as to what it will look like. Will it be Big Boi, Monae, Scar, C-Bone and others standing around on stage as ballet performers flutter around them? Or will it be a relatively straightforward piece set to music from Purple Ribbon? I hope it’s the latter. I think Big Boi is dope, but the sight of him rapping alongside ballet dancers could be kinda goofy-looking.

At any rate, Big will only last six performances from April 12-18, 2008, so you should probably purchase tickets now.

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(Photo by Perry Julien)

When Morrissey last played the Tabernacle, he taunted the faithful. As fans would reach out to shake his hand, he would move close as if to welcome their gesture. Then at the last moment, he would forcefully withdraw the offer. At Chastain on Friday, there was no such hesitation. He realized that his fans were adrift among the Brahmins of Buckhead, and that any form of rescue would be a welcome thing.

Just before the encore, I decided to join the throng so that I too might be close enough to feel the sweat from the Prophet. Pilgrims have weathered less just to arrive at the holy of holies. In the quest, Tracy Clark of Atlanta’s the Preakness was met by the in-your-face rudeness of season Chastain subscribers. The leader of the group first blocked her from passing in front of him. She hardly had any intention of blocking his view of his fave Morrissey. But he was meant to play security. Once his group decided that they were ready to make their exit, the other male in his party kicked Tracy as he lumbered by. His female companion actually hit Tracy in the back. So much for civility in the confines of the well-to-do.

I persevered. And as Moz passed, I reached out my hand. And my reach allowed me just enough extension to make it easy for him to oblige. Immediately, I did a little dance up and down, and Morrissey seemed to react to my enthusiasm. Would that all barriers in the world could be traversed with such ease?

After the show, I clearly shouted a request for a set list to the guitar tech. He decided not to be so obliging and quite deliberately ripped the paper into a little ball and rushed offstage with it. Power kills!

The jeers from a vengeful crowd have led many an Atlanta club-goer to wax eloquently about the charms of the velvet rope. They imagine being ushered by a cooperative door person into the VIP room, well-protected from the eager masses. There, they might bask in the warmth of artificial light among other well-heeled specimens. After all, a taste in fashion has its own reward. And as the sound system plays “How Soon Is Now,” the rewarded Morrissey fan might feel that he has finally eluded his persecutors.

But it might not work out that way. The VIP room only imprisons him in his society of like-minded. And on that particular night, the doorman might not be so egalitarian and leave him to huddle outside with his true brethren.

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There are some things in this world that were simply made for each other. Peanut butter and jelly. Sonny and Cher (umm …). Optimus Prime and the Autobots. Celebrities and the paparazzi. Optimus Prime and the paparazzi. The Decemberists and the ASO.

Last Saturday night, amid the cries of a gradually filling Chastain Park Amphitheater, two of these great forces met head-to-head and fulfilled that natural bond. Indie-pop sensation the Decemberists and the classical sensation that is the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra joined forces, drawing together the two unique though complementary genres to create something exceptional.

The band appeared on stage promptly at 8 p.m., situating itself in front of the orchestra. And while I despised myself for being a cheap-ass and not opting for tickets where I might actually see something, the music began and all the self-deprecating inner dialogue dispersed.

The evening spanned the band’s entire musical repertoire — from Castaways and Cutouts to The Crane Wife — each selection endowed with a fierce and vibrant energy, revealing aspects of the music that don’t quite become noticeable until you hear the Decemberists play with a nationally renowned symphony.

And while every song played throughout the course of the evening was certainly memorable, the band’s rendition of The Tain — a nearly 20-minute beautiful monster of an EP from 2005 — featured Jenny Conlee hacking down the keys of the organ and wailing with her dulcimer vocals while Colin Meloy retired to the drum set. And the orchestra behind, simply in vibrations with energy, lights ablaze and heads spinning, was nothing short of breathtaking.

Just on a personal note, I’m going to say that if you weren’t there you might want to castrate yourself.

Music aside, the showmanship of Meloy made the show all the better. From his feelings on snack crackers (“Wheat Thins can solve a lot of problems. … so many flavors”), to his wishing a 94-year-old man a happy birthday, Meloy created an atmosphere that welcomed everyone — regardless of their social class, style of dress or music preference.

This show offered fans the inner workings of the more classical aspects of the Decemberists’ music, showing off the genius behind the orchestration. And it was brilliant.

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Reminder: The Travis show is July 29th at the Tabernacle. For the upcoming week, I have an added suggestion …

RECOMMENDED: Detroit Cobras w/ the Hiss
Rachel Nagy’s hard-edged vocals lead the garage attack of the Detroit Cobras. They have no equals. You love that touch of soul as they whip through a song-filled set. There are no cutting corners. And a revitalized Hiss adds to the rock action. What more do you want? A limo to the door.

WHEN: Friday, July 27th

WHERE: The Earl

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Going to college in Illinois meant Chicago was always my musical home. I used to sleep in my car just so I could be part of the excitement of the club life. The pulsing house sound, the throbbing industrial beat and the thriving live-music scene were all influences. It is no accident Chicago is host to both Lollapalooza and the Pitchfork Music Festival. A band such as the Ponys really characterizes that marriage between the city and the Pitchfork Music Festival. I love the intersection between melody and noise that is key to their sound. The new single “Double Vision” distills the hooks in a classically produced style. Brian’s reverbed twang has the right bite. Their concept fits so well at a festival that benefited from the opening night with Sonic Youth.

From the moment the gates opened Friday evening, many of the faithful rushed over to claim a spot by the main stage. This prevented them from enjoying an epic rendition of Slint’s Spiderland. Atlanta today bubbles over with a psychedelic sound, but our indie music has been heavily touched by Slint’s approach. Even if some may have found the sparse approach a little boring, there was a deadly precision to the band’s presentation. David Pajo’s ringing tones underlined an economy that has been so often imitated.

While the format of a single album may have restricted Sonic Youth from going all out, the band offered a memorable performance of Daydream Nation. And there were moments when Union Park seemed to quake as Sonic Youth exploded. As Lee Rinaldo ran his slide down the guitar for “Eliminator Jr.,” there seemed to be no limit to the band’s intensity. Kim Gordon was in rare form as she went from slamming her bass to showing off her lively dance skills.

Sunday evening, Of Montreal tried to outdo itself. (more…)

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Forget the Black Lips and Deerhunter. Rump Posse is the true gem of the Atlanta music scene. Who else looks and sounds like a cross between an ’80s workout tape and a Van Halen video? That’s why the Drunken Unicorn was packed with eager Rump fans, when the band got together to play their first show in more than a year.

I feared the worst when the Posse took the stage sporting goatees, flannel shirts and acoustic guitars. After launching into a hilariously bad cover of Alice in Chains’ “The Rooster,” the band was pelted with empty beer cans. The booing proved to be too much for singer/guitarist Dr. Sweet. “You guys don’t like grunge? Oh, you wanna hear the old Rump Posse?” With those words, the band tore off the flannels, grabbed the electric instruments and proceeded to shave off the goatees with an electric razor. What was left was the good old Rump Posse: heather gray tank tops, sunglasses, mustaches and American flag headbands.

Two seconds into the first song, “Exit the Dragon,” it became clear that the Posse has mastered the art of cheese. The guitars, keyboard and drum machine were processed to the point that the band sounded like the upbeat metal soundtrack to a Nintendo game. Dr. Sweet was equal parts workout instructor, motivational speaker and frontman. Wearing a microphone headset, he danced around with his guitar, spouting hilarious motivational rhetoric, like “Living the dream has never felt so good!”

During “Getting in Shape,” Dr. Sweet disappeared from the stage. Coming up from behind, he grabbed me, directing his headset mic toward my face. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Corey,” I screamed.
“Let me see you get in shape, Corey!” With that, the entire audience turned around and stared at my embarrassingly grotesque attempt at dancing. Humiliation aside, the Rump Posse show felt like a good party. In a music world that’s rampant with ironic posturing, it’s good to know that there are bands that genuinely love the cheesier side of rock.

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Corndogorama 11: Stick to the Future opened with a bang last night at Lenny’s Bar. And even though there wasn’t a headlining act, the venue — and the parking lot — was filled with people. I only stayed for an hour, and when I left I could barely drive out of the lot because incoming cars kept blocking my path. It’s an early indication that festival founder David Railey will silence his doubters (admittedly, I was one of them) big time this weekend. For more information on this year’s Corndogorama, refer to Chad Radford’s story in this week’s issue here.

The highlight of the evening was a reunion set by Fiend Without a Face, the power-rock/punk-metal group that spawned Mastodon. The three band members took to the stage wearing red Masonic Temple hats and pantyhose over their heads, and unleashed a killer 45-minute set of hard rock. Great stuff. Mastodon will perform with considerably more fanfare Sunday, July 15, Corndogorama’s closing night.

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Saturday night, the potent Atlanta heat penetrated whatever claimed to be air-conditioning at the Earl. Fiery Furnaces singer Elizabeth Friedberger patted her head and commented on the heat. From their early performances, their music has taken a decidedly jazz free form with Matt’s soulful B-3 blues licks. If the Georgia humidity had more of an opportunity to soak in would that have brought more jack to those funky grooves? She and her brother originally hail from the Chicago suburb of Oak Park Illinois. Trust me, those Chicago summers can get brutal. Regional influence may be more than a question of temperature.

My thesis advisor professed it was the mother tongue, the language actually passed down from the mother, that most affected our psychological makeup. Pam Howe of the Atlanta band Ph Balance was a devotee of Paul Weller and I got to know her on the Weekends dance floor while we all rocked out to Brit dance music. But I swore that her Southern drawl got thicker as she performed under the lights of the Echo Lounge.

Deerhunter brought its experimental sound to open the Saturday night show at the Earl. Jesus and Mary Chain is oft-cited as one of their influences, although there is certainly none of that Glasgow swagger that always accompanied the Reid brothers. Deerhunter closed the set with Fluorescent Grey described by Bradford Cox as a song about necrophilia. One only needs to hearken back to the scandal at the Walker County crematorium for local inspiration. The heat and close summer quarters might make us feel that the dead are not that far away.

In the post-electronic age, regional character may give way to other influences. Many Northern transplants would have never ventured south without vigorous doses of air-conditioning. And as the air-conditioning blasted the café dance floor at MJQ and the DJ played New Order, we might as well have been as far from an indigenous Atlanta culture as possible.

Both Deerhunter and The Black Lips extend that DIY sound that has become associated with Rob’s House and the Stickfigure label. There is a frustration borne of Atlanta suburban living, uniform and lifeless. The facelessness has encouraged hordes of kids to move to East Atlanta and Cabbagetown to soak up the ghosts that still haunt the city. There seems an almost staccato drone that emanates from the cicada and the mocking bird. It only reminds us of the summer swelter.

RECOMMENDED: As most Atlanta music fans give praises to that loveable hot dog dipped in corn batter, I will be heading to Chicago for the Pitchfork Festival. Chicago locals The Pony’s and Ken Vandemark are exciting additions to the lineup. The Atlanta-Athens area is well -represented with Of Montreal, Mastodon, Deerhunter, and Cat Power.

Not to be outdone, Corndogorama will be graced by a set by Mastodon on Sunday

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By the time I reached the Earl, signs reading “TONIGHT’S SHOW IS SOLD OUT” were plastered all over the front door. This was bad news for my dumb-ass friends who refused to buy tickets before the show. While they stood outside, devising convoluted plots to infiltrate the venue, I slipped inside, ticket in hand.

The crowd seemed pretty atypical for a Fiery Furnaces show. It was all cargo shorts and sandals. I couldn’t figure out whether the place was packed because of the Fiery Furnaces or the hometown heroes, Deerhunter. Deerhunter took the stage looking like a ragtag gang of world-weary high schoolers (the singer later joked about the guitarist being 12). Under blue lights, the band built up a fog of ambient noise before launching into “Cryptograms,” the title track of its last LP.

The sheer volume of the music sent hoards of cargo shorts retreating back to the bar. The scene reminded me of My Bloody Valentine’s practice of weeding out dilettantes by maxing out the PA. Once the dilettantes were weeded out, the Atlanta natives tore through all of the Fluorescent Grey EP and most of their LP, Cryptograms. The band was able to move from ambient tranquility to freak-out attack mode and vice versa with startling fluidity. The bassist laid down thick, bouncy grooves, while the singer looped and layered his vocals, causing them to swell and dissipate in waves.

By the time my friends had snuck in, vocalist Bradford Cox was dedicating a song to an audience member who claimed it was his birthday. He then proceeded to sing “Flourescent Gray” to the birthday boy, while mimicking Marilyn Monroe’s “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” dance. The Fiery Furnaces may have been headlining, but the show belonged to Deerhunter.

The brother/sister duo of the Fiery Furnaces was accompanied by a guitarist, a drummer, and a percussionist. The extra percussion gave their tunes a funky, jungle-boogie vibe. The set started with a polyrhythmic version of “In My Little Thatched Hut” and continued in the same energetic vein for about an hour. The highlight was a psych-doo-wop version of their sunny pop song, “Here Comes the Summer.” My only complaint was that the band never gave the audience a chance to catch its breath. By the time the band returned for its encore, most of the crowd was gone. Maybe they were there for Deerhunter.

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