My Bloody Valentine Live at Roseland

Click here for my review of My Bloody Valentine at Roseland, NYC, 09.22.08, featured on The Syndicate Blog.

The Pixies in NYC

photos by hal

Frank Black breaks out the acoustic.

Kim Deal sings like an angel during "In Heaven."

Black in scream mode.

Joey Santiago, the David Copperfield of alt-rock.

A back-lit Black at the end of the night.

Goodnight.

Dimebag Darrell

Dimebag performing w/Pantera @ Ozzfest 2000. Photo: S. Cabral.

Thousands of people die every day. But what eludes me is how so many people who have contributed significantly to our culture have been silenced in such a violent and untimely way. I'm sad to report that guitarist Dimebag Darrell, founder of Pantera and more recently Damageplan, is the latest on that tragic list.

This past Wednesday, Dec. 8, on the eve of the anniversary of the John Lennon shooting, psychotic fan Nathan Gale brutally murdered "Dimebag" Darrell Abbott at Columbus, Ohio nightclub Alrosa Villa. According to reports, the disturbed 25-year-old Gale was not only obsessed with Dime's former band Pantera, but also held a severe grudge toward the guitarist for breaking up the Texas quartet (and, apparently, for forming new band Damageplan). Gale jumped onstage as Damageplan began their set last Wednesday, taking out several people and wounding drummer Vinnie Paul. Gale shot Dime five times in the head, point-blank, before a cop ended the rampage with a bullet. Nice work, you stupid bastard, now there definitely won't be a reunion.

I'm glad to say that I experienced Pantera live on several occasions. The two most memorable times being September 10, 1997 at Roseland, NYC and February 5, 1999 with Black Sabbath at NJ's Meadowlands. At Roseland, the band held the room by its collective cajones; as the energy overflowed out of the venue, Pantera's formidable presence was felt all around. Dime rocked a confederate flag guitar and singer Phil Anselmo referred to his "Italian ass." These guys didn't give two shits about political correctness, and you just had to respect that no matter what.

In true metal form, Dime tossed cups of beer at the V.I.P. section where music industry people sat. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. It was a humorous, ballsy move, and made the show that much better.

We got our asses kicked to the back of the arena when Black Sabbath, Pantera and The Deftones came to destroy NJ. It was loud, evil-sounding and intense; the perfect metal show. The bill was almost too good to be true, and all three bands proved themselves to be masters of heavy music. The image of Dime on stage, a true guitar hero with hair in face and back to a wall of Marshall stacks, is forever burned into my brain.

After two decades of making metal mayhem together, members of Pantera began pursuing other projects several years ago, with singer Philip Anselmo joining Superjoint Ritual and Down. Dime and brother Vinnie formed Damageplan in 2003, and toured to support their debut, New Found Power.

Dime was known not only for embodying the looks, the lifestyle and the fuck-you attitude of metal, but also for being a helluva nice guy. Although I was barely out of diapers when John Lennon's murder turned the planet on its ear, I do recall the feeling of sorrow accompanied by collective dread. Although I love the Beatles, I have probably listened to Pantera much more over the past ten years. There are very few things in life more satisfying than blasting Dime's raw, dirty guitar riffs through the ol' headphones.

Dime's untimely fate is a horrible tragedy, met by metal fans mourning around the world. At only 38 years old, the guitarist had so much more ahead of him; at least he lasted long enough to shape heavy metal with amazing performances and ear-shattering recordings with Pantera, Damageplan and others. Dimebag Darrell may be gone, but the noise he made will ring in our ears forever.

R.I.P., brother. You will be sorely missed.

--> Damageplan

--> Pantera

HELMET

Bowery Ballroom, NYC
November 14, 2004
Live photos by Hal Miller, others courtesy Interscope Records

Sometimes it’s a good thing to know what to expect from a band, especially when you know you will get exactly what you want. Listening to HELMET is like scarfing down a perfect cheeseburger; it really hits the spot when you want to hear some no-bullshit, meaty heaviness. Going to see HELMET live fulfills the same craving, but it’s an even more satisfying double-cheeseburger that somehow doesn’t leave you with a stomach ache.


It’s been a long time since I got so amped about seeing a band that my stomach tied in knots. I knew that, even after all these years, despite this questionable “reunion,” Page Hamilton and company would still kick ass.


The closest I got to experiencing HELMET again, post-break-up, was last year when Hamilton brought his band Gandhi to Brooklyn’s Northsix. The Gandhi material was vaguely HELMET-like and they even played a handful of songs off of Aftertaste. However, Gandhi never released an album, but, the speculation out there (i.e. message boards, fan flapdoodle, etc.) was that Hamilton still owed Interscope an album or two. I secretly hoped for something to materialize.


Many have remarked that this HELMET reunion sounds dubious, but, for the most part, it was always Hamilton’s band anyway. Additionally, a situation involving an artist making good on a record label contract is typical of the reality of making your living off of music. Even though he is the only original member now, it was probably best that Hamilton chose to return to the music world under his old band’s name. Personally, I was surprised and excited when I saw “9/27 HELMET” listed in the Bowery Ballroom ad in the Village Voice. HELMET!!!

Whatever opinion you may have, the bottom line is that Size Matters is a pretty damn good album that will forever stand up on its own merits. Although the songs feature uncharacteristic melodic singing and radio-friendly choruses, you will still hear trademark Hamilton heaviness and riffs that you wish you had written yourself. The ultra-catchy and sing-songy “Surgery” and “Speak and Spell” both sound like radio staples, but think about all the bands that have ripped off Hamilton’s style and currently clutter Clear Channel’s rock stations.

The moment of truth was nigh. After an excruciatingly bad set from HELMET wannabe’s Totimoshi, four shadows finally appeared on stage to the tune of a room full of excited screams. The lights came up, and we saw before us Hamilton, guitarist Chris Traynor (formerly of Orange 9MM, joined HELMET for Aftertaste), former Anthrax bassist Frank Bello and drummer John Tempesta (Rob Zombie, Testament). The band members themselves seemed just as excited to play the songs as we were to hear them. Bello punched the air between notes throughout the set as “Smart,” “Crashing Foreign Cars,” “Iron Head” and “See You Dead” came rolling out like tanks.


Traynor did his signature twitchy guitar hero thing while Bello shook his mane as he banged away on his bass. The two crowded around Tempesta a few times for maximum tightness as the crowd went varying degrees of nuts depending on what song was being played. Bello sang with Hamilton on a few songs, but the crowd provided back-up vocals the entire night. The moody and sarcastic Hamilton shredded away with monstrous VHT amp stacks behind him, remaining taciturn until about the middle of the set.

“Apparently, Frank planted his face in Chris’ guitar,” Hamilton informed us while the band took a brief break to regroup. Hamilton next went on to introduce his three band mates and chide the handful of Red Sox fans among us. “I can’t hear you,” smart-ass Hamilton replied to various called-out requests, “it doesn’t matter because we won’t play those songs anyway.”

“Remember the album you made called Betty?” one fan called out. Audience members begged for “Just Another Victim,” “Meantime,” “Unsung” and various others. “This next song is a better song,” the guitarist informed us, as the band crouched down to blast us again, this time with “Enemies.” Bello’s “ooooo-oooooo”’s before the final chorus sounded a little slick in the context of live Helmet, but it also sounded really good. Soon enough, we were graced with “Wilma’s Rainbow” and “In The Meantime,” turning the floor into one big, violent funnel of testosterone.

After an encore with “Driving Nowhere” and “It’s Easy to Get Bored,” the tension in the room became tangible. Would they play it? The four turned to face one another, and the entire room went ape-shit the instant we heard the apocalyptic bassline and militaristic thump of “Unsung.” Determined to get some decent shots of the band during the carnage, I held my own up front with my tiny digital camera and snapped away during one of the most ferocious moments of the night.


Hamilton gave “Unsung” some extra breathing room by letting Traynor handle all guitar duties during the verse. The added singalong quality boosted the energy as the song hurtled to its abrupt and very satisfying conclusion. Hamilton saved the best bite for last.









SET LIST

PURE
SMART
CRASHING FOREIGN CARS
EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANTED
SEE YOU DEAD
IRONHEAD
ENEMIES
BIRTH DEFECT
UNWOUND
CRISIS KING
DRUG LORD
MILQUETOAST
LAST BREATH
WILMA'S RAINBOW
IN THE MEANTIME
+++++++++++++++
DRIVING NOWHERE
IT'S EASY TO GET BORED
UNSUNG

And now for a little HELMET history ...

You were expecting ripped jeans and long hair? HELMET circa 1995: Henry Bogdan, John Stanier, Page Hamilton, Rob Echeverria

I met and interviewed HELMET at Wash., DC’s Bender Arena on Aug. 6, 1995. For a band with such a huge, menacing sound, the guys were very modest, and even seemed surprised that I wanted to talk to them.

The clean-cut quartet assembled for a post-interview snapshot, moments before they took the stage to open for Primus. We shook hands and I returned to my friends, leaving the band to their pre-show preparations. Soon enough, the four soft-spoken guys I had just hung out with backstage appeared under the lights, ready to crush our skulls with brutal riffery.

The crowd responded to “Unsung,” “Milquetoast,” “Just Another Victim” and “Ironhead” with violent exuberance as the band slammed down one riff after another. That night, I found myself caught in the mosh, Anthrax-style. Truly, one of the most vicious ‘pits I’ve ever experienced. Having met the band that stirred shit up like that made it even cooler.

HELMET Links:

Helmet Music.com

Official Helmet Myspace

Born Annoying

Helmet on Wikipedia

Page Hamilton

Hamilton's Signature ESP guitar

Hamilton's guitar rig

Into the City with Interpol

Artist: Interpol
Album: Antics (Matador, 2004)
Sndtrk for: Twenty blocks down Avenue of the Americas, NYC

Album images courtesy of Matador Records

When Interpol released their debut album, Turn on the Bright Lights, last year, I initially deemed it derivative. Later on, though, I realized that I was listening to it constantly. Even though Joy Division and Echo & The Bunnymen comparisons are never far off, Bright Lights has really stood on its own merits. Without question, it's a disc that creates a very dark and somber mood, yet I found myself enjoying it at home, at work and out, anytime and anywhere. So when word spread of a follow-up, I wondered, in what direction would such a band travel?

When critics and fans heralded Bright Lights as an instant classic, it became clear that Interpol had set the bar pretty high for themselves. So where does a band go after such a feat? From listening to Antics, I would say that Interpol approached their sophomore effort with an understanding that there is no reason to change their sound, so much as to expand it slightly.

All of the band's signature elements are present here: echoing and ethereal vocals, delay-drenched downpicked guitar riffs and jangly chords, and Paul Banks’ vague, poetic lyrics. With their formerly omnipresent sense of gloom lightened up here and there with a few upbeat tunes, Interpol have managed to maintain their trademark sound without repeating themselves. And, just like Bright Lights, Antics provides a nice cinematic backdrop to whatever situation you may find yourself in.

While I was running errands around the city on a gorgeous day a few weeks ago, “Next Exit,” the first song on Antics came on. I heard the lines, “We ain’t goin’ to the town/We’re going to the city/We’re gonna trek this shit around/And make this place a heart to be a part of again.” Inspired by that sentiment, I opted to bask in the autumn sunlight with a stroll down to the Brooklyn-bound L train rather than transferring to it from the N or R. Walking down the Avenue of the Americas from 34th street to 14th street, I paused here and there to take photos of whatever fit into the Antics frame.

For a city with so much character and history, Manhattan has become increasingly gentrified. But for every tourist-trapping, ubiquitous Starbucks, McDonald’s or Subway, there's a small, family-owned business that let you know you’re in NEW YORK, not Anytown, USA. Although fairly well-known by now, Interpol are like those mom-and-pop shops, if only in the way that the band projects an unmistakable Big Apple aura in both their sound and vision.

The dark, disco-bumpin' rhythms of “Narc” and “Slow Hands” give Interpol a dancier, more upbeat feel, without sacrificing the band's dark drama. It’s great music to walk to; I cruised down the street like nothing could stop me. The soaring, infectious chorus of “Slow Hands” injected me with haunting nostalgia for the Cure, Joy Division and other ‘80s music icons I had worshipped in my youth. The driving beat, ethereal keyboards and building chorus of “Even Jail” were so compelling that the song -- combined with my observations of pedestrians of all walks of life -- really left me in an emotionally vulnerable state.

Though I usually weave through the Manhattan crowds like a Porsche on the highway, I found myself wanting to actually approach people. It didn’t quite add up, but it somehow felt right, so I didn’t fight it. While walking past a Starbucks between 23rd and 24th streets, I spotted a fortune teller strangely positioned outside the storefront. I politely asked permission to take a photo of her and her wares, but I was denied.

"What if I pay the five bucks for a reading?" I inquired.
"No," the Indian woman explained. "It is not the way."

Feeling slightly disappointed and even a little silly, I cut my photographic losses and headed home. The final track on Antics, "A Time to be so Small" came on, and I felt the New York sunset swallow me into its vast maw, returning me to where I began.

Photos by Hal Miller

Sonic Boom at Shout! NYC

October 10, 2004
Story and photos by Hal Miller

With the help of technology, both music and the indie scene have changed a lot since the ‘90s. But even with the recent explosion of DJ’s and sound manipulators out there, none project the mystique and presence of the elusive Sonic Boom. So when I learned that this founding member of Spacemen 3 was going to perform tonight at Shout!,(a weekly party at Bar 13) for free, I knew where I would be.

Although I’ve been aware of Sonic’s (born Pete Kember) notorious history of “taking drugs to make music to take drugs to” for quite some time, it wasn’t just the music that was at the forefront of my mind. The real question was, “Does Sonic Boom still have good hair?”

Sonic& his legendary locks at DC's Black Cat, 1994.

Reports on the Spaceman’s mane did not sound promising. My friend Jon, with whom I had seen Kember perform back in the day in DC, had recently caught a Sonic Boom show in Denver. According to Jon, the man still had hair, just less of it. It had been ten years since I had last seen the mystifying Sonic, so what could I expect?

The mysterious, late ‘80s/early ‘90s space-rock heroes Spacemen 3 were one of my favorite bands. In the early ‘90s, typical musician drama splintered the group into two separate but equally amazing incarnations: Spectrum (Kember) and Spiritualized (Jason “Spaceman” Pierce). Whereas a Spiritualized performance featured a massive wall of sound, full of blinding strobe lights and drug-induced mystique, Kember’s live outings as Sonic Boom, Spectrum or E.A.R. were sad portraits of a fallen genius in comparison.

Sonic takes on stubborn sound waves.

Back in 1994, indie scenesters filled Washington, DC’s Black Cat in anticipation of witnessing the man who took his namesake from breaking the sound barrier. But all we got was some wacky, mop-topped Brit furiously twisting knobs and cursing his band mates and the soundman. Kember, a rather intense bandleader with a remarkably symmetrical bowl haircut, was determined to unleash perfect sound in exactly the manner in which he heard it in his head.

But where were the damn songs? There were hints of the genius of “How You Satisfy Me,” but, ultimately, we weren’t satisfied. My mood shifted from perplexed to surprised and amused in the face of this tragicomic display. I did, however, maintain my respect for this poor bloke who, in facing high expectations from his fans, had apparently lost his mind. But history shows warped minds make warped music, so I never jumped ship.

Ten years and a haircut or two later, Sonic Boom announced on his web site that he would be visiting the states to play gigs for this year’s CMJ Music Marathon in NYC and Brooklyn. Not only that, he would also be playing songs from Spacemen 3 and Spectrum Better late than never, I suppose. At least I would be able to see whether I should still be jealous of his “good hair.”

The Shout! drink specials and psychedelic lighting prepared us well for this intimate evening with the man of many aliases. Deliberately bored-looking, Vincent Gallo-lookalike hipsters lounged about the couches and fed their comely dates drinks. Around midnight, a lanky Brit with short, spiky Kevin Bacon hair, a trendy “New York” hoody and moccasins (!) began setting up equipment in a tiny corner of the club. This Sonic Boom looked slightly older (now 39), but he still had that ice-cool, chiseled cheekbones-and-good-hair combo. Yes, the hair was still "good."

"The more you protest, Mr. Synth-Key, the harder I will push!"

As for his questionable choice in footwear, Sonic Boom is the only man who can get away with wearing moccasins in NYC. As a shoegazer, I expect to see the likes of Adidas or Converse on a guy like Kember. But Sonic is like an indie shaman, so his moccasins actually make fitting attire.

Wearing moccasins to make music to wear moccasins to.

Sitting Indian-style before the stage, I shut my eyes and focused on the sounds filling the room. I pushed all material fixations, even good hair and bad shoes, from my mind in favor of the heavy reverberations caressing the room. I opened my eyes occasionally to snap a picture or two and observe this eccentric man. It was difficult to know exactly where one song would end and the next one would begin; it seemed like three long suites in the space of an hour. All the rippling drones, monolithic echoing vocals and oceanic swirls recalled various bits from the Sonic repertoire.

As stated on the web site, the majority of Kember’s vocals were sparse, spoken word loops, strong but comfortably buried beneath waves of sound. He displayed that same passion and determination to control his sonic output as I had witnessed years ago, but this time, as a one-man operation, Sonic seemed to have more of a handle on things.

Fiercely twiddling knobs on retro-futuristic keyboards, synthesizers, effect pedals and other assorted toys, Sonic guided us through the ether like the captain of interstellar cruiser. To quote Sonic’s rival in Spiritualized, it felt like we were literally “floating in space.” There was no “band,” only a very focused Sonic Boom altering our psyches. After it was over, I opened my eyes and slowly stood up. I felt like I had drank too much and somehow performed yoga in the same hour.

The next day, I spoke to my friend and fellow Sonic fan Gregg, who had missed the show on account of a Morrissey appearance on that very evening.

“How was Sonic Boom last night?” he asked. “Does he still have great hair?”

- Hal, 10.10.04

Battles B EP on the spin cycle

Artist: Battles
Album: B EP (Dim Mak, September 2004)
Sndtrk for: Laundry at Metropolis Super Laundry (173 North 3rd St, Brooklyn, NY - 718-388-5456)

Images courtesy of Dim Mak Records

It’s a fine October afternoon as I schlep two weeks’ worth of dirty clothes over to my neighborhood Laundromat. I may be effectively unemployed, but as the Who said in “Substitute,” ‘at least I’ll get my washing done.’ And I do have my iPod, which, incidentally, has the tracks from the new Battles disc on it. Suddenly, life doesn’t suck so much.

The little I knew of the band was enough to entice me to seek them out, and I’m glad that I did. The appropriately named Battles delivers a contained chaos within ever-shifting time signatures, odd clattering and driving rhythms. On the B EP, drummer John Stanier (ex-Helmet, Tomahawk), guitarist/keyboardist Ian Williams (Don Caballero and Storm & Stress), guitarist David Konopka (Lynx) and avante solo guy Tyondai Braxton pool their talents to distance themselves from their respective past musical efforts.

Stanier’s work with Helmet and Tomahawk is relatively straight forward compared to mercurial nature of Battles. Although I own Don Caballero’s math-rock classic “For Respect,” I haven’t given Storm & Stress, Lynx or Tyondai Braxton a fair shot, so I can only guess at what brings these four musicians together to produce such sounds. I’m thinking about this as I scour the rows of machines for an empty cart. I fill up a machine, leave, and then come back in forty minutes for the drying cycle, headphones on.

The perpetually percolating Battles B EP stirs my idling mental tentacles as I stare into a vortex of spinning socks and underwear. Doing a wash can be mind-numbing but if you want to do something right, you must do it yourself. And if doing so involves the added effort of finding ways to keep entertained while performing mundane tasks, then so be it.

Popping open a strawberry Snapple and propping myself against the blue counter opposite the dryers, I stare into a time-swallowing vacuum. The clothes rotating in the dryer blur together as I drop into headphone bliss. The jumpy drum and bass beat in the middle of “SZ2” and the Snapple sugar rush send my head spinning. This first track on the EP leaps into the ring to execute well-crafted martial arts moves where you can actually hear the physical action of sounds kicking each other’s respective asses. By now, I have all five senses working overtime. And Battles provides the soundtrack for this entire experience of sensory overload.

Battles' sonic shape-shifting flexes my head into unforeseen shapes, sending my thoughts in various directions. I begin to wonder “why” about so many things, but then I wonder why I even bother wondering “why” when I may never know. “Ipt2” adds further queries to my casual theories with other worldly sound sequences from some robot planet in another galaxy. But when I hear those typewriters dancing with silverware on the twitch-inducing “Bttls,” I get so confused that I decide to just relax and enjoy the ride. Then the twitchy, proggy “Dance” nearly sends me into a fit of David Byrne-esque shakes.

I highly recommend Battles for adding a little deconstruction to your somewhat constructive life. I hope yours is more constructive than mine at the moment.

Taking it day by day, track by track

Cooking. Doing laundry. Riding the subway. Out of boredom, I perform these routines to a soundtrack via iPod or some other device. The idea here at SoundTracking _ is to dump the accumulated mental residue from performing mundane errands to the tune of whatever I'm listening to at the moment. This will hopefully make life more interesting and lend a new excitement to simple, everyday existence.

Interweaving record reviews with seemingly boring tasks might not be the most original idea ever, but it does breathe new life into one of the most subjective types of journalism: writing about music. Anyway, I needed an outlet for my unemployment-fueled, take no prisoners honesty, so here ya go. Brothers and sisters! Unite for yet another literary journey into the synaptic forefront of yours truly.

PS: I’ll be tossing in random show reviews as well … enjoy!