Some guys are “ha, that’s funny” funny and some guys are laugh-out-loud, choke-on-beer-nuts funny. Maybe it was just the half bottle of cheap merlot beforehand, but I think Peter Miller might be in the latter camp.
We Are The Willows’ one-man band drew a pretty big laugh upon recounting a tour stop at a drug rehab convention in Virginia (an attack dog demonstration followed his set). But I, for one, was far more amused by the recreational prospects of “sea cow surfing,” which, if you believe Miller, is A) like bull riding standing up, but with a manatee and B) real. Apparently, if you try to surf a dead sea cow, you end up knee-deep in… um… sea cow.
So yes, Miller is a funny man, but should his sometime-job as a stand-up comic not work out, he’s always got this whole music thing to fall back on. He’s also a uniquely talented singer with an effeminate, octave-climbing pierce of a delivery that sounds not unlike Ben Gibbard on helium.
I promise you this is a good thing.
The songs – aided by little more than an acoustic guitar, electronic gurgles, and a drum loop here and there – lilt and lope on gently tuneful turns. They occasionally bounce, they occasionally mope, but they are without fail sweet-tempered, melancholic and packed with melody.
Karate
“A Funeral Dressed As A Birthday” and “The Windows” play as evocative, image-laden semi-narratives, while “When The Dust Settled and No Mugs Were Broken” (working title) weaved tales of a World War II draftee’s long-distance relationship with his future bride.
I wrote down “sad sack.” My friend Nancy called it break-up music. Either way, I appreciate the mix of heart-on-sleeve catharsis and off-hand goofing. With this brand of music, you could probably use a little manatee surfing joke every now and then.
I woke up hoarse this morning. I blame this on The Shitty Beatles, a band that’s better than 90 percent of other bands on source material alone – better than more when you consider they have no interest in living up to their name.
These guys are awesome.
It’s the authenticity of the replication that makes them so. The Shitty Beatles are a Fab Four cover band, right down to equipment in some cases. On this particular night, they doubled, too, as a post-breakup solo outfit, tearing note-for-note through Paul’s anthemic shout-a-longs (Jet, Band on the Run), a George hippie hymnal (My Sweet Lord), even a Ringo staple – drummer Chris Hillman channeled No. 4′s charming, one-note baritone on It Don’t Come Easy.
Of course, on the eve of John’s 70th birthday, it was the Alpha Beatle (IMO) that got first billing. Travis Atria’s sweet standalone rendition of Oh Yoko! and, later, Imagine eased the capacity audience into all the deliriously joyful imitation to follow.
It’s of little surprise that a quartet this talented keeps day jobs apart from their uber-famous alter egos. Brothers Travis (guitar) and Eric Atria (bass) along with not-of-Byrds Hillman constitute three-fourths of Gainesville indie bulwark Morningbell. Pianist Collin Whitlock – think Seth Rogen come down as the full-throated descendent of Macca – plays in Cassette.
Dividing songs into two sets, the group kicked off the mostly post-’66, full-band material with an exhilaratingly faithful take on Birthday before launching into cool-as-hell Billy Shears homage Sgt. Pepper’s. Close your eyes and you saw four guys decked in technicolored conquistador garb. Whitlock – Shitty Paul – particularly impressed, not just in the way he mimicked McCartney’s huge, husky pipes, but in the unbridled energy the other band members admirably matched.
Collin Whitlock and Chris Hillman
Question: is Hey Bulldog the most underrated song ever written? Answer, as evidenced by the “WTF?” look on the guy in front of me: yes. And if Hey Jude is the greatest singalong ever penned, you wouldn’t know it from the way the room belted out Oh! Darling, Let It Be, Get Back or any of the other Paul tunes you knew by heart in kindergarten.
It was somewhere between pop gauntlet I Saw Her Standing There and the proto-metal assault of encore finale Helter Skelter that some of us began to realize nobody will ever be as good at anything as those four young Liverpudlians were at making music. And with a band like Shitty Beatles, that’s exactly the point.
Still trying to figure out what happens to G-Ville Saturday nights. For a town with such a wild reputation, you’d expect more from the weekend’s last gasp than a couple chill house parties and disco dancing downtown. Maybe the kids are still gassed from Thursday, or more probably, from a rigorous bout of Natty Light-fueled football watching.
In any event, it’s unacceptable – to my ears at least – for three bands this good to be toiling away in front of three dozen or so people in the city’s premier rock venue, especially when what awaits the next afternoon is more of the same.
NFL, bro. Call your boys. Bring a case.
Of course, Chris Horgan of the South Florida-based Sweet Bronco didn’t share in my buzz-killing funk, and instead went so far as to say that this was one of the nicest crowds he’s played for in a long time.
Pleasure’s ours, Chris.
Backed by his own acoustic guitar and Dylan-esque harmonica, Horgan served up his soul on a fragile platter of melody, turning one intelligently lilting phrase after the next and hopscotching alt touchstones Mike Stipe, Jeff Mangum and – most affectingly – Antony Hegarty. “Dark Water,” in particular, melded the three influences into an arresting, semi-operatic demonstration of folk pop, the likes of which wouldn’t sound out of place cozied up next to “Half A World Away” on R.E.M.’s Out of Time.
“Dark Water”
Perhaps the best compliment I can pay Sweet Bronco is that Horgan’s Neil Young cover “Hey Hey, My My” paled in comparison to the intimately poignant originals. It played as a placeholder for hoisted lighters, surrounded on all sides by tunes for sobering, late-night meditation. “The Woods” and “North Star,” the latter anchored by Horgan’s disarmingly off-kilter delivery (think Decememberists minus nasal buzz), showcased a writer with an intrinsic feel for both song structure and the powers of his own distinctive voice. He quite cheerfully worked the audience, too, taking to heart the words of another Young classic: “Don’t Let It Bring You Down (It’s Only A Sorry-Ass Turnout).”
Framed by a band-less backdrop and a 20-foot radius of empty room, this guy and his guitar for a second made me wonder why some people are Pitchfork famous and others need burn great songs over empty tables and bar chatter.
Or, for that matter, why Driver is Driver and not Japandroids, because, really, there’s not a whole lot of difference. To call them low-end heavy would be an affront to the band’s other two elements – distortion-drenched guitar riffing and no-frills skins bashing.
Fact is, it’s all heavy.
Just two riot grrrls sawing away against a meat ‘n potatoes beat, the Gainesville trio comes on like the hypnotic, stoner-rock sibling of Kyuss or a louder incarnation of Slint, sans the pretension. “Ride,” “Float,” ”Backspin” – they’re pretty much all the same song: a monolithic, post-rock dirge monster, and a damn good one at that.
“Backspin”
The band taps into a feral, sub-Sabbath sound equal parts thud and groove. And what the compositions lack in melody, they more than make up for in sheer, unbridled force. “Blue Moon Rising,” for instance, doesn’t so much stick in your head as bash it in with a blunt object. “Stay Awake” ups the tempo a bit with a pattern of descending drum fills and Sleater-Kinney vocal stylings, but strays little from the patented loud-loud-louder “dynamics.”
In short, Driver was crude, abrasive and explosively rocking.
So for Ancient River not to sound at all like a lulling chaser is a testament to the brunt of their droning psychedelia. Alternately spacey and corrosive, the three-piece seems at one with Bay Area revivalists the Brian Jonestown Massacre, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, and to an even greater extent, anti-flower children Assemble Head In Sunburst Sound.
They play songs awash in reverb and shards of Gibson-induced feedback, which isn’t to say “formless noise jams.” Quite the opposite. Ancient River crafts driving, occasionally bluesy guitar rock from a bygone era – which, depending on the song, could mean ’80s garage (“Once A Tabby” is Dinosaur Jr.) or bastardized Summer of Love. “Four Letter Word” particularly impressed, locking into a tight, repetitive groove that still managed breathing room for J. Barreto’s fuzzed-out soloing.
“Places We All Know”
The rhythm section of Zachary Veltheim (bass) and Chad Voight (drums) anchored the operation, laying a trancing foundation above which Barreto’s druggy vox and equally fried guitar work floated. Some tracks teetered on Hendrixian freakout, but others like “Insides Out” hit the pysch-rock formula on the head, pairing diffuse, gloriously wah-ed guitar lines with a stuttering verse and singable chorus.
All the while, Barreto’s on his knees wailing away under a mop of sweaty locks as some kind of amoeba-looking petri dish projects weirdness circa San Francisco, ’67. Maybe it’s just something in the [bong] water, but I really feel like they’d be big in another place or in another time, or probably just on another night.
