My wife ditched me this weekend to visit her sister, so I pretty much stayed in the clubs.
Friday that meant Eagles of Death Metal
at Juanita's. I heard grumbling from a few folks pre-show about Josh Homme not being part of the tour, but enough didn't know or didn't care for the show not to sell-out.
I got there 'round 10:30 in time to see one and half songs from Smoke Up Johnny. The half came when the dudes got cut off mid-song. That didn't sit too well with Matt Floyd, who quickly fired off a "fuck you!" to the unseen whoever cut them off. The crowd jeered. It only had eyes for the Eagles.
Which is funny, though not at all surprising, since there's not much that separates the bands' sounds.
It's not hard to see why Hollywood embraces the Eagles of Death Metal so fully. The band looks like a cartoon for cock-rock decadence. Friday, the bassist looked dead behind the eyes. The guitar player looked like Frank Black's dad, hairless except for a thin Mohawk strip and with a healthy neck flap. (Late in the show, he was introduced as being born in some small town I'd never heard of and can't remember now in Arkansas. Dave Catching is his name.) The drummer, who's regular gig is in Queens of the Stone Age, looked like an ape, with burly, be-tatted arms and big, always-puckered lips. When he hit a lick he really liked, he'd blow a giant bubble of bubblegum. He also sweated and spit so much that pretty quickly into the set every time he'd hit his toms liquid would fly up like a sprinkler.
And then there was Jesse Hughes up front. With a thick mustache and a kind of pompa-mullet, he certainly looked the part. And what he lacked in vocal strength and guitar chops, he made up twofold with charisma. Preening. Leg-kicking. Wearing rock-star sunglasses. And, especially, convincing the crowd that it was the best ever.
The crowd gave back, singing and fist-pumping and jumping and flashing breasts along to the Eagles' boogie. No matter that every song started like "Rock and Roll All Nite." Derivative doesn't matter when you're dancing. And at the end of the night it smelled like a success — sweat, spilled beer and throw-up.
Jesse Hughes reppin' some EODM merch.Charles Wyrick in front of a Lily Kuonen.
Saturday I went to the ACAC's new space in the old Gallery B on S. Rodney Parham. I was skeptical about the arts cooperative's move from a prime spot on S. Main, but it didn't take long for the ACAC's Andy Burns to sway me. Because of the apartments above the old space, the group couldn't host live music very late or very loud. There are fewer restrictions in this new space, which is big enough to hold a lot of art, as it did Saturday, or a White Water-sized band. MOMCHILOV
, the new Charles Wyrick-(Boondogs, Jim Mize Band, Libras, et al) led three-piece made its debut in front of 10 or 15. Like any band making its debut, this one sounded sloppy-ish. Wyrick's played in loads of bands and toured all over, but he's never sang lead before, and he started out kind of mumbly. But by the time the band finished its four songs and your correspondent yelled "Make something up!" he'd gotten his footing and started singing loud.
It's blistering indie-rock. Sonic Youth-ish, but with more form and pop-sensibility. Wyrick, tongue-on-its-way-to-his-cheek, calls it "Southern shoegaze." Dylan Turner and Jason Weinheimer (Boondogs) rounded out the line-up admirably. Look out for this band when it plays a real gig. I'm already pushing for a showdown between MOMCHILOV and The See like they used to do at WWT, with one band on the back riser and on on stage.
Winston Family Orchestra and the ghost of the lungs of WWT.
Then to WWT for Winston Family Orchestra's
CD release. "Isn't it great to see women on stage," Davis Clement told me. Yes! Start bands ladies. And take a note from WFO, who do wonders with short, hook-y pop songs.
There was a large and lively crowd out to see them and a newly reformed Chow Quay
, who were as raucous as ever.