If you know anything about the Black Lips, other than their endorsement by American Apparel, you know that they are famous for causing trouble. But the music must play some role in their fame. So, let’s just say that legends R.L. Burnside, the Angry Samoans, and Freddy Cannon would be proud, because traces of these musicians are evident and well revived within the Black Lips’ albums--particularly the more versatile Two Hundred Million Thousand, with its blues guitar in “Take My Heart” alongside the lo-fi punk yelps, and “Drugs,” a skuzzy-sweet mid-century sing-along that brings us up before the next track switches gears into the hitting-bottom ballad “Starting Over,” which maintains the cool vintage texture but exposes the boys’ tattered psyches with a bit more emphasis.
The Black Lips show was tame considering their history of onstage GG Alin-y behavior, including the always charming compulsive vomiting and wiener exposure. Though, we were blessed with a hardly shocking kiss between the two guitarists and a sip from a flask shared between the lead singer and a kid in the crowd, summoning a brigade of puffy-chested security guards into the audience for a smack down on said flask sharer. It could have been part of the act -- that, and security waving their fingers at the chronic stage diver before suggesting he retreat to the corner for a timeout. Apparently saying, “Can we get more beer in the monitors?” is a band no-no during all ages shows. But of course the authors of the song “Bad Kids” don’t know better than to glorify alcohol in the presence of minors. The Black Lips successfully created an attractive environment of delinquency with minimal effort. Have they achieved band nirvana by intoxicating impressionable audiences with their own unique manifesto by virtue of their naughty history? Yes. Yes they have. The string of departing curtsies, air-kisses, and hi-fives after the encore confirm it. From what I saw that night at the Wonder Ballroom, these bad kids are growing up. They’re done with timeouts, but haven't quite achieved redemption – they still have to work on that hubris thing.
For a corporate giant, Nike sure can pick great line-ups. Every year they drawn me into their clutches with their diverse selections, and this year was no different. The only trouble is, what looks good on paper doesn’t always come through in real life. Yes, I’m looking at you Male Bonding.
Male Bonding had a lot of things going for them going into this show. 1) They are getting tons of love from bloggers everywhere (there is usually a good reason for that); 2) they are from England, the same place all my favorite bands come from (except Prince, who still qualifies as a band due to his superhuman abilities); 3) they share a lot of similarities with Bleach-era Nirvana. Like I said, looked good on paper. However, when confronted with their sound from only 5-10 ft away, I can’t say anything other than I was bored. Why? Because it just sounded like generic punk rock most of the time. By the end, they seemed to discover a way out of the cave, and I salute them for it, but most of their set was spent singing unintelligible vocals and going from power chord to power chord.
Nothing stood out except for the way the drummer crossed his eyes before he had to do some quick movement--that and the way the bassist shuffled around like he was dying to break into a moonwalk. I found each of these things kind of endearing. I should also give them credit for being funny, as well. When someone in the audience asked if they were Australian, they responded by affirming that they were, how it took them four weeks to get here because they like boats instead of planes, and how they brought scurvy with them. Delightful. This didn’t save the set though, and I spent most of my time hoping Surfer Blood would just hurry up and get here.
But the long and the short of it is, Surfer Blood let me down, too--nowhere close to the Male Bonding set, but definitely in a way that made me wonder why I believed all those reports from CMJ last year about how they were a great live band. Not that they sucked, far from it, but instead of being a 9 like their wonderful debut would suggest, they were more like a 7. Good but not great. I think a lot of my criticisms fall around John Paul Pitt’s vocals. Instead of holding onto the notes (or hitting all the notes) like he does on the album, he shortens the lines, suggesting either studio trickery or an off night. Either way, it was a little bit of a letdown.
That said, I walked away enjoying what I saw. The opener, “Floating Vibes” was awesome as it made use of that killer riff that also opens their record. The crowd seemed into it, too, and though it was obvious that Pitts loves having his picture taken, he was a great host, and seemed genuinely happy to be playing for us--cool to see an artist that hasn’t been broken by the road, with their excitement still intact. That excitement was transferred to me when they played “Take It Easy” (introduced as “take it sleazy”), my favorite song from the record. It was mostly how you’d expected it to be: bright, trebly, undeniably catchy. This is the reason people are coming to this band; well, that and the fact that they sound like a hybrid of The Shins and Weezer. The outro was the best part, all beefed up and jammed out. Made me wish that they would tack on some extended bits to all of the selections, but it wasn’t to be.
The closest Surfer Blood got to jamming out another song was with the closer, “Anchorage.” At first, I was wondering why they didn’t close with “Swim” (the song that came before it) as it was played with such a fierce sense of gusto, but then the song opened up and became very Built to Spill-ish, showing us in the crowd that maybe this band doesn’t want to be tethered to their hits. Probably a smart move. So while I can’t testify to the heavens about their live prowess, I doubt you’d punch me in the mouth for telling you it’s not a bad show to see.
