Why have I been on a recent streak of finding out about Jello Biafra covers that are absolutely insane to me?
From one of the greatest protest songs of the sixties…
…to one of the only Sparks songs that stuck with me after my failed attempt at getting into them.
I am flabbergasted.
My personal copy of my friend Max’s most recent album—which I did the album art for—has finally arrived in the mail! Interesting compromise of packaging aside, it’s an honor to have my artwork exhibited out there in the world in this way—and to have it attributed to such a solid album!
The sweater I’m wearing here I had completely forgot about and not worn in over a year until after was completely finished with the album cover. Gotta dress for the occasion…
Go listen to it here: https://zhir.bandcamp.com/album/big-mac-in-a-small-world
Two weekends ago I got the chance to see a show by three of today’s most eye-catching and intriguing bands at Baltimore’s Metro Gallery. In complete contrast, this past weekend, I got the chance to see a group entirely associated with the nineties at the same exact venue.
The former experience was eye opening and, holy crap, oozing fun from all its pores. It ultimately made me feel some solace for our world to see that there’s still people out there bringing fresh creative perspectives to the table. The latter was similarly affirming. Post-hardcore group Jawbox reunited in 2019 after twentysome years of dormancy, but the pandemic put their live schedule on hold. Now, they’re back, and they proved last weekend that they’re just as strong as ever.
Tickets to Jawbox. Sold out show. Let’s go.
I’m lucky I got to go at all, really. I had waken up that morning to discover that my house had been terrorized by about four inches of snow in the middle of March. Somehow, despite the weather’s continued divebombing of my town as the day went on, the roads were cleared up enough by the afternoon to facilitate the drive down to the Metro.
The night opened with an acoustic set by Ken Chambers of indie rock group Moving Targets, who were supposed to perform but had to compromise after a COVID case among their ranks. His set was solid and a welcome escape from the frigid cold outside, and overall it laid a nice primer for the heavier music that followed.
What followed next left me slightly speechless out of pure excitement that I was seeing the mighty Jawbox once and for all. In retrospect, I guess there isn’t too much for me to say about the torrent the Jawbs unleashed on their audience—their blistering performance spoke for itself. Every member of the band was in their full element. To my far right, vocalist and guitarist J. Robbins could have stepped out of a bootlegged video of one of their 90s peak performances with the raw intensity of his presence. Kim Coletta supplied the low end with a monstrous bass tone that rumbled the building as she romped across center stage. Behind her, drummer Zach Barocas’ metronomic skills were tight and powerful, providing the perfect backbone to their herky-jerky post-hardcore compositions. And the group’s most recent addition, rhythm guitarist Brooks Harlan, fit right in amongst the high energies of the rest of the gang.
Their collective sonic attack was very satisfying, to say the least. And had the show attracted a younger crowd—the room was mostly populated of people who I assumed listened to the band in their nineties youths—I’d bet the entire house would’ve been as rowdy as it got the previous week! It was clear they were good to be back.
I’m grateful I got that chance to see such powerful music in such an intimate setting. It goes to show how a group who last gave it their all twentysome years ago can still pack the same punch today. The sounds that they unleashed onto the world back then remain shocking, exciting, and fulfilling. Their relevancy never faded. It’s a shame the world still hasn’t caught up with them and so many others.
It’s a disappointing and grueling reality that groups as sharp as Jawbox’s gnashers constantly get overlooked in favor of much duller selections. But spreading the word and continuing to solder on as they do only helps their cause. Luckily, it looks like they’re keeping up just fine in that regard.
And, besides, it’s a nice escape from everyday banality to let yourself go crazy to “FF-66” from the front and center spot.
I headed down to Baltimore last weekend for yet another concert. The town treated me as well as it always does, even though I had never been in the part of town where the venue, the Metro Gallery, was located, lurking in the shadows of nearby University of Baltimore buildings. Right by the venue is a billboard currently displaying a Lizzo advertisement. Walking past it on the way to the club, I turned around to catch the heavy street graffiti on the back of the clandestine graphic. Once inside, the Gallery revealed itself to be a very efficient space with an intimate atmosphere and a modern sensibility. It’s clean, but not too clean, which kept it from becoming stuck up. It holds art shows as well as concerts, but the creativity of the bands I got to see blurred the line between the two.
First on stage was New York based collective CG8. I had never heard any of their cacophony before, but I was already familiar with their image: three leggy chicks in daring, D.I.Y. outfits tearing things up, rolling around in wires, and being as carefree as possible. I obviously expected some degree of a good time from them, but what I got ended up soaring beyond any of my expectations, not unlike Barbarella’s space ship. The speakers emitted sounds that were inexplicably alien, tensed-up, and fervorous. I had previously seen their drummer, Chase, at Man On Man’s Riot Fest performance, where her assault on her drum kit was a highlight of the festival weekend. She didn’t let up in Baltimore, either; she pounded away with heart shaking power and precision that has to be felt to be believed, making every song irresistibly infectious in the process. Bassist Lida’s lyrics, which I later read on the inner sleeve of the vinyl record they had for sale at the merch booth, are intelligent and poignant without sacrificing a strong and whacked-out sense of humor. They know that a smile is still essential for survival in today’s world. Their playfulness couldn’t have been better exemplified by their handmade getups: strategically cut neon leotards, boots made for walkin’, and straight-outta-Microsoft-Paint-pattern tights. It was as if the Powerpuff Girls got lost in the Forbidden Zone and emerged fifteen years later to teach the world what they had learned. They simply would not be the band they are without the emphasis on style—when they’re not touring, they keep a weirdo-techno-whack-out-chic fashion line that got featured in Vogue. But in all their visual tomfoolery they never once sacrificed their brains or their guts.
The set ended with the girls giving up their guitars and playing around with synthesizers, one of which looked like an orange cartoon cat. (I saw the same exact one while walking past the toy section at Target the next day.) Guitar player Veronika sang a little diddy about wanting to be things such as Paris Hilton and a calculator. And then, it was over. It was genuinely sad to see them have to step off stage; I could’ve taken an entire night of them I was so fascinated.
Luckily, the next set from Texas based hard rockers Pussy Gillette brought a similar spirit of raw and brazen intensity. From her appearance alone, frontwoman Masani Negloria, whose first name is a reference to the gap between her two front teeth, is potentially the most badass person in existence. She radiated supreme cool with an italicized capital C-O-O-L in her leather ensemble and awesome throwback afro. In a perfect world there would be a cult film where she and the CGs have an epic B-movie cacophony catfight battle of the bands, but alas, this is no perfect world. When she took the stage, she only doubly proved her C-O-O-L: her voice is a strikingly unique snarl that perfectly suited her in-between song banter, and she plucked the strings of her bass so fast her hand was constantly a blur. Each song in itself was an infectious blast of garage rock realness, with lyrics touching on everything from the cruelty of police brutality to a smorgasbord of bananas, hammers, and lettuce wraps. The Gillette set was a sonic burst of pure energy perfectly capable of obliterating the front door of your parents who are worrying where they went wrong when you started listening to bands that alienate the neighbors so with their awful racket. Yet I would bet that the band members wouldn’t be against sitting down with those frightened adults for a quick lunch and try to have a constructive conversation, bridging the cultural divide. It’s all about unity for them—unity under good music and good, not-so-clean fun. And extremely fresh H2O to swig between songs. Don’t we all deserve something fresh?
I had pretty much decided after Pussy Gillette wrapped up that there was no way that the rest of the night was going to match the two sets I had just witnessed. The rest of the crowd, however, had only just begun. Having stood right next to the dance pit the show of theirs I saw in D.C. last year, I knew that headliner Surfbort’s fans are quite the intense bunch. That spirit had seemingly only intensified in the three or so months since then. The moment Dani Miller stepped on stage, I physically felt a distinct shove as people started to crowd around, signaling that things were about to get wild. They did. I found myself getting jostled around by the overexcited crowd, caught in the outskirts of their mosh pit ritual to their rainbow-mulleted goddess. At one point I ended up against the stage right in front of the leftmost guitar player’s pedals—a very good spot—entirely due to getting practically shoved into it. I stayed there for a bit warring with my digital camera’s dying battery—pics or it didn’t happen—until I started getting jostled around over and over again. At that point I just stopped trying to keep up with the dancers and slipped away to a safer region of the crowd off to the side.
By that time in the night, I was less concerned with partying it up than I was with digesting the two acts that had just blown my mind. Despite seemingly existing on two opposite sides of a spectrum—the extravagant and the stripped down—both groups had important things to say, and they said them by inviting all spectators into the weird little curated tune worlds of their creation. Furthermore, these multimedia approaches aren’t restricted to their live shows. When you take a look at anything CG8, you’re falling head first into a psychedelic, digitally warped dimension to swim around in amongst the glitchy artifacts and cute girls. And when you watch a Pussy Gillette music video—they’re all filmed on old school VHS tape—you feel as if you’re watching a clip that has circulated for decades in the coolest sects of the revolution rock underground to much militant punk approval. And seeing these groups do their thing makes you feel as if the “classics,” all those bands that everyone loves decades later despite no one caring in their heyday, are here for you in full force.
And, suddenly, it’s as if there are groups that go against the grain of flash-in-the-pan trendiness to form their own multidimensional brands driven by progress, not stagnation or regression. It’s as if there are still true artists out there, brandishing their sonic weaponry as a guiding beacon for the outcasts, the delegated dregs, the perpetual aliens who are urging for something truly new. And as someone who happens to be one of those perpetual aliens, fed up with monotony and the systematic dumbing down of the mainstream, last Saturday’s event was one of the most satisfying things I’ve witnessed live in a while.
I mentioned in my previous full length log how strange it is to have to watch historical events unfold from a screen while your own life marches on as usual. It’s hard to say anything about Russia’s war on Ukraine that I feel hasn’t been said before, even though it’s only been a few weeks. Don’t the headlines speak for themselves? Each one is another reminder that most humans don’t know how to view others as human. The Russian government pushes absurd propaganda while its people cry for a ceasefire, and the West seems obsessed with intervention that would only make the violence worse. It’s frustrating to see.
But the problem with worrying about things that you aren’t able to directly affect is that it traps you in your head. Allowing the world to whomp you into submission in that way keeps you from doing the things that do matter when they come along. So, in the meantime, I’ve been trying to keep a spring in my step.
Music in particular always helps me keep on my toes. Get the right combination of rocket riffs, vocal squelches, pounding metronome, and low-low-end and you’ve got one happy Sophia. Currently on repeat is a spinoff group of spaced-out surf rockers Man Or Astro-Man?, Servotron. I was blown away to find a CD of theirs in the wild last weekend (thanks, AY&P) and it only reminded me of how much they satisfy my ears. Servotron were four humanoid robots who used hyper-charged twanged-out synth punk to espouse their philosophy that humankind should be exterminated due to its “inefficiency.” It’s hilarious. It’s also dangerously catchy. And all this talk about AI picture generators and “the Metaverse,” the furthered blurring of the lines between man and machine, only validates me listening to them, I guess.
Absurd lyrics about making humans huff carbon dioxide aside, they’ve got a point about the human condition. Humans are extremely fickle and confusing creatures; I know from just being one. That side of mankind has been on full display in the news recently. For example, some people have been “protesting” Russia’s cruelty by emptying out bottles of vodka they don’t realize isn’t actually Russian. I would assume it took a lot of time and effort to make the contents of those bottles, but I guess it doesn’t matter if you associate that product with dirty commies. They were probably munching on some “freedom fries” as they did so. That’s what America called French fries—which are Belgian—after France disapproved of America’s invasion of Iraq back in the 2000s. It’s funny that we were talking about the similar “liberty cabbage” phenomenon of the World War I era in history class just a few weeks ago. We’ve gone back to calling it sauerkraut, but we still haven’t learned from it. What’s next? Another Red Scare?
But neither a robot uprising or nuclear bombs are going to keep humans from human-ing. Mass destruction, discrimination, and loss of life seem like very inefficient things to indulge in. Maybe, with enough work and cooperation from us carbon based lifeforms, we can up our efficiency game by being better to each other. We can only learn from our mistakes if we try. Let’s start by taking away all the arbitrary barriers that separate us—silly things like nationality and ethnicity. Maybe then we won’t invade other countries for personal gain because those barriers will have lost their socially constructed meanings. Remember: we’re all in this together.
My friend Max’s new album is out! If you’re looking for something tantalizingly zesty, intellectually stimulating, and totally DEV-O, this is the album for you. (I’m the one behind the album art, by the way.)
Now go listen to it!
…My good friend Max is coming out with a new album this weekend, and I designed the album art! Go look at it!
I crossed another city off my bucket list this weekend: Washington, D.C., this nation’s capital.
Despite the initially dreadful parking situation, I enjoyed what I experienced of the city, which was limited to its outskirts. At one point the silhouette of the Capitol building was visible from the car’s front window as we entered the city, but that was the closest we got. Still, it was interesting to be in the place where the government I live under has its home base. I listened to a lot of Jello Biafra on my iPod as we tried to find a parking spot.
Instead of seeing those usual obelisks and statues, we saw some very rowdy humans do their collective thing. Surfbort put on a lively and very fun show at the DC9 nightclub, full of yelping, stomping, and dancing. They shut out the December chill and proved themselves to be very nice people after the show. I hope the rest of their tour goes just as nicely!
It made up well for having had to cancel a Thanksgiving weekend roadtrip. Luckily, we were able to make the best out of out Mourning Turkey Day. The break had its fair share of ups and downs, and I’m grateful—even thankful—that it’s ups were so, well, up. That, alongside seeing from a distance the site of such a cruel and maddening attempt at a coup in D.C., reminded me of the stark contrast between security and discomfort, truth and manufactured reality. It’s becoming more and more frustrating how so many people hide behind facades of good intent. Maybe “facade” is the wrong word—it seems like almost everybody in today’s world wears their worst traits on their sleeves. It’s a transparent veil at best. From the highest ranks of society’s ladder to somebody on your block, goons are everywhere.
They try to make you feel appreciated when they really want to use you; they try to make you value meaningless things; they will suck up your time and try to justify it. They will place you into boxes, for categorizing humans as three dimensional takes up too much brain power that could be instead used towards contemplating the complacent nature of such cardboard cutouts. If you let society mold you in this way, you may gain popularity within some circle of equally fake people who will only show their true selves when they intend to harm you or at least wear you down. They want to reprogram your way of thinking, to make you think that the things that are harmful are harmless. The longer the frog boils in the pot, the more comfortable it becomes. You are reprogrammed to live a lie.
It takes work, courage, and awareness to stand your ground. It’s not easy to do alone.
If there was anything I was thankful for this last Mourning Turkey Day, it was the true friends I have for support. They provide more comfort and warmth than an early Christmas tree ever could, and they’re the people who remind me that there’s a few good eggs out there. If only they weren’t the 0.1 percent.
But not all is depressing, because life is full of fleeting absurd moments that really make living what it’s worth. I will never forget walking out of the DC9 as it transformed for the wee hours of the night from a punk club to, supposedly, a dance club for rich kids. Judging by the incredible lines outside other buildings we saw later as we drove away, this was not too uncommon. As we made our way down the stairs from the showroom to the small ground level tavern, a vaguely familiar synth melody came on over the speakers. I tried to put my finger on what it was, but soon enough the lyrics answered my question and a wave of pure confusion dawned on me: “Dog goes ‘woof;’ cat goes ‘meow.’” In the year 2021, a club was playing “WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY.” A million times better than Whamageddon.
Late Valentines
Thursday, April 7th, 2022Just as I’ve gotten used to live concerts being resurrected in the past year or so, I’ve gotten used to them being called off, with the still relevant Miss Rona being the most common culprit. It’s become a surprise for a show I have tickets for to get cancelled for a reason that isn’t her persistent, lingering death dance. From Ticketmaster royally screwing over DEVO’s Radio City Music Hall date last year (which I’ll be making up for in May) to a band Melt-Banana was to play with postponing the whole tour due to visa problems, I guess I’ve just gotten used to shows getting cancelled in general. Most absurdly of all was definitely the reason why I had to wait until Tuesday to see indie rock outfit Snail Mail; the group’s tour was supposed to begin months ago, and we had tickets (at the behest of my dad). It was called off not because of a COVID case or travel visa problem but because lead singer Lindsey Jordan got polyps on her throat that kept her from singing, because life is just like that.
Luckily, her voice has healed and the band is back on the road. Tuesday’s show at Union Transfer was the first date of the tour, and the attendees of its upcoming dates surely have something to look forward to.
It was actually my first time in the City of Brotherly Love, good old Philadelphia, which greeted us with a law firm’s billboard that had the word “jawn” on it to declare that, yes, this is Philadelphia. To keep from straying too far from the venue, we sat down at the neighboring La Chinesca restaurant, which serves an eclectic fusion of Chinese and Mexican food. The eats were delicious and extremely fun. Who else would’ve thought to dip fried wonton chips in cilantro dip? Even better was that, inside and out, the place looks like you’ve stepped into a Californian mid-mod time warp to a future where radioactive space mushroom structures support stucco buildings and people eat in bubble structures bulging up from fake grass. I would’ve stayed much longer if I didn’t have a show to see.
Walking into Union Transfer afterwards, it felt strange being in such a large venue after many shows in cramped little clubs. But I got comfortable quickly. What we saw of opening band Joy Again were okay, with the highlight being a boxed cake being crowdsurfed over to a friend of the band who was having a birthday. But Snail Mail’s set was the real sweet treat everyone was waiting for, with the stage decked out in ivy-wrapped cupid statues. You wouldn’t have realized Lindsey Jordan’s previous sickness had she not mentioned it between songs (“I feel like I’m a eunuch, I’m like, EEEEEEEE”). Her voice—and a very unique one at that—sounded in top shape throughout the night. The rest of the band followed suit instrumentally, with each song coming out tight and precise with an appropriate amount of love for the good old nineties (they covered “Tonight, Tonight” during the second half of their set, and apparently their stage set up is In Utero inspired). From far back in the crowd, the light show was simply fantastic, with color palette changes between each song and occasional psychedelic effects that really made me smile. The band definitely had an atmosphere in mind, and they communicated it perfectly. I may not listen to them too often, but it was great to see.
The show’s encore began with Lindsey alone with her guitar, singing a solemn and beautiful song bathed in light. Suddenly, I heard a commotion behind me. I turned around to see, in complete contrast, a flailing woman being pulled off of someone else by at least two other people. We learned later that somebody got punched. I’m not quite sure what could have stirred that considering the mood of the performance, but I guess Philadelphia is Philadelphia for a reason. Luckily, I was safely socially distanced. It was worrying in the moment, yet hilarious afterwards. A catfight at a show where most of the songs being played were about longing for love. Life is like that.
Tags:concerts, music, new experiences, new places, Philadelphia, reviews, Snail Mail, Union Transfer
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