Mobtown Shank

S.O.R.E.S.: Fascist Fascist, Devendra Banhart

Shank Obligatory Record Evaluation Section
by Jayinbmore

AND THEN THERE WERE S.O.R.E.S.
FASCIST FASCIST by FASCIST FASCIST
Like any genre that's based on tightly knit scenes, hardcore punk has become less about energy and more about demonstrating a fealty to a certain orthodoxy. You go to the shows to watch performers play music - which matches a narrow set of criteria - to a group of people dressed like you. For me, the excitment of seeing some mohawked acne-case shout "This one's called 'Shitstains On My Longjohns'! Ok! One Two Three Four!" while people chuck beer bottles at the stage dried up sometime in 1993. Old bitter burnout? Sure. But that just accentuates the greatness of this record by Baltimore's own Fascist Fascist. Sure it's doctrinaire: all the songs are fast and loud and under 3 minutes long, the guitar is distorted chunky power chords up and down the neck, and the tempos turn on a dime. But there's something about it, like all great punk, that rises above. Partly it's the song titles, all of which totally rule (my favorite being "Working Women Are Pissed Too But I Still Love D. Boon", a standout song too). Partly it's the vocals which avoid cliche while still conveying contempt, and partly it's that you can tell this music is performed by people who can really play but chose this style because they  really like it and can do something with it. I hear vocalist Ellie has left the band, and that's a shame. But buy this record anyway, play it loud, and piss off the jerks.

CRIPPLE CROW by DEVENDRA BANHART
On to the next... When I told Benn that the second review was gonna be "that annoying creep from SF" he said, "You can't review your own record in the Shank!" I pointed out that there were two errors in that statement. One, I don't have a record out, and two, I may be annoying, but I'm no creep. He knew I was talking Devendra Banhart anyway. Cripple Crow is one of those records that completely justifies any and all the awful things people say about art school graduates. Self-important sensitivity is not artistry, no matter how kooky you make your cover art. Also, Nick Drake and Elliot Smith killed themselves to spare the world any more records like this. I wish Banhart had gotten the memo. Also, I've got to agree with Benn - there's a song on here about fucking little boys. That's not artistry either. I know it's probably one of those "inhabiting a character songs", but that doesn't change that it's a pretentious attempt at taboo-breaking to add some edge to this warm fart of a record.

S.O.R.E.S.: Freakwater, The Knitters

Shank Obligatory Record Evaluation Section
by Jayinbmore

Welcome to Night Of The Living Dead S.O.R.E.S. For the last two months we've been trapped in Rockville, MD with nothing but a copy of Twin Infinitives by Royal Trux, and that album is over a decade old and no one wants to listen to it anyway - hence no reviews. However,
here we are to make up lost time.

THINKING OF YOU by FREAKWATER
There's no better way to start than with Thinking of You, the latest from Freakwater (who we are bummed beyond reason to have missed when they played here back in early November). The Freakwater story runs thus: The two little girls who sang "In The Highways" in "Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?" reach high-school age and decide that momma's cookin' and clean livin' below the Mason-Dixon ain't all it's cracked up to be and rush north to  the Big City (in this case Chicago) to persue dreams of stardom and the high life. Although they fail at stardom, they discover the joys and pains of booze, pills, sex, and everything else that comes with a life of slightly ill-repute. They then write and sing song after song filled with the truest lyrics ever to describe that pain and joy. They set those lyrics to the traditional country and folk music they grew up singing, but with an edge that comes from exposure to punk rock (although maybe it's just a result of the life they describe in their songs). In 2005 they release Thinking of You, their starkest work yet (every lyric is quotable, especially "Buckets Of Oil", a song protesting the Iraq War that turns the "American Oil Addiction" metaphor into a drunk's lament) and it's proclaimed "Best Album of the Year" in the Mobtown Shank. (I'll leave it to you, dear reader, to figure out which parts in the above I made up. Hint: The "Best Album of the Year" part isn't one of them.)

THE MODERN SOUNDS OF THE KNITTERS by THE KNITTERS
Continuing our "Have A Very Rootsy Festivus" theme, we have The Modern Sounds Of The Knitters, by, suprisingly, the Knitters. It's required by the Record Critic Code of Ethics that I say the following: The Knitters are basically X with a little help from Dave Alvin of the Blasters, and as such sound more or less like the constituent parts but with an emphasis on Alvin's side of the family (more Americana, less punk). Everything you'd expect from this gaggle of aging, genre-hopping, LA scenesters is here - especially vocalist Exene's cavilier attitude toward singing in key. Despite these reservations, the band does it's country-rock-western-swing thing with skill and style, and all of the tunes are listenable. "Try Anymore (We Don't Even...)" is a great duet between John Doe and Exene about what a bummer growing old together can be (I thought they were divorced?). Cynics might find the band's reworking of a few old X tunes a reason to call them "lazy has beens", but the transformations are generally successful and help make this a perfect record for your next over-30's-punks-only party.

Raw Deal: Boarders

BOARDERS: STOLEN BOOKS & '80S MUSIC
by Marie VanSant

From ages 5-17 I lived in a 3-bedroom apartment in the Gardenville/Hamilton area of Baltimore. To make ends meet my mom rented out our third bedroom to boarders. I liked calling them boarders instead of roommates. A 5-year old doesn’t have roommates and they weren’t exactly hobos.

The first boarder was a young woman named Beverly. I don’t remember her much except that she had severely short hair, painted her room peach and always listened to Tears for Fears. Bev and my mom didn’t get along so Bev moved out.

Then my crazy Uncle Mike moved in. He was the first man I saw naked. My mom and Uncle Mike would smoke pot in her bedroom. I found his bowl underneath the couch. Uncle Mike scammed the landlord and my mom got her credit ruined. He left town and I got to keep his bedroom furniture. Uncle Mike and my Mom made up years later. I never trusted him but we did bond once over our love of the Talking Heads.

After Uncle Mike, a Chinese woman named Cecilia moved in. She lived in Fairfax, VA with her daughter and mother, but worked at a CoverGirl cosmetic factory in Hunt Valley. She lived at our place during the week and went home to VA on the weekends. I used to sneak into her room when she was at work because she had huge bags of defective makeup. She was also teaching herself how to read Chinese, and I would flip through her books because they fascinated me. When my mom wasn’t around Cecilia was there to take care of me when I was sick or when I decided one to day to touch the pilot light on the stove. She was like a really cool nanny that paid to live with us.

At one we point we had two boarders! Cecilia lived upstairs and some guy named Frank lived in the basement. Frank rode a motorcycle and sometimes gave me rides around the block. Once at a sleepover, he called the house and pretended to be Patrick Swayze. The girls at the sleepover inscribed his phone number onto their t-shirts with puffy paint. Frank was cool, but a little weird. He always had yikes looking girls over and he always bent our spoons from eating ice cream. I later found out the bent spoons were from heroin not ice cream. One day Frank skipped out. He packed up his stuff and left without paying rent. He stole a bunch of stuff from our house including a special book I got the previous year for my birthday.

Life went on, my mom had my brother and Cecilia moved out. Then we got evicted cuz without those boarders we couldn’t make ends meet.

Raw Deal: Parental Napping, Pt. 2

WHEN PARENTS TAKE NAPS (Part II of II)
by Marie VanSant

When I was about 4 years old, a girl named Maryelle lived down the street in the townhouse development were I lived in Cockeysville, MD. We were about the same age and always played together. Maryelle's mom was a stoner, hippy artist and always passed out.

One day Maryelle and I decided to have a picnic on the patch of grass behind of the townhouses. My mom packed me a typical sack lunch and gave me a blanket. Maryelle showed up to the picnic with a stick of butter and a packet of unsweetened Kool-Aid. We both shared our lunches. I tried the butter, but I wasn’t into it.

Maryelle told me that she had better tasting stuff at her house. At her house Maryelle brought out a wooden case full of oil paint tubes. She opened a tube and started eating it. I also ate a few tubes. Maryelle’s passed out hippy mother woke up from her nap on the couch and saw us eating the oil paints. She went nuts, washed out our mouths with soap and sent me home.

I was scared of Maryelle’s mom so I didn’t tell my mom what happened. That night I woke up and started throwing up VanDyke brown and Prussian blue. I finally told my mom what happened and she took me to the hospital to get my stomach pumped.

If I am ever faced with a situation like this again, I am sticking with the butter.

Raw Deal: Marie's Real Life Stories

WHEN PARENTS TAKE NAPS (Part I of II)
by Marie VanSant

I spent the first five years of my life living in a townhouse development in Cockeysville, Md. My favorite thing to do was play “dress-up.” My mom had a box full of her old hippy and disco duds that provided endless hours of costumery.

On one occasion, while my mom took a nap, I decked myself out in a pair of ripped up tights, Mickey Mouse golashes, a ratty poncho that I wrapped around my waist as a skirt, a multi-colored striped sweater and a brown, ultra-suede, feather-trimmed cape. I am also certain a hat was involved. I looked like a miniature Urban Outfitters maven, except in 1984 it was considered more “bag lady” than “boho.”

Bored with the townhouse scene and my mom napping in her room, I decided to blow this joint. I walked the neighborhood feeling jaunty in my get-up when I saw a school bus enter the townhouse development. Each kid who got off the bus carried a balloon and made their way to a house up the street. I totally wanted a balloon and followed the kids to the house. When I got the house I wasn’t sure how to get my paws on a balloon so I just sat on the porch.

A woman came out of the house and asked if I was lost. I told her I wasn’t lost and asked if I could have a balloon. I could see inside the house that a birthday party was in the mix. The woman seemed apprehensive but got me a balloon anyway, and told me to basically, “Run along, now.”

Well I wasn’t going anywhere with a birthday party going on. I sat on the porch with my balloon in hand waiting for an invite. The woman finally came out and asked if I wanted to come inside. She kept asking me lots of questions about my parents and where I lived. I didn’t really answer them, how could I when a Muppet Babies themed birthday party was raging on?! The kids at the party seemed intrigued with me, must have been my personal style. I charmed them with my knowledge of Muppet trivia. Then we ate cake and watched the birthday girl open presents. The woman made the birthday girl give me her goodie bag since there wasn’t an extra one for the ragamuffin that showed up on their doorstep.

After I got my loot and an extra piece of cake to take home, I was out the door. When I got home, I couldn’t open the door because of my hands being full, so I rang the doorbell. This woke my mom up from her nap, and she was pissed as hell with my party crashing.

I don’t fault my mom for taking a nap and leaving 4-year-old me unattended. This gave me an invaluable life lesson on how to stir things up at stranger’s parties. If there are balloons, cake and Muppets, count me in!

Raw Deal: Marie's Real Life Stories

PET BUNNIES
by Marie VanSant

When I was about 8, my dog was digging around in our backyard. I went to investigate and found a hole in the ground with two, brown, furry, baby bunnies in it.

I was really excited because I love animals even though they tend to hate me. I told my mom and she said they were abandoned and to leave them alone, “Maybe their mom will come back.” Then she erected a makeshift fence around the hole with one of those reclining beach chairs.

Well, I couldn't leave them alone. I dug out my Easter basket, filled it with green Easter grass, went out into the yard and put the baby bunnies in my basket. I carried them around the neighborhood to show off to my friends. I even took them to the Korean liquor store up the street, cuz my mom would send me there to buy her cigarettes (I can't believe they sold cigarettes to an 8 year old!). The couple who owned the liquor store seemed to be into my pet bunnies.

At night I put the bunnies in my dollhouse to sleep. They looked sooo cute on the miniature bed and couch. I named them Colette and Junior, after my babysitter and her boyfriend.

The next morning I discovered that they had  kicked it. I put them back in the hole they came out of and buried them.

I was upset over my dead pet bunnies and went crying to my Mom. She didn’t want to hear my whining and said, “You should’ve left them alone! Damnit, Marie, they weren't even bunnies, they were moles!”

I couldn't believe they were moles, but then again they didn't have ears...

S.O.R.E.S.: New Pornographers, Bunky

Shank Obligatory Record Evaluation Section
by Jayinbmore

The Return from the Escape from the Return to SORES: Once again we beg forgiveness for a few weeks running of no SORES. Hopefully we'll get back on a regular schedule once your reviewer's paying bosses stop stressing him out.

TWIN CINEMA by THE NEW PORNOGRAPHERS
It's a safe bet everyone who is going to buy "Twin Cinema" - the latest by the New Pornographers - has already done so and thus is aware of the treasures contained within. But for those who haven't let's just lay out what they're missing. It's very difficult to pull off the kind of pop music that is the New Pornographers' stock in trade. It requires so many things to be done just right. The vocal harmonies have to soar (and in the case of male/female combination, they're best if they meld seemlessly). The melodies have to be memorable. The internal logic of the song structures must be pristine. To top it off, the instruments must be played well without gratuitous displays of chops. Oh yes, and the guitars have to be loud. All of this must be accomplished without a) sounding like a Big Star or Cheap Trick rip-off and b) being mindlessly retro. Given the difficulty it's no wonder so many artists making pop records fail so miserably, and it makes the artists who succeed seem that much more exceptional. That is what the New Pornogrophers are: Exceptional.

Everything on "Twin Cinema" is perfect pure pop pleasure. What the Pornographers do right, more than anyone, is the sound. It's got a rawness suggesting the tracks were put down live. This gives all of the songs - which meet every criteria above, and then surpass them - an infectious energy. Special kudos to drummer Kurt Dahle for extra-propulsion. The vocalists, including Neko Case (she of the magical voice which could sing talking points from the Heritage Foundation and make them sound like haunting tone poems), give the songs an emotional edge without intruding on the music. To avoid sounding too damn superlative (and avoid busting out way too many rock-crit cliche's) I'll leave you with this: If you don't believe this record is worth your money, please note that I am heaping praise on Canadians.

Tracks:
“Use It” [mp3]
"Twin Cinema" [mp3]

BORN TO BE A MOTORCYCLE by BUNKY
There's certainly a lot going on in the groves of "I Was Born To Be A Motorcycle", the debut album from San Diego's Bunky (with a name like that you'd think they were from Baltimore, eh Bunk?). From sudden trombone blasts and digital noise bursts to fuzzed out vocals and sudden tempo-shifts - all manner of oddities jut out, as if the song structures were a tight suit over a pair of angry monkeys. Clearly there's some Mr. Bungle fetishism going on here. But Bunky avoid total wankdom by putting their random-outburst schtick in the context of melodic songs, often topped by vocals from one Emily Joyce who sings just sweetly enough to soften a few of the edges. Of course it would not be complete without some genre-splicing and here we have swing, pop, noise-rock and some rockabilly.

Though it's impossible to fault Bunky's obvious chops and clever bravery - as with many of these types of bands - too often all the splicing, dicing, blurting and lurching sounds less a result of inspiration and more the result of being incredibly stoned (note to heads: being incredibly stoned is a perfectly fine way to get at your muse, but if you ain't got one being incredibly stoned just makes you do stuff because it sounds pleasantly wacky). Being playful and inventive are both impulses to be applauded, but great cut-up rock needs more than just impulses, and Bunky aren't quite there yet. Buy it if you think all Mr. Bungle would have sucked less if only Gwen Stefani were their lead singer.

Month Of Music: September

by Jamie Watson

IN SEPTEMBER
Peter Hook's 240 Hour Party People dj tour - The Ottobar
Opening act Modernage seemed to be an Interpol cover band. Or maybe a Killers cover band. But I met a couple of the guys later and they seemed pretty nice so that's as harsh as I'll get.

People got pretty danced up before the show as the BritPop dj played the usual BritPop stuff. So when Peter Hook arrived and started with a downtempo remix of Captain and Tennille's Love Will Keep Us Together/Love Will Tear Us Apart, people stopped dancing and there was a "um....OK" kind of vibe that made me fear that people just flat out weren't going to be into it. But after another downtempo-y song, he kicked it up, and the set included lots of great New Order and Joy Division remixes, along with the Chemical Brothers and the ubiquitous Killers. The dance floor filled up, and everyone was dancing together and the vibe was great. He may not be the smoothest dj ever, but he's freaking PETER HOOK! Right there on stage at the Ottobar. It's pretty special to hear a song like Bizarre Love Triangle, and then realize the dj playing it is the guy who CREATED it. The crowd was an interesting mix of aging New Order nerds and young Taxlo fans -- it was an ideal night.

The other show I'd been looking forward to seeing was Daddy Yankee at the Patriot Center. I finally talked a friend into going with, and went to the Patriot Center site to buy tickets. Which were $58-$98!!!!! Gwen Stefani plays there a few days later for $35-$65 and she's got the Black Eyed Peas and the freaking Harajuku girls! I hope that was a benefit for something - I'm not one to bitch about ticket prices usually, but that just seemed really out of line. So, I didn't go.

Skippy McNichols: Zombie Hunter

by Skippy McNichols

PRODIGAL SON RETURNS
The streets of Baltimore were abuzz; the hum of fandom stretching for miles around the harbor. Finally, the prodigal son returned, as October 1st marked the first time in six years that artist Logan Hicks had a showing in his hometown. I stood next to him on the little chinese junk we'd commissioned to bring us into the harbor, but Logan said nothing. He merely passed a sigh off as a yawn and laid his head on his folded arms, avoiding eye contact.

Perhaps he'd heard of me.

As we drew closer to Inner Harbor, we watched the laser light show erupting out of the aquarium; a cyan tyrannosaurus rex eviscerated a young bear, while off to the side a snowman waved a candy cane. It seemed obvious that shoddy, basic lights had been strung together randomly. Logan sighed again and stood, buttoning his shirt. "I'm home," quoth he. He whipped out the naginata he'd recently acquired in Seoul during the Asian K-Spray tour, and wiped some dried blood from its blade. His eyes blazed with a new fierceness; "I'm home."

The show went smashingly. Mr. Hicks was showing alongside first-timer (in terms of showing in Baltimore) Lesley Reppeteaux. Hicks smiled at his home crowd, and seemed very comfortable to be in the area again. He ate three whole chicken boxes and regaled us with stories from Asia. The crowd was very amped on his monochromatic, photo-like stencils. Lesley was also working the crowd, and likewise, her colorful paintings garnered much praise.

That's when the lights cut out.

At first, the flashing lights didn't startle anyone; they could've been cellphones snapping open for people to get a rudimentary view. Scream upon scream shortly followed. Remember that Presidents of the United States of America video for the song Peaches? It was like that. Motherfuckin' zombie ninjas all up in our shit! With all pus everywhere! And me without my flame thrower! "DON'T FUCK WITH MY SHOW!" screeched Hicks before throwing a few shuriken, taking down two of the zombie-ninjas. "Looks like they got the point." He flashed a smile and ran into the fray. Innocents cleared the room quickly, so Hicks could revert to the tactics he craved. Reppeteaux had run out with most of the people; this wasn't her fight.

Ten minutes later, bleeding and breathing heavily, Hicks was standing in the center of the room, his enemies slain around him. "Dammit. I didn't think this would happen till a few nights in," he muttered, sheathing his katana and squatting on the floor. "The Shinola Gallery," he mused. "They don't know shit..." I smiled, waiting for him to finish the joke. "From what, Logan?" He handed me his sword, tucked inside its beautiful emerald scabbard. "Too obvious, kid. Take care." He rumpled my hair and walked out of the room and I swear to God there was a fucking explosion and he walked RIGHT THROUGH it. Logan Hicks fucking rocks and Lesley Reppeteaux I really don't know anything about. It might not even be a woman, maybe it's just an exotic name. Heck, I'll admit it, I wasn't even there. But I google image searched their art, and it was pretty neat.

Gossip: Talking Fists Of Fury

by Chatty McTalksalot

PISSED PUNK CLUB FIGHTS BACK
Witnesses report that a handful of people showed up at the CityPaper's snappy "Best Of" soiree held at the stylish and exclusive RamsHead Live in Baltimore's hippest neighborhhood, the Inner Harbor,  in t-shirts that read (a paraphrase here), "CITYPAPER: Fair And Balanced Like Fox News!" They then caused a commotion and suckerpunched at least one person and were escorted out by the police.

Their shirts weren't referring to the CityPaper's Russ Smith Neo-con/Republican column, Right Field, however. They were angered over the CityPaper's backhanded (or, as I like to call it, the "Kiss You on the Mouth While Shoving a Finger Up Your Ass" technique) compliment in the Best Of award for the Talking Head as BEST ROCK CLUB.

Specifically, they were upset about the sort of unwanted attention this allegation from the write up may cause:

Besides, the Talking Head’s eclectic schedule and laissez-faire approach to underage drinking make it the rock club with the far more don’t-give-a-shit attitude.

I for one have never noticed this "laissez-faire" approach the CP mentions, but then, I also don't much care for All Ages shows. What does that teach the kids? Back in my day, we had to create our own fake IDs just to see the bands we liked. It taught resourcefulness! And when the ID eventually got confiscated by the bouncer, it taught us how to deal with disappointment and loss. Anyhoo...

Lexie Mountain, in a letter to the CP this week, expresses the concern of those who deal/work with the club very eloquently:

...
While we’ve come to expect and even enjoy your left-handed compliments, insinuating that we have a “laissez-faire approach to underage drinking” borders on libel. Hosting an ostensibly all-ages dance night (Taxidermy Lodge Mondays) and all-ages events forces us to be extremely vigilant about underage drinking within the walls of our establishment. The suggestion that we somehow don’t care what the kids do is insulting, and may even draw unwanted and unwarranted attention upon our venue from the authorities.

...
Lexie Macchi
Baltimore