Live music to forge an identity to: 8/10 – 20

Thursday, August 11

Ben Lacy

Cheapside; 131 Cheapside. 9 P.M.

Ben Lacy’s guitar prowess is such that many who hear him play experience an extreme emotional response as a result, such as intense crying jags, fits of cackling laughter, alternating terror and ecstasy—that sort of thing. Attending his performances thus feels a bit like staring into the face of God; you’re overcome with awe, your senses explode and then dim forever, and you end up drooling in a ditch, unresponsive to stimuli.

And that’s why Ben Lacy needs a new name. I mean, “Ben Lacy” is a perfectly pleasant moniker: “Ben” is a welcoming word, similar to the French “bien” and “bon,” and evocative of the Sanskrit root “bhanu,” the Sun, while “Lacy” is a seductive, Latinate thing. When you hear them together you think, oh, he’s a really nice guy, I bet, and you probably smile and think about your loved ones, and of hugging them. Mm.

But that’s the point: it’s too warm a name for a guitar overlord. Ben Lacy needs to be called a name that inspires both rapture and dread. Something from Egyptian mythology, maybe, like “Hathor-Sekhmet,” a combining of the gods of music and destruction, or possibly “Arag Khan,” Mongolian for “Ruler of Strings.” Yes. “Arag Khan of Kentucky.” No—too prosaic. “Arag Khan of Kentahten,” using the Iroquois for our fair land. There’s some gravity to that, no?

So, Arag Khan of Kentahten will be wielding his terrible Brian Moore custom-doombringer and harvesting the souls of sinners at the Cheapside. See him there if ye be pure of heart.

Monday, August 15

Central Kentucky Guitar Night

Natasha’s; 112 Esplanade. 8:30 P.M.

Have you not had enough? Is your stomach not yet sated? Guitars are everywhere; have some more. Three more: this is a triple bill. Jerome Scott, of Cincinnati, joins Lexington’s Chris Weiss and Tim Fowler for an evening of fingerstyle outrageousness.

Perhaps anticipating my suggestion to Arag Khan, née Ben Lacy, above, these three accomplished, cultured musicians have chosen to subsume their given names to the group, thereby  shrugging off the shackles of the individual ego and tapping the power of the collective unconscious.

When the show has ended, and everyone’s gone home and slept, Scott, Weiss, and Fowler will take back their earthly selves and carry on with their lives—all the daily struggles and triumphs we experience as humans, plus guitar practice, but for this night, they will be mere conduits to the musical divine.

Tuesday, August 16

Dead Prez

Cosmic Charlie’s; 388 Woodland. 10 P.M.

The rap game has always been about both the creation of alter egos,but what an artist chooses to do with the created persona is a matter of some discussion. It’s like this:

MCs get a little bit of love and think they hot
Talkin’ ’bout how much money they got
All y’all records sound the same
I’m sick of that fake thug, R & B
Rap scenario all day on the radio
Same scenes in the video, monotonous material
Y’all don’t hear me though
These record labels slang our tapes like dope
You can be next in line, and signed
And still be writing rhymes and broke
You would rather have a Lexus or justice?
A dream or some substance?
A Beamer, a necklace or freedom?
Still a nigga like me don’t playa’ hate
I just stay awake

That was Dead Prez in 2000, with one of the definitive statements of “conscious” hip hop. Eleven years later, the game hasn’t changed, and Dead Prez are still awake.

Thursday, August 18

Future Rock with DJ Selektro

Cosmic Charlie’s; 388 Woodland. 9 P.M.

The duties of the DJ are paradoxical: on the one hand, he/she must become a brand name, must craft an identity that club-goers recognize and are drawn to. On the other, in performance the DJ’s task is to provide a soundtrack for whatever social experience the audience seeks. By not drawing attention to the DJ booth—by stepping behind Oz’s curtain—the DJ can become the unseen hand of the dance floor, manipulating moods and vibes while keeping the crowd unaware of the DJ’s machinations and fully immersed in the seamless soundscape. The subjagation of the DJ’s corporeal presence in turn allows dancers to explore whatever physical identities they like, for whatever ends they intend.

Future Rock is big time from Chicago. Selektro is wunderkind from right here.

Friday, August 19

The Barry Mando Project

Lynagh’s; 384 Woodland. 9 P.M.

These ten days have a special feel to it, don’t they? Lexington music is in rare form. For example, right now, for my money, The Barry Mando Project is playing some of the most inventive music anywhere. But what kind of music is it? Well, it’s jazz-something, I guess, but the something varies…rock sometimes, soul…things like that. Tough to describe.

Aha. That’s the thing, isn’t it? They’re chameleons, these guys: no fixed identity at all, but a shape-shifting organism that grooves in many styles, many approaches. And now, at last, they’re releasing an EP, a snapshot of the band right now, at this moment in time. Music, and identity, are protean phenomena.

Friday, August 19 – Sunday, August 21

Holler in the Holler

HomeGrown HideAways; 500 Floyd Branch Rd., Berea, KY

The festival returns. Tickets available at eventbrite.com; search “holler.” See the schedule at the top of this page.

Saturday, August 20

Skid Row

Buster’s; 899 Manchester. 9 P.M.

You know, Skid Row has a lot to do with my own bitter, defeated identity. Here’s the story:

Senior year of high school, I meet my girlfriend at a New Year’s party hosted by a classmate. We’re drinking, socializing, and then I don’t see her for a while. We were past clingy, so I wasn’t worried, and I continued to mingle in the usual teenage way.

Then a friend of mine comes up to me, says he’s just seen my girlfriend making out with another guy in some back bedroom. Several other people confirm the story. I’m fighting mad.

I know the homewrecker in question, so I call him out to the back patio to get what’s coming to him. But he won’t come out. My girlfriend does, wasted and tearful, and begs me to leave him alone. I swear vengeance and drive home in my parents sedan, screaming with pain and rage all the way. Trust was gone, forever.

What CD was playing on the stereo at the party while all this was going on? That’s right: Skid Row. So you know what?

Fuck Skid Row. I know it’s not technically their fault, but fuck ’em anyway. 20 years later and if I even think I hear “I Remember You” on the radio I start trembling with hatred.

So why am I giving them publicity now? Because like it or not, they’re part of who I am. But if I see Sebastian Bach stuffing his fat face at McDonald’s after the show…

—Buck Edwards