Saturday, May 14
The Tim Talbert Project
The Crossroad; 286 Southland. 9 P.M.
Like most of you, I judge a man’s worth* using several criteria. First, how long he can survive, alone and minimally equipped, in the wilderness? Second, how well does he command his automobile? Third, does he know where the pocket is?
What’s the pocket? No, it ain’t those things on the front of your dungarees! It’s where the groove is. It’s the place in time where the backbeat lands for maximum funkifying. It’s the space in our id the bass fills, compelling us to move in ways that would cause our grandmas to blush and turn away, God rest their souls. It’s the connection between the harmony, the melody, the rhythm, and the astral plane. That’s the pocket.
So I have no idea how long Tim Talbert and his sturdy, seasoned Project can live in the woods, nor how they are behind the wheel. But it doesn’t matter, because they know where the pocket is. They always know where the pocket is. In fact, for all we know, they might have constructed the damned pocket in their spare time, using chicken grease, hot asphalt, and spare parts from the Mothership.
What’s this mean to you? It means that when you listen to the band play, you are hearing the music performed in the most soulful manner possible. There is no intermediary between you and the cosmic vein of groove; you are face-to-face with it. You’re in it. Be it.
*Women get their own set of criteria, which we won’t get into here, but which involve tennis skirts and reading glasses. Email music@noclexington.com for more information.
Wednesday, May 18
The Suede Brothers
The Green Lantern; 497 West Third. 9 P.M.
The Suede Brothers are three skinny kids from 40-odd miles east of Cleveland, which means they automatically pass the wilderness-survival criterion by virtue of being from, you know, Bumfuck Ohio. But that’s not the only thing that makes them special.
No, it’s also that like a tuned 1970 Chevy 454, this band exercises raw power. It’s not the slickified, safe-for-general-consumption power that’s always turning up on rock radio, and that even your little sister likes. That crap is the sonic equivalent of your dweeb coworker showing off his new Camry’s “pep.” Screw that. This is power-trio rock the way they used to make it: loud, fast, and more than a little scary if it catches you unawares.
The band is taking their sound-beast on the road to support their new record, called “The Night.” [Look for a full review in the next issue. —Ed.] The Green Lantern is not a large space, so get there early, and bring plugs if you’ve got ’em. And leave the Camry at home.
Thursday, May 19
Sam Wooden & the Urbane Gentlemen
Thursday Night Live; Cheapside Park. 5:30 P.M.
But you know, once you’ve got your survival skills together, you’ve found the pocket, and you’ve mastered your vehicle, you ought to take a moment to enjoy a few of the finer things: a fresh pinch of snuff, a sip of something aged and mellowed, and a warm Thursday evening with the best damned rockin’ country band assembled, to my knowledge, since…since…since goddamn ever, that’s when.
Be warned: while you’re making your way home after the show, you may feel sudden, uncontrollable urges to stop your cheatin’ ways and treat him/her better, to seal that crack in the old pickup’s exhaust manifold like you’ve been meaning to, and to spend more time on the front porch with friends and neighbors. These are normal responses.
Sam Wooden & the Urbane Gentlemen.
And oh yeah: it’s a CD release party. Now you’ve got something to play while tearing down those winding back-country roads.
Saturday, May 21
Oxford Farm Report
Cosmic Charlie’s; 388 Woodland. 9 P.M.
With this show, the Lexington music scene is diminished. Why? Because evidently this show is to be Oxford Farm Report’s last. And let me tell you: they handled their machines as well as anybody. Go see ’em, and shed a tear if the mood strikes you. It’s okay to cry; just don’t go on and on with it.
Monday, May 23
Black Skies
The Green Lantern; 497 West Third. 9 P.M.
From pristine, gentrified Carrboro comes just about the ugliest, most savage-sounding act to trample though Lexington’s pristine, gentrified borders since last year’s Mastodon show. But where that band took sludge metal and ’70s riff-rock and made it melodic, layered, and slightly psychedelic, Black Skies strips it naked, leaves it to bloat in the sun for a few days, and runs the carcass through a fuzzbox. This is primal metal, folks; if you don’t like it, run back to your manicured lawn and freshly detailed Land Rover. You wouldn’t survive five minutes in the wild.
—Buck Edwards
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