Thursday, September 16
Big Head Todd and the Monsters w/ Carbon Leaf
Buster’s, 8 P.M. $20 adv, $25 door. 18+.
Believe it or not, Big Head Todd and the Monsters played the loudest show I’ve ever attended. Back in the early ‘90s, when I was a but a degenerate frat guy idealistic collegian on the prowl for randy co-eds and kegs of Natural Light hopeful, soul-enlightening music, the Monsters played a free show at the university’s pastoral outdoor amphitheater—or, they were to play a show at the amphitheater, except that about an hour prior torrential rains hit the campus, and the whole production was relocated to the student center’s “ballroom,” which closely resembled my high school’s gymnasium. This would have been fine but for the evident laziness of the sound technicians, who had set amplifier and speaker levels at the soundcheck that afternoon, under clear skies, and then couldn’t be bothered to adjust those levels for the new, smaller, indoor space. And thus the sound was deafening.
Hundreds of folks turned up–this was at the peak of the band’s national popularity, borne of the melodic magnificence of their 1993 release, Sister Sweetly. But there was quickly established a sort of no-fly sector within 50 feet of the stage, an area within which one risked rapid, irreparable hearing loss.
Few had brought earplugs, so many in the audience had rolled up bits of napkin and crammed them in their ear canals. Thus equipped they’d struggle into the danger zone for a chorus or two, then stagger out with glazed eyes and loosened bowels, for even with hearing protection the volume was physically debilitating.
At sensible decibels, however, they’re a tremendous live act, and they’ll be supporting their latest recorded effort, Rocksteady, at Thursday’s show, which is something of a return to form for the band, and one that certainly cements their place as Colorado’s best musical export. And if it’s not loud enough for you, go stick your head in a jet engine while listening to “Broken Hearted Savior” on your iPod and thinking about happy times gone by. —Keith Halladay
Friday, September 17
Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings
Buster’s, 9 P.M. $22 adv., $25 door. 18+.
Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings’ brand of throwback soul belongs in what seems like – perhaps only to someone lacking the insight of experience – a simpler time. But it would be wrong to call this music simple.
As anachronistic as the ensemble may be in an age overwhelmed by moving forward, the sound is rich and lush with soulful grit. Jones, the vivacious leading lady, pours herself into songs aching with earnest meaning. And this soul revue will likely set Lexington on fire when it rolls into Buster’s Billiards and Backroom Friday night.
Were she born 20 years earlier, Jones might have fallen easily into the ranks of southern songstresses like Candi Staton or Bettye LaVette. Growing up in both Augusta, Ga., and Brooklyn, she was groomed in the gospel tradition and funk’s raw prowess. Now the star of Brooklyn’s Daptone Records in the 21st century, she stands among a handful of likeminded artists who seem to be coming into fashion once again.
Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings may be looking backward for inspiration, but the group is decidedly moving forward. Four full lengths on Daptone progress in perfecting a balanced blend of funk and ‘60s flavored soul. The latest, I Learned the Hard Way, was released earlier this year and it goes down alarmingly smooth. —Megan Neff
ACLU Fundraiser with Chico Fellini
Al’s Bar, 9 P.M. 21+.
Those media outlets that have reviewed Chico Fellini’s self-titled 2009 album have frequently used the term “post-punk” to describe the band’s music. Like most such terms, it’s useless nonsense, and those who use it are not to be trusted. Punk is still with us, and therefore we are not “post” anything. And if you take the term conceptually, it’s still nonsense. Punk is simply rock and roll played speedily and noisily. Are we beyond rock and roll, then? Speed? Noise? The mind boggles.
And lazy labels do a disservice to the music as well. Chico Fellini sometimes toys with punk flavors of the shiny variety played by Hanoi Rocks or the early Tubes, but there’s bits of Pixies-style experimental rock, Manchester-scene house, and Scissor Sisters glam as well. And it’s all danceable, and it’s all played very well. Is that post-punk? Who cares? Chico Fellini are one of the more sophisticated acts around town: a bit of the big city in our little burg. Regardless of your feelings about the ACLU (or the Scissor Sisters for that matter), you ought to take in the show. —KH
Saturday, September 18
Spent w/ Rise from Ruins & Strongwood
Buster’s, 9 P.M. $5. 18+.
One black day in the near future there will commence a great war between the various factions of metal. One force will be composed of the aged–those for whom Ride the Lightning remains the pinnacle of the form. They, being old and doddering, will be swiftly and brutally dispatched by the metal extremists—those for whom Goatwhore was pretty cool when they were kids and hadn’t yet gotten into the hard stuff. The extremists will then be conquered from the sea by marauding bands of Viking metallers, blaring Amon Amarth from their galleys and wearing not enough around their loins. Alas, swords and Jacksons will not be enough to fend off the magical attacks of the black metallers, whose Satanic rituals and familiarity with all parts of the pig will consign the Vikings to Valhalla.
After a brief lull, the European power metal legions will then attempt to dispel the black magic and its painted practitioners, but before engagement with the enemy they will be distracted by their own genitals and fall about the battlefield in fits of onanism. Seeing their failure and recognizing the danger, Kerry King will grow disgusted, feed his snakes, shave his head, call Dave Mustaine a cocksucker, and open up a can of whoop-ass on everybody.
And thus the King will reign, for a time, until he too is confronted with an enemy that he cannot so easily defeat, an enemy whose power derives not from blistering fretwork, thundering double-kick, or demonic screams. No, this enemy, hatefully termed nu-metal by some, will confront the King with that which he has ever lacked and shall never attain: a whole bunch of hot chick fans. For that is what is withheld from all the factions of metal save one, and Spent is one of that lucky club. Go see them after the hot rod show. —Buck Edwards
Friday, September 24 to Sunday, October 10
Spotlight Lexington
Various venues.
By now you’ve received in the mail your official Spotlight Lexington Event Guide, or, if you haven’t, it means the city doesn’t care about you and probably want you to just up and move already. But if you can get your hands on one, you can read the little show preview blurbs they print therein and so I feel no need to duplicate their efforts in this forum.
However, the schedule of performers is interesting from a sociological perspective, at least as a vehicle for idle speculation. For instance, the choice of headliner for opening night: it says here it’s Blake Shelton, who looks like the Marlboro Man and sings like, well, like a damned country singer. The same night we get Ralph Stanley OR Randy Travis, LeeAnn Rimes, and some other guy I’ve never heard of who probably also looks like the Marlboro Man and sings like a damned country singer.
Then for the WEG opening cermonies on Saturday there’s Wynonna Judd, about whom I won’t say anything mean because some of y’all know her family and will come kick my ass if I do. That’s a whole bunch of country in 48 short hours.
But then late Saturday night there’s this act called Here Come the Mummies, who play, per the Event Guide, “Funk/R&B.”
My first thought was that the city was throwing urban Lexington a bone, as in, “we’re gonna give the hicks what they want with all that twang and Stetsons, but for you minorities/hipsters/weirdos, here’s some cotdang funk.”
Or so it seemed. But then I read the fine print, and it tells me the band is a cabal of session guys from freaking Nashville. In other words, all the Nashville aces who aren’t busy that weekend playing with Shelton, Rimes, Travis, Judd, and Morgan are up here anyway.
This leads one to the inevitable conclusion that the “funk” of Here Come the Mummies is actually Nashville country is disguise, and that LFUCG is trying to subliminally brainwash everyone who skips Wynonna for the Mummies into conforming with the musical hegemony of central Kentucky. In short, it’s a damned trick. Well it won’t work, you bastards. I’m going to Wynonna and pretend to be enjoying myself, but I’m gonna be secretly playing funk—real funk—on my iPod the whole time. Ha.
Oh, and Trombone Shorty on Sunday is that dude, The City on Monday delivers the groove, and so does Robbie Bartlett earlier that evening. Unless they got to her too. —BE
Tuesday, September 28
Keith Hubbard
Natasha’s, 8 P.M. Free.
About a years ago I played a short set on drums with Keith Hubbard. The first tune he called was “Right Place, Wrong Time.” Keith played a short electric piano intro, then suddenly he started digging in hard, leading us into that deep, swampy, nasty funk. “Holy crap,” I thought about 30 seconds in, “this must be what it’s like actually playing with Dr. John! Man, this guy rules.”
It was transporting. And you’ll be transported too, if you simply transport your butt down to Natasha’s. And if you run into him after the show, say hi and strike up a conversation about anything at all—he can gets as deep with his words as he does with his axe. —KH
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