Revolt Revolt, Notes to Myself and Juntura at the Visual Arts Collective

Revolt Revolt

Tones this deep, this haunting and a vocal range so ominously low should make me want to cry, but Revolt Revolt takes generous advantage of an undeniably rapid pace and successfully shifts such a reaction. This local two-piece group skips past misery as guitarist and drummer push into an addictively upbeat melancholia. Impeccably controlled, fast rhythm and progressive chords clipping along so relentlessly do well to keep my tears in check. Yes, the sound inside this energy bellows heartbreaking and tender. But dancing is the impulse Revolt Revolt stirs up.

Shy folk be warned, the urge to rock your feet can only be restrained for so long. Even the Revolt Revolt facial expressions, so joyfully exaggerated (occasionally to an outrageous degree) will call you from your seat to appreciate them up close on the dance floor. The sound is altogether juicy and electrifying. The soft, enchanting vocals offset such hard and raw instrumentals just enough for a listener to contemplate the Revolt Revolt genre. After much thought and the definition still undecided, the listener will assuredly give up on deciding and go back to absolute enjoyment.

Notes To Myself

I have never seen a sound check performed in Spanish before. As these four gentlemen hail from Spain, it makes for an excellent introduction to Notes To Myself (though I still wonder how much the Visual Art Collective’s house sound technician appreciates working through a translator). Audience attention thus grabbed, these polite European musicians proceed to shake the concrete room with two guitars, one base guitar and a drum set spilling out massive quantities of well-timed math rock. Their opening is hot enough to evaporate milk on a stovetop in under three seconds. With the enormous, cataclysmic instrumentals, the guitarists’ voices are deliciously muffled with added reverb as if lost children are running through underground caverns searching for home.

These men know their instruments. At times the guitarists strum their jolting chords at a pace so incredible that their hand-picking-motion reads as a visual blur. Those moments punch the Notes To Myself sound into a more digitized melody than I have seen human mechanics create. With furious fullness it is raw organic but the perfect speed should come out of prerecorded feeds, not human hands. It is stunning.

Juntura

Yet another set carrying a brilliant time scheme and grossly impressive musicality, local three-man Juntura throw lyrically driven moments into streams where excellently syncopated sounds take over. It is certainly no unhappy accident that they are the third band scheduled tonight who rocks using gorgeous time structure, if accident at all.

Their lyrics haunting and stinging, Juntura points to distressed youth, bored intellectuals and all the disappointment that comes with industrial wealth. Their compositions build a landscape harsh and elegant, a world so desirable, a world soon gruesome. It is a place we all know too well. One that we pine for at the top of twilight and wish we never had seen by 3:00 AM. One lovely and charming lit by gentle neon, soon cold and stinking in an alley by a dumpster. Here is the environment Juntura recreates in sound. The effect it is rich and stunning, a thrilling balance between alluringly pure heights and profane depths.

Perhaps the most delightful quality about Juntura is their definitive adaptability, the sort that is impossible to miss. Following every song or so, the musicians swop positions. The guitarist and bass guitarist switch regularly (as the latter also adds a trumpet now and then while the drummer adds keys) and the drums are seized by the former guitarist for a climactic note near the end of set. Before the night is through, each instrument is traded at least once and Juntura flawlessly maintains their captivating, unified sound throughout a constant merry-go-round of players.

You can listen to their music @ The Boise Picayune's MySpace Page.

For the Sake of the Whole: With Child at Neurolux

When he played solo and called himself Unicorn Feather, Elijah Jensen might begin an evening picking out playful acoustic melodies to complete his bubbly, captivating lyrics. His songs could create better human beings out of his audience if their ears were at all focused. Then he could make the night really interesting with help from a fart-sound-making keychain funneled through distortion equipment. No matter what, Elijah would eventually supplement his music with dance steps or even call the crowd to join him in a dance party—especially on the eve of a rarely celebrated holiday like Leap Year.

By verse as well as attitude, the ever-adaptable Unicorn Feather could easily be confused with Shel Silverstein. Had the famous children’s poet been a regular sight at underground music events in Boise’s North End basements, he and Elijah would at least have plenty of important and highly creative ideas to discuss.

In early spring, Elijah’s friends Andrew and Otis joined him with base guitar and drums to form With Child. The new collaboration brings even more dynamism and edge to the stage and a greater neighborhood sense of camaraderie to this dark, smoky and often gloomy Neurolux.

It is always a joy to see friends working together for the sake of good music. It is a marvel more rare when—for the sake of good music—those individual musicians take care of each other with a constant dose of consideration. I have huge hope for a band when an individual artist’s potential for lasting significance multiplies upon adding collaborators. This not usually the case; adding more people does not always produce a greater influence. When artists go on to show how their delight in each other and their music reaches far beyond reasons of a growing fan base, then I have huge hope for music as a whole.

Now to apply the general statement above to this specific show. For some reason unexplained and possibly still unknown, Elijah’s electric guitar would not cooperate with his amp and thereby could not stay in tune. As this point of frustration continued on for some time (frustrating for the band, I imagine, though hardly to the audience. I hardly realized anything was at all problematic, assuming this was yet another eccentricity true to Unicorn Feather), his strings then proceeded to break. One by one, they snapped off. After losing the fifth string, Elijah put down his guitar. With Child would play their last song using only Andrew’s base, Otis’ drums and Elijah’s voice. In terms of impact, this change of plans was the best moment of the night.

Based on ococcasionally bizarre evenings of Unicorn Feather and this supportive quality of With Child, as mentioned earlier, the last song’s amazing execution should be no surprise. It began with an eloquent stream-of-consciousness build up, grim and also lovely. Though Elijah compared himself to an uptight slam poet bothered after a very bad day, he articulated the intro with impressive narrative. It brought proper attention to the edgiest With Child song in this Friday night lineup. As often happens, Elijah helped the crowd participate by joining us on the dance floor. Still on microphone with trusted bass and drums carrying him along as we moved and jumped and swayed along with him. With Andrew and Otis in control of the instrumentals, a first-time listener could believe the song was written for only bass guitar and drums.

This With Child story tells me that as their songs spark ideas on worldwide betterment and all things higher and deeper that really are possible, so do they act upon these human possibilities. And, as already stated, this gives me great hope.

Loren Reed Draws on Post-It Notes

These colorful stickies carry no shopping lists. They hold no agenda and there are no organized bullet points to review near the end of a workday. Loren Reed stores his Post-It Notes in a personalized red shoebox, hidden from refrigerators, office boards and counter tops. Daily reminders would thereby provide little information anyway.

So what good are they? What use is a notepad without memos or phone numbers?

Plenty.

Loren knows they are good enough for art, at least. A sketched illustration befriends each little square of paper with wit more sweet than an itinerary could possibly offer. This is Post-It Note Art. A few of Loren's handheld drawings represent friendly personified characters with crisp lines and a few lines of text absurd enough to be existential.

For example, his disappointed teddy bear muttering "Hrumph" even though he lives in an eco-friendly home.

Or, Jesus Christ sitting on a felled tree wondering: "What would I do?"

Other Post-Its are more richly textured, surveying bizarre locomotive machines as they roam across dystopian landscapes, vast and frightening. Some seem satirical, some are funny and a little sad, some want to be entire philosophies within themselves (I have one hanging in my bedroom saluting the fox as the snake of the dogs. This drawing is one I can imagine in Antoine de Saint Exupéry's idealistic novella, "The Little Prince"). Loren has stacks of sticky artwork, all of which delightfully created from plenty of cunning care. They all surely help him bypass a little boredom here and there. Also, all of them are only halfway completed. After drawing on the Post-It Notes, Loren puts the tiny art into a copy machine for drafted ground plans and blows them up to the size of a blueprint drawing. These enormous pieces look gritty, rough, or "impressionistic", as he calls them, resembling charcoal drawings than pen and ink.

His work is fast, down and dirty and can be made anywhere. It is interesting, humorous, and highly cost-effective. Hey, with America's dwindling economy stripping the public demand for art, Loren?s Post-It Note Art makes sense.

Loren Reed can hear out your own ideas, ideologies and illusions and give them some character on a sticky note. If you would to commission him for a project or book his work for a show, you can contact him at: ilovethispart@gmail.com


Originally Posted to The Boise Picayune on Tuesday, September 9, 2008

What a Lineup: The universal, Le Fluer and Built to Spill at Knitting Factory

This is my first time visiting the Knitting Factory since its new incarnation. It may be a new paint job on the former Big Easy, the refreshing use of cool gels in the house lamps before show time or an upbeat mood from a public enjoying a Sunday evening on their Labor Day weekend; but this atmosphere is all clean and crisp, open and hopeful.

We launch into The Universal with enormous momentum. Their sound rolling smooth and deep, this "outer space band" is splendidly riveting as usual. The Universal uses time with a ferocious, mathematic intention to rival Rodan. Bright pinging tones and crunching bass reverberate the room. With such brilliant liveliness, no wonder they consider themselves so cosmic in nature.

They are a phenomenal force you might find surprising and certainly astonishing. You can see them next on Wednesday, September 3 at the Visual Arts Collective at 9pm. For a meager $5 cover, don’t you dare miss The Universal again. Their energy and musicality are out if this world. You may think I’m kidding, but why wonder? Go find out yourself.

Next, Le Fleur in such poised formation grace us with their presence. In visibly contained energy, their strong magnetic pull beckons us nearer and nearer. Once we trust out ears and eyes enough to believe that this breathtaking elegance is true (not just too good to be so), the juicy, lush dynamism accumulates into a shockwave electric and magnificent. Audience attention ensured, the grandly postured intelligentsia-powered-rock Le Fleur burst. Building intensity now sparks in glorious fury. Now unruly tigers without mercy, their claws pierce us as the victims of their smart poetry. Their letters burning from rich charismatic fuels of pumping chords and electronica, impassioned beats and surging melodies that burn imprints in our souls forever. We are theirs (You can also see Le Fleur at the VAC on September 3).

Crowd energy simmers. Cut to a wild cheer thrown quick and swallowed short, followed by the sure sound of a community listening.

Cue... Built to Spill.

The clusters of fans close in frenetically, packing tight on the Knitting Factory floor to allow more and more in. We are together all ears and eyes on deck in full focus on Perfect from Now On as Boise’s beloved success story perform the 1997 album in full. It’s hearty, throbbing and special. A Boise united here for independent music. For art beautiful and simply elegant. Rooted in things familiar aimed toward riotous depths and enormous heights. For sweet local things with global potential. Built to Spill is all that. And so are here for them now at yet another send-off for old friends preparing for a European tour. It is hope represented for every Boise artist, but most especially those independent, starving and hardworking.

In the thick of the album now, we are enthralled and cannot get enough. Anyone who sees performances regularly learns to sense an audience who is listening. This one is captivated, absorbing every note. Like hearing the sunrise bringing a new dawn, we listening through immersion, amongst dew drops on fresh blossoms opening in finch songs to each new golden ray multiplying in color and warmth. This is how to hear the sun rise and how we now dive into each bang-crash of drums and humming love-chords sweet and piercing. These sounds and words are from here, from the city where we live. All Boise (represented by a swarming Knitting Factory) is hanging on this Built to Spill. And so we cheer.

This is noise worth local pride. Of course we demand Built to Spill continue once Perfect from Now On concludes, and we are generously appeased with You Were Right from Keep It Like a Secret in return. How satisfying.

Originally Posted to The Boise Picayune on Tuesday, September 2, 2008

These Boys Could Make me a Country Music Fan: Poke at Neurolux

With the distinct rip of a distortion peddle, Poke calls Wednesday night Neuroluxians away from nightcap table chats and into easy submission on the dance floor. Thus four local dudes start the room a-cookin’ so a midweek Boise crowd can handle a hot Slim Cessna’s Auto Club from Denver. Armed in Western apparel, rough n’ ready attitudes and Frontman Brad Deteau’s down-home-on-the-Texas-ranch dialect, Poke has some unmistakably country roots.

Another unmistakable root is the coarse, strained one that quickly forms a knot between my shoulder blades when I pass country rock stations during those rare occasions that I take a chance touring the radio waves. All right, all right. I admit that my aversion to country music is a biased, unfair opinion based on the stereotypes I eagerly attempt to break down everyday. So call me a hypocrite. True, not all contemporary country stars are well-dressed, pretty-boys who bemoan loss and luckless lives with flawless, toothy grins and, holding up an American apple pie as their one and only hope, wait patiently for a sweet check in the mail.

I can hear Poke wailing a different tune. They still have my attention twenty minutes into the set and my focus on them only grows. A gruff force and hard hitting beats, plenty of them, rip a more rebellious note than I have heard most contemporary country artists risk. This is the edge of old time rock stemming from backwoods, two-teeth, six-string jammers on a dilapidated family cabin porch at suppertime. Lead guitarist Bobby “Speedy” Gray (who handed out plenty of colorful wooden noisemakers after their sound check) even poses his guitar to his hip like a shotgun to prove his melodic point early on, and then draws it low and loose a few songs later like Buddy Holly would.

As they combine a warped chord sequence to rival Fugazi, a hammering tempo as scathing as The Pogues and throaty vocals echoing Ian Curtis of Joy Division, Poke has an attitude more punk rock than country western. Mixing that defiance with Dustin Sandmeyer’s playful shuffle on Doghouse Bass, a highly energized drum sequence from Jason Kappel and hearty portions of hootin’ and hollerin’ helps temper my rockabilly frustrations.

Just seeing foundations of rock and roll from a country band instead of whiney pseudo-rock stars pretending to play with passion while only fighting for fashion gives me hope.

While Poke offers one last tune with Speedy Gray again surprising me by needling a shrieking melody over his head with his ax up on his back, I am certain a few metal heroes would be proud to call him “son”. And before exiting the stage for Slim Cessna’s Auto Club, Poke shouts out for the third time to adoring fans gathered below, “What’s that, country?” This welcomes another eager response of, “Fuck yeah, it’s country!” And with that, the rowdy-riffs from this country band give my spur-soured head something new to chew on. At least someone has some thick, juicy chords on their hands.

It may be time to give contemporary country music another chance.

Originally Posted to The Boise Picayune on Thursday, August 28, 2008

Music and Momosas: Thomas Paul at the red Feather Lounge Sunday Brunch

Songwriter and solo artist Thomas Paul keeps his proverbial deck of musical cards stacked with a wide variety of sounds and genres. A guitarist whose pipes pack an impressive punch, Thomas is always ready to deal out a phat beat, hit a blue note and a minor chord with his guitar pick, twang a sweet folk string or rock out with the best of ‘em. The style of choice depends where he’s playing that night and for whom. Keeping an ear to the audience, Thomas is not afraid to adjust his tempo, genre or sound altogether from one gig to another.

This past Sunday afternoon at Red Feather, he picks his deck of cover songs from a sleeve tailored especially for these brunch performances. This intimate, posh lounge environment calls for an atmospheric soundtrack as patrons sip on mimosas over eggs Benedict, and covers filtered through Mr. Paul’s haunting voice fit the location beautifully.

Regarding his repertoire of covers: as a songwriter himself, Thomas goes far beyond racking up a list of Lite FM or Classic Rock top hits, picking out a basic chord structure and repeating note for note what I could hear off my buddy’s iTunes account. He rearranges each one and makes it his own. Hearing “Toxic” through Thomas’ sleek finger picking and melancholic voice, I was impressed-as-usual by his brilliant writing. After two or three more listens, I remembered the song from a Brittany Spears music video I had seen years before—not a viewing experience I’m proud to admit. This new piercing arrangement let me appreciate the stinging melody and driving lyrics for what they’re worth. No longer the original dance-beat landscape where a busty Spears can shake her tailfeather, I can see how worthwhile “Toxic” can be.

Even the Beatles’ “Eleanor Rigby” is reborn in Thomas Paul’s hands as he changes its tempo with a new strum pattern resembling an impatient toe-tap. It’s up and down like clockwork from a grandfather clock on speed. Or a ticking time bomb. Thomas’ simple rhythmic choice nicely suits Lennon and McCartney’s classic and takes it to a different level. The song’s thematic elements centering on the everyday life (and death) of hardworking people caught in a lower class struggle get new found strength when Thomas hits a new audience hard with the original message.

Thomas continues with “Subterranean Homesick Alien” by Radiohead, and though he’s only one guitar and one voice in a crowded brunch time venue, his sound still carries the visceral orchestral authority to make Thom Yorke proud.

When not playing solo, Thomas joins a long line of excellent talent at shows inside Boise and out. A great leader and sideman, he frequents Penguilly’s, Neurolux, Terrapin Station, Moon’s Kitchen and more with full bands varying in sound and genre as much as Thomas does from place to place and crowd to crowd. It’s all a choice in the cards he plays that night. Thomas Paul’s adaptability, witty banter between sets and ever-evolving style can keep anyone guessing about which deck he pulls out at a particular show, but rest assured it will be a solid performance every night. We’re lucky to have him in Boise.

For upcoming shows, visit Thomas Paul’s MySpace Page

Originally Posted to The Boise Picayune on Tuesday, August 26, 2008