Last Wednesday, I made the ardous trek to First Avenue in Minneapolis. 35W is an apocalyptic nightmare right now (a lonely octagenarian in a produce department once told me, "Minnesota has two seasons: winter and road construction"). This makes the post-rush hour, northbound deathraces especially tough on the knuckles. Usually, this isn't the type of thing that I'll tackle when a fully-stacked Thursday is glaring daggers into my face, but goddammit, I was paying good money to see Baroness--quite possibly the most electrifying rock band in the United States--open for a band that (kind of) tries to be, Clutch.
Unfortunately, Baroness didn't make the trip. With little regard for my ticket that had been patiently waiting at will call, the band pulled off the tour, citing family issues--which is totally cool and understandable. But my manic, uninformed ass didn't get the memo. As it was handed to me on the Seventh Street sidewalk, dejection began to set in. It was going to be a long motherfuckin' Wednesday night. I just paid 30 bucks to see a band I've already seen twice (Clutch), a band I'd never heard (Lionize), and a band that I didn't really give a shit about (Saviours). Once inside, though, I was determined to put a solid foot forward. As an unidentifed Clutch fan and I were awkwardly discussing the circumstances of Baroness' absence near the merch table, the woman that was in charge of shilling Saviours' oddly black metal-esque t-shirts warbled, "I'm friends with them. Their guitarist had a kid, that's why they aren't here." Whether she was talking about JDB or the dude from Valkyrie wasn't specified, but I'd have to say that's as good a reason as any to cut a Midwest run short.
In light of the cancellation, I was slightly regretful of my decision to prostrate my pocketbook for the Ticketmaster demigods (apparently, these economic times are tough). At the time, I was in little mood to wrangle my way onto a guest list on any type--that's part of the reason why there won't be any original images in this little blast of text. The pursuit of a photo pass was and is generally unappealing. Worming your way through the venue and past security is a pain in the ass, and entrenching yourself in a photo pit during band's set is kind of a buzzkill. When your photography skills are as sub-par as mine, the tradeoff isn't worthwhile.
Assuredly, the fact that I haven't been yet been bothered to properly learn the ins-and-outs of the camera I purchased nearly a year ago had no bearing on the situation. Honestly.
Anyway, after a few minutes of milling and chilling, Saviours hit the stage with nary a warning. Oddly restrained in their wildness, the very tattooed, and very, um, haired foursome bashed away with rudimentary grit.
I remember getting tattooed myself while one of their albums blared in the background. Unfortunately, nothing about their music was memorable, and I only remembered the event after the 4th random person at the venue asked me if I'd heard them before.
Live, the story's similar; the sound of salvation is apparently tuneless and hookless. Riffs and lyrics dissipated as quickly as they were fired. Their faster numbers flew by before anything could take hold, and their groovier takes were too bathed in cliché to warrant eyebrow spiking. Their crawled-from-a-cave rhythm section was the band's saving grace, in spite of only having two speeds: "Overkill" and "Phantom Lord." As their set wore on, though, they began to win over the sparse crowd, in direct spite of their mediocrity. By the time their Baroness Jr. twin guitar takes seeped into their final song, a small contingent of enthusiasts began to take shape. One early drunkard managed to stumble his way to the front of the stage to attack his air drums with full fervor. With this sight, a realization suddenly smacked me in the face like a moldy towel: I was stuck in the middle of the whitest crowd imaginable.
Not because of the crowd's utter lack of diversity--which was certainly glaring in it's own right--but how generic these dudes were. It was like living out the first level of River City Ransom. The drunken air drummer was decked to the nines in white-boy fatigues: Asics cross-trainers, white socks, khaki shorts, limp-brimmed MLB cap, and the pièce de résistance......a fucking No Ma'am t-shirt. I was blinded. I shielded my eyes with my hand and glanced left, only to see a pudgy twentysomething in nearly the same getup, this time wearing a navy blue NRA t-shirt. Frantically, I looked right...then left again...and finally, a deluge of advertisements bombarded me from every angle--National Hot Rod Association, Gander Mountain, Cabela's, Dickies, Rush. It was like I'd died and gone to LL Bean. I needed to keep my wits sharp and my reflexes taut; the possibility of someone offering me a Michelob Golden Draft Light was strong.
Hoping to turn this Wonder Bread spectrum into something a little more festive, Lionize hit the stage. Clueless as to the band's pedigree, I simply assumed them to be a noisy, scraggly hipster outfit similar to Saviours. About twenty seconds into their set, two and two were put together. The word Lionize wasn't an allusion to morphing yourself into a man-eating beast. No, we were talking "Iron Lion Zion" here. A laid-back, chilled out, Long Beach Dub All-Stars reggae vibe, the kind of thing that would compel Sublime-loving, bandanna-clad college freshmen to blow their entire trust funds on mediocre BC's. In other words, it was metalhead kryptonite. But the sandals-with-socks crowd was digging it, for sure.
Between thoughts of public suicide, I wondered what a band like Lionize was doing sandwiched between a group of ragged almost-metallers and one of the most prominent hard rock bands on the planet. Then, after some visual strain, I noticed that the statuesque (in terms of agility, not elegance) guitarist that was nestled in the back of the stage was none other than Clutch's Tim Sult, who was steadily scraping upstrokes as a malnourished keyboardist channeled Stevie Wonder's anticipatory ghost.
Ah.
Let's just say the bartenders in the back did pretty well for themselves during this set.
The Clutchites were getting restless, and by the time their pure rock heroes took the stage, the crowd was ready to erupt...into a moderately furious storm of head-nodding and fist-raising. Clutch opened with the lead single from Strange Cousins From The West, and then tore into a bunch of songs from their most recent albums--none of which really do anything for me, or do anything to stand out from each other. "Electric Worry" stomped pretty hard (even without the harmonica), but the majority of their recent material is too heavy on the twang and too fey with the hammer. When they broke into "Profits of Doom" and "The Mob Goes Wild" from the mighty Blast Tyrant, the difference was palpable. These guys seem to be mellowing with age...but I'm not old yet.
To be fair, though, Neil Fallon's energy is ageless. Thankfully compensating for the stone-footed, ballcapped gargoyles that flanked him, the dude was a man on fire that Wednesday evening. His voice was absolutely on-point, and the giant vein that traverses his forehead threatened to leap out and punch me in the mouth, growing ever angrier after each of his biblical roars.
Unfortunately, this band simply isn't killing it right now. While Neil is is top form, the other 3/4 of the band seemed to be internally vying for the title of Least Entertaining Performer in the History of Rock. As Captain has alluded to previously, the band is firmly rooted in Gov't Mule territory, and that just isn't turning the ol' screw. "Southern-fried" and "safe" aren't adjectives that I use favorably, so I think it may be time for Clutch and I to part ways. I left the show mid-set, without getting my "Pure Rock Fury" fix. The August air seemed a bit thicker than usual on the journey home.
My thirst for rock remains unquenched. Three weeks 'til Motörhead. No sleep, motherfuckers....
-JC
Posted
Aug 07 2009, 07:32 AM
by
Rev