My girlfriend can't stand to be on time anywhere, let alone early, be it parties, dinner dates or especially shows. I'm wondering if this transcends personal preference and is a larger cultural trait of her hometown of Seattle, as indie duo The Dutchess and the Duke couldn't get kids to show up on time to hear them play. This is despite the fact that their eponymous debut, released last year, has been one of the area's most commercially successful albums for the local independent record stores- who are shopped by precisely those people who I'd expect to show up early to hear a local darling. It could be a larger matter of that night's bill, however, as Kimberly Morrison (uh, the Dutchess) and Jesse Lortz (his Dukedom) are a much more sober, composed act than the Vice-sanctioned lineup of Nebraskans Flowers Forever and rock's great white hope, the Black Lips.
The Dutchess and the Duke each played electric guitars, accompanied by a percussionist with a floor tom and a tambourine. With this spare recipe, their songs, which they describe as "campfire punk," were entirely typical of indie rock balladry; you can smell a little bit of country and perhaps a little blues, yet there's no real extreme one way or another toward a particular style that might give the music any tang, twang, or spice. It's entirely too hard to view a male/female guitar duo, dueting on songs that are tilting the slightest bit twee, in any lens other than one tinted by the final moments of Juno, where the Moldy Peaches somehow became an overripe nostalgia act before their decade was even up (Morrison's choice of hooded sweatshirt that night was of no help, either). Despite a rousing performance of "Back to Me," I couldn't get hooked. For me, both Morrison and Lortz seemed entirely too much like bored grad student T.A.s to pull off the gravitas that some of their songs needed while others demanded them to be endearing, something not met by their onstage stoicism.
Conversely, Flowers Forever decided right out of the gate that they were not only terribly endearing but without a doubt your kooky Saturday night pals. Adoring two amps used by this Tilly and the Wall side project were a tangled mess of Christmas lights and baby dolls and on the other, a horsey with a long, flowing blonde mane. Frontman Derek Pressnall rambled between songs about backstage inside jokes and continually uttered "right on!" channelling his inner Matthew McConaughey. Flowers Forever's songs are reportedly written around Pressnall's near-mental breakdown and a newfound message of hope, peace, love, etc. etc. for the world. The bouncing rhythms of "Beach Bum" got Neumos moving a little bit but the ironic glasses, v-neck tee-shirts, and new wave synthesizers melded into a blur of indie-flavor-of-the-month, a flavor that the kids who'd come out for the Black Lips (some wearing what you'd expect to see at a Motorhead show) have no taste for.
Atlanta's Black Lips have a reputation preceding their performances, from an tour of India cut short by nudity and a live album recorded in Tijuana with the aid of a very, very confused mariachi band, so I was quite eager to see if it was worth it to believe the hipster hype. My show buddy pointed out that each member seemed to be dressed like a stereotype of white male youth, being four guys that wouldn't necessarily hang out together; guitarist Cole Alexander a pilgrim-hat wearing hipster doofus, bassist Jared Swilley the upper class college student newly into Vampire Weekend and hi-life, spazz drummer Joe Bradley being the smartass skater kid like the guy from Wavves, and guitarist Ian Saint Pé in jeans and a western shirt, the de rigeur outfit for American rock n roll in 2009.
Like the Strange Boys after them (and not to mention more effectively), the Black Lips have taken pop idioms from baby boomers- surf guitar, Nuggets trash rock and call-and-response refrains- using the vocabulary to poke fun at the bloated, fucked world they've gone on to create. Think of the Black Lips, tossing off tasteless songs like the ripping "O Katrina" or kids-playing-with-guns romp "Fairy Stories" as the deformed, stillborn kids birthed from the same generation that gave us Britney and Miley. During the space-out intermission in "Hippie, Hippie, Hoorah," all four members flailed around in slow motion during an acid light show. To further mock their parents' culture, Saint Pé sat cross-legged with his guitar as though dutifully plucking a sitar as the song roared back to life. Sure, the Lips appear quirky, even normal, on the surface but there's a severe sarcasm at play here that makes the question of whether they're joking or not a convoluted riddle (as in, "is Alexander spitting in the air and catching it in his mouth because it's a great gag or does he really hope it lands in some halter top-clad girl's eye?").
In between getting as sweaty as any band could possibly be, the Lips offered views on epidemiology ("swine flu is the new AIDS, guys") and solved the problem of their lack of bottled water by helping themselves to the melted ice from empty mixed drinks on the stage's edge. After give-or-take an hour of ridiculous '60s-aping rock, the Lips hopped off stage while those in attendance waited for the inevitable encore. However, Neumo's 12:30 stage curfew prevented this and after five minutes of cheering, the house lights went on to a dismayed crowd; at first, I thought this to be a gag perpetrated by the Lips- I was convinced it was the among the most badass things I've seen a band pull live. Angry kids started shoving the stage monitors and knocking over mic stands. Empty PBR cans sailed through the air, landing on Bradley's minimalist kit of hi hat, cymbal, snare and kick. Neumos staff pushed drunken kids to the door and onto the sidewalk. Through the backstage entrance, though, was Saint Pé, arguing with the head of event staff, presumably over the curfew.
It's this, what I assume to be an honest ignorance to the venue's rules and regulations and the minor oversight of never having placed my name on the list for a press pass that makes me believe that the concept of the Staged Rock n Roll Performance is a foreign thing to the Black Lips; they roll in, they get sweaty, they make ears ring, they probably engage in some kind of debauchery and then stumble into the next town, knocking over somebody's mom's knick-knacks and someone else's drinks as they arrive and also again when they leave. On a night playing with the dreadfully composed Dutchess and the Duke and the status quo of rock music that Flowers Forever offers, the Black Lips, to me, felt like the first goddamn rock band I'd seen in a long time.
by Chris Middleman
[Photos: Bobby McHugh]