When I explained the Apocalyptica concept to my girlfriend, “four cellos and a drummer doing Metallica covers and stuff,” she was a bit skeptical. “Meh,” were her exact words I think. As we drove to Ventura for the show, I tried to convince her that it was going to be awesome, unique, live music experience. She seemed more interested in visiting the Camarillo Outlet mall, going shelling at Leo Carillo, looking at cute craftsman houses in Ventura, and having me take her out to dinner.
While enjoying the latter, we discussed our expectations for the show. Would there be a mosh pit? Would we get beaten up? What exactly happens at a metal show? You see, we were both metal virgins and more than a little nervous our cherry-popping would be a loud, painful experience. And we weren’t entirely wrong.
Upon entering the aptly titled Majestic Theatre, most of our initial concerns were swept aside. We walked past elderly couples in flannel, parents toting small children, a man in a kilt, and a woman belly dancing by herself in some lonely corner of the room. The hardcore metal fans were pushed up front on the first landing in front of the stage. The older, more cautious in attendance, Christine and I included, sat in white plastic chairs well back of any potential mosh pit hot spots. The stage was dressed with two pairs of thrones, built to look like skulls, surrounding a huge drum set, all in front of a massive winged skull cello backdrop. I thought to myself, “so this is a metal show.”
After it was clear the halfway empty theatre wasn’t going to get any fuller, the house music, The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” climaxed in long, high screeching note, and then segwayed into some unholy, beastly sounds. It was a bit cheesy, but had a surprising affect. Christine dragged me down to the front landing for “the real experience” of rocking out right in front of the band.
The lights went down and Apocalyptica appeared on stage urged on by a raucous applause from the hardcore fans on the floor. Their music is dark, wonderfully layered, complex, textured strings, punctuated by machine gun fire drums. And it’s loud, really really loud, I can’t stress that enough. They began playing seated in their skull thrones, but quickly got up and began marching around the stage, cellos in hand, long Finnish hair swirling hypnotically as they began to head-bang.
The crowd was into it too, at least those who were there for a metal show. The older people in the back rows who showed up for cello quartet clapped politely after each song, but seemed a bit uneasy. During “Race” a mosh pit broke out next to Christine and I. It was probably the pussiest mosh pit in the history of metal, three teens with long hair and tight pants smashing into the crowd and one another. Like little gnats, they were easily batted aside but still quite annoying, so Christine and I moved closer to the speakers to avoid being swallowed up in a teeny-bop whirlpool of hormonal angst.
About halfway through the set, Taryn Green (of Fuel) joined the band to provide vocals on a couple of songs, including David Bowie’s “Heroes.” The less said about his time on stage, the better. His presence there not only greatly diminished my pleasure of the music, but had me wondering for the first time whether or not this was just a novelty show.
If “This is Spinal Tap” didn’t already exist, Apocalyptica would be the perfect candidate for a mocumentary. In between hardcore songs with titles like “Betrayal” and “Somewhere Around Nothing” the band adoringly addressed the crowd with sweet Finnish accents and broken English. They giggled and discussed the national sports of Finland (hockey and head-banging), the beauty of California, how much they love metal, and offered several apologies for not speaking better English. Whenever they spoke, they came across as cute. Cute like, I wanted to take them home to meet my mom and have a big bowl of matzah ball soup, cute. I can’t imagine there are many metal bands who would appreciate that type of invitation or label.
The only thing that kept them from becoming a bad SNL sketch, was the sheer quality of their music. I laughed every time they spoke, but as soon as they started playing, I was instantly nodding my head and totally into it. They combined incredible orchestration, with precise execution, and I couldn’t help but get fired up. That was, until my ears stopped working.
Christine was also suffering. Her ears were destroyed and she was getting upset, so we ventured to the back of the room to escape the speakers. From our new perch, we both enjoyed covers of “Enter Sandman,” “Nothing Else Matters,” and the epic “Hall of the Mountain King.” The later proved to be both playful and cathartic, two adjectives I would’ve thought were nearly mutually exclusive.
After a (somewhat undeserved) double encore, Christine and I returned to my car for our drive back to LA. She hates metal and instrumental music, but I managed to get her to admit, the show was not only interesting but truly impressive. The quality and complexity of the music we had witnessed was unlike anything either of us had ever seen. It was our first metal show and a pretty incredible experience. She did have a few complaints, mostly about the songs with vocals and how much her ears hurt. Fortunately, I was at the same rip-roaring, head-banging, incredibly awesome and loud show, and her complaints fell on largely deaf ears.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
The Slackers @ The El Rey
Outside the Rudeboy scene, ska music doesn’t get a whole lot of respect. The mid-nineties commercial success of bands like the Mighty Mighty Bosstones and Reel Big Fish made the entire genre feel a bit dated by the turn of the century. My friends raised more than a few eyebrows, when I mentioned that I was leaving a splendid Kentucky Derby party to go see a ska band. My girlfriend, who I dragged along, was ready to leave me when we realized I’d misread the concert info and we arrived a good two and half hours before the Slackers were going to play.
The first of two opening bands, The Chris Murray Combo, did little to sunny her disposition. It’s not just that they were so terrible, which they were, but that they were terrible in such a cliché way. The subject matter of every song seemed to be Rudeboys, skanking, and/or rocksteady. Every song featured a walking bass line, syncopated guitar riffs, and a bass drum accented EVERY third beat. It was tedious to say the least.
So I bought Christine a $9 Stella Artois and assured her that the Slackers would be worth her wait. Then something surprising happened: our conversation about how much we both hated opening bands, especially when there were two opening bands, was interrupted by the curtain and the first rip-roaring notes of Deal’s Gone Bad’s opening song. I’d never heard them before, never even heard of them, but they were good. And not just good, in the “they’re surprisingly not bad for an opener” sort of way, but good in a “I’m tempted to go the merch table and actually buy one of their albums” sort of way.
Their lead singer, Todd Hembrook, had a serious set of chops on him. He belted out lyrics about dishonest men and cheating women and had the room skanking almost immediately. Complimented by some impressive horns and a formidable rhythm section, Hembrook was able to get me out of the doghouse with my girlfriend.
And then came The Slackers. Generally considered to be the best live ska show anywhere, the Slackers didn’t disappoint. Having played together since 1991, the band is always incredibly polished, seamlessly transitioning between slower crowd favorites like “Wasted Days” and rocking up-tempo songs like “Have The Time.” They even brought out Hepcats vocalist Alex Désert for an inspired reggae version of Bill Whither’s classic “Ain’t No Sunshine.”
Little treats like Désert’s cameo always make for a unique show, but the band’s consistently excellent live performances stem from their horns and front man. Glen Pine is always a treat on trombone (and vocals) and Dave Hillyard seemed to be particularly on point with a variety of impressive solos over the course of night, but my favorite is Vic Ruggerio.
Ruggerio, wearing a variety of hats, including principle songwriter, lead vocals, keyboards, and even harmonica on a few songs, is a special musician. His most recent solo album, Something In My Blindspot, is nothing short of spectacular. I truly believe he’d be considered one of today’s best singer-songwriters if he weren’t the front man for a ska band. On this particular night, he suffered from a bit of logorrhea, subjecting the crowd to a handful of lengthy monologues about the origins of various songs, but that didn’t stop him from rocking the crowd.
And rock they did. Christine and I danced, which in itself is an impressive feat. The best (indie rock) shows we attend may result in swaying, but dancing almost never occurs. We weren’t alone. The room jostled and grooved throughout the night, and an unlikely duo, a teen and his gray haired middle-aged father standing in front of me, awkwardly bopped up and down to the music. Throughout the show, typically after a particularly passionate solo or chorus, the kid would nudge his dad like, “see, see, this band is kick-ass enough that even an old man would appreciate it?” and every time, the dad nudged his son right back, like “Holy shit, my kid might actually have some pretty good taste in music.” And you know what? They were both right.
The first of two opening bands, The Chris Murray Combo, did little to sunny her disposition. It’s not just that they were so terrible, which they were, but that they were terrible in such a cliché way. The subject matter of every song seemed to be Rudeboys, skanking, and/or rocksteady. Every song featured a walking bass line, syncopated guitar riffs, and a bass drum accented EVERY third beat. It was tedious to say the least.
So I bought Christine a $9 Stella Artois and assured her that the Slackers would be worth her wait. Then something surprising happened: our conversation about how much we both hated opening bands, especially when there were two opening bands, was interrupted by the curtain and the first rip-roaring notes of Deal’s Gone Bad’s opening song. I’d never heard them before, never even heard of them, but they were good. And not just good, in the “they’re surprisingly not bad for an opener” sort of way, but good in a “I’m tempted to go the merch table and actually buy one of their albums” sort of way.
Their lead singer, Todd Hembrook, had a serious set of chops on him. He belted out lyrics about dishonest men and cheating women and had the room skanking almost immediately. Complimented by some impressive horns and a formidable rhythm section, Hembrook was able to get me out of the doghouse with my girlfriend.
And then came The Slackers. Generally considered to be the best live ska show anywhere, the Slackers didn’t disappoint. Having played together since 1991, the band is always incredibly polished, seamlessly transitioning between slower crowd favorites like “Wasted Days” and rocking up-tempo songs like “Have The Time.” They even brought out Hepcats vocalist Alex Désert for an inspired reggae version of Bill Whither’s classic “Ain’t No Sunshine.”
Little treats like Désert’s cameo always make for a unique show, but the band’s consistently excellent live performances stem from their horns and front man. Glen Pine is always a treat on trombone (and vocals) and Dave Hillyard seemed to be particularly on point with a variety of impressive solos over the course of night, but my favorite is Vic Ruggerio.
Ruggerio, wearing a variety of hats, including principle songwriter, lead vocals, keyboards, and even harmonica on a few songs, is a special musician. His most recent solo album, Something In My Blindspot, is nothing short of spectacular. I truly believe he’d be considered one of today’s best singer-songwriters if he weren’t the front man for a ska band. On this particular night, he suffered from a bit of logorrhea, subjecting the crowd to a handful of lengthy monologues about the origins of various songs, but that didn’t stop him from rocking the crowd.
And rock they did. Christine and I danced, which in itself is an impressive feat. The best (indie rock) shows we attend may result in swaying, but dancing almost never occurs. We weren’t alone. The room jostled and grooved throughout the night, and an unlikely duo, a teen and his gray haired middle-aged father standing in front of me, awkwardly bopped up and down to the music. Throughout the show, typically after a particularly passionate solo or chorus, the kid would nudge his dad like, “see, see, this band is kick-ass enough that even an old man would appreciate it?” and every time, the dad nudged his son right back, like “Holy shit, my kid might actually have some pretty good taste in music.” And you know what? They were both right.
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