[SET-UP]
Rites of passage
are a funny thing. Often times, though these rites may lead one to
believe otherwise, there is no such door or literal passageway. Less
frequently, as with Stravinsky's Rite of Spring, a riot breaks out
with Valsav Nijinsky's barbarically dancing in the background.
Certain rights are inalienably endowed upon us as members of the
relatively nonexclusive club of mankind. The right to bite the hand
that feeds us, for example; the ability to tell the difference
between right and wrong; knowing that it is possible to have two left
feet, but only one described as “right” are all in some manner
rites of passage.
The story that
follows, however, does not stray far form the original door-centric
train of thought.
The handful of
shows I attended at this venue were by no means the first shows I
went to. For that matter, these concerts were not even my first
exposure to so called horrorpunk. These nights out, though, have been
some of my most memorable. The venue, previously known as Chaser's,
quickly became both an object of my fascination and a point of shock
for my peers. The unwelcome surprise is not the apparent presence of
a dive bar in the middle of Scottsdale, AZs. If anything the jolt was
due to my willingness and insistence in going to local psychobilly
shows.
But the itself
bombshell is in entry.
Since frequenting
this bar in my post high school graduation year of 2008, it should be
noted that the name, the interior, and the atmosphere at large has
changed. This story, though, remains the same. Flanked by a Bartender
Academy and a 24-hour tattoo parlor, entering Chaser's is not unlike
going to a show any other generic club. After walking through the
door, ignoring the adjacent convenience/porn/knife store, and giving
the ticket-master cover, one's entry is granted; no case-sensitive
password needed. Now, here is the all enticing catch: direct entry
to these all ages shows was only granted to those above the age of
21. So how does a gaggle of 18 year olds bypass very concrete walls?
Said ticket master lays it out, “Walk around the building and go in
the back.”
The stage area is
closed off from the rest of the bar; far beyond the reaches of any
young ones. Moreover, re-entry is only allowed until 11:00 p.m. Good
luck if the headliner plays closer to midnight and a cigarette is
desired. To say the that the over 18 under 21 crowd felt out of place
is simply false. We were, more clearly, free entertainment.
Animalistic and zoorific at the same damn time. Undoubtedly my
favorite part of being older than 21 being able to entertain the
idea of attend any and all shows with little to no difficulty.1
So where does the
“first” part come in? One of the shows I attended was organized
by local Misfit knock-off - and what an ex-girlfriendr ruined by
calling a boy band - Calabrese. But this review is not about them.
This review is about a band I had never heard of, only saw once, and
have never witnessed again. A band from the distant territory of
Portland, Oregon who were evidently charismatic enough to get me to
to purchase their music. A CD, mind you, which has sat in relegation,
gathering dust away from any all all CD players, for the past five
years. I have never listened to Hot Rod Carl, except for this one
night (also the first time I
saw Calabrese). What follows is my review of my first ever listen to
their self-released CD titled The Couch Sessions.
[REVIEW]
The record was listened to twice prior to the writing of this review.
Also, before it becomes an issue, I am not familiar with who or what
a Hot Rod Carl is despite a button with these exact words having
adorned my backpack for a number of years past.
If
writing any critical review is to be likened to an experiment, a
hypothesis must be posited, tested, and proven or dis-proven. In the
case of the Hot Rod Carl the question is simple: Am I glorifying a
run of the mill bar band? My hypothesis: yes
But
first some definitions. Bar
band: a band likely to
not only frequent a local watering hole, but become the in-house
entertainment for the sole purpose of apprehending free liquor The
definition for run-of-the-mill, however, intuitive must then be:
indistinguishable from any other member of its ranks.
Harsh?
Perhaps. But an intriguing venture nonetheless.
The
sound of Hot Rod Carl is best described as traditional rockabilly
with a personal touch; nostalgic rock more in the vein of country
cousins than sockhop lovers. While a walking bass-line is a mainstay
of this and every other rockabilly band in history2,
it is not the first impression made on the listener; the aspiring
worthy “Another Day in Hell” is with a painfully catchy hook and
bridge. Plus, this group's individual trademarks are in both the
sound as well as the subject matter.
To
say Hot Rod Carl is Irish tinged is not a stretch. To compare this
quintet to The Pogues or Shane MacGowan, though, is far-sightedly
facetious. Sure, a chorus like "I got a heartache like a sonic
boom / Don't worry things get better, I'll be drunk soon,” may beg
to differ, but not because the narrator's use of alcohol as a viable
escape from life's hardships. After all, “Maybe I'd be happier if I
tried harder but I didn't,” says the band in “Thumbstacks,” the
fifth track. Life in the long haul is not easy. The majority of the
songs on The Couch Sessions
spin like tales of depressing Irish yarn with assorted hardships of
money, love, and regret. While out of context "I can't wait
until the day I die" may seem more akin to an emo band's claim
to fame, its presence in the 8th
track, “Knocked Down,” is as an alternative.
If
a bar-band is in it for the residual and immediate gratification and
not expression, then strike one against the hypothesis.
The
presence of both an acoustic (KennyAger) and electric guitar (Jake
Cline) is as immediately intriguing as the mandolin (Hubbs). But the
patient are handsomely rewarded with interplay of clean and raspy
vocals. By this writer's count, seven of the 11 songs are sung
cleanly and one is sung raspy. The other three? A combination of the
two – as Jake Cline is joined by a member credited simply as
Shannahan. While the alternation can be credited to different
songwriters, this cannot be independently verified. What does beg the
question, though, is why more of the songs are not performed in this
duet style. Yes, Cline's singing can relegate a story with the utmost
intrigue quite well. While some lyrics may have excessive syllables
but his words never sound forced; a raconteur without sounding played
out. It is facile to imagine enjoying a variety of fermented barley
with his voice. Then again, songs by Shannahan posses similar
qualities. What makes combination tracks such as “Why?”
(available for streaming at the blog's SoundCloud here) - a song
recounting how many unknown aspects of life are taken for granted on
a day to day basis gently in etered through the route of acoustic >
electric > bass > drums – is not the good cop bad cop aspect.
The relative beauty of straight singing versus a disguised
counterpart is the initial appeal but not the ultimate source. No.
Rather, songs with both singers feel whole.
In
the end, the hypothesis is not rejected but qualified. Hot Rod Carl
is not a run of the mill bar band. They are run-of-the-mill in a
sense because their rockabilly sound is unlikely to merit being
listened to more so than any other band of its nature. More
importantly is that this is a band made up of guys having fun;
gentelmen who had he opportunity to travel, and will have stories to
tell their kids about the time they played in a band. This is music
not to be taken too seriously, but more than certainly enjoyed at
face value: a good night out.
Jonathan Cohen is a
recovering college radio DJ, discover-er of Jimmy Hoffa Tourettes,
and once lauded expert on shrubbery. You can follow him on Twitter
through the handle @BoggleUrNoggle
1The
look on people's faces when I took them to this “sketchy” locale
was well worth the means to the ends, though.
2If
you guessed that the first presence of reverv would be before
the...third...track, you are correct.
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