Peter Berkowitz is an editor, reporter, critic and essayist for LEO Weekly.
For almost a decade, he has also written about music, comedy, nightlife, dining and other adventures for The Louisville Courier-Journal, Velocity Weekly and Metromix Louisville, and Bejeezus and Spin magazines.
He has written cover stories on Louisville Mayor Greg Fischer, local restaurants, the local DJ scene, public radio, Bonnie 'Prince' Billy, Jim James, My Morning Jacket, Coliseum, Rodan, Jason Noble and Henry Rollins.
He has also
- been a regular columnist
- reviewed bars, and interviewed dozens of bartenders, baristas and shop clerks
- interviewed chefs, including Duff Goldman, Edward Lee and Timothy Tucker
- profiled TV personalities from "Ace of Cakes," "America's Best Dance Crew," "The Aquabats! Super Show," "The League," "Metalocalypse," "The Real Housewives of Orange County," "Top Chef," and "Yo Gabba Gabba!"
- interviewed comedians Andrew Dice Clay, Bill Cosby, Brian Regan, Demetri Martin, Hannibal Buress, Steve Rannizzisi and Tom Green.
- interviewed actor Kal Penn, playwright Marco Ramirez, author David Martin Stack, artist Justin Kamerer, filmmaker Dave Markey, journalist Jason Howard, public radio hosts David Dye and Jesse Thorn, Bonnaroo Music Festival founder Ashley Capps and Forecastle Festival founder J.K.McKnight.
- He has also written biographies for the Louisville-based bands King's Daughters & Sons, Nautical Fox and Second Story Man.
He earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in English, with a concentration in writing, from Indiana University. He lives in the Schnitzelburg neighborhood of Louisville, Kentucky, USA.
Musical acts he has interviewed include:
Abigail Washburn, Alejandro Escovedo, Bassekou Kouyate, Ben Sollee, Biz Markie, Bonnie 'Prince' Billy, Buddy Miller, Catherine Irwin, Cheyenne Mize, Chris Knight, Dan Deacon, Dawn Landes, Del McCoury, Gregg Allman, Hayes Carll, Janiva Magness, Jason Isbell, JD Crowe, Jerry Douglas, Jim James, Jim Kweskin, Jimmy Sturr, Joan Shelley, John Cowan, John McCutcheon, Josephine Foster, Juan MacLean, Kacey Musgraves, Kris Kristofferson, Langhorne Slim, Laura Marling, Lee Ranaldo, Mike Watt, Nanci Griffith, Neko Case, Rachel Grimes, Ronald Jenkees, Rosanne Cash, Sallie Ford, Sara Watkins, Sarah Jarosz, Tift Merritt, Tim O'Brien, Van Dyke Parks, Weird Al Yankovic
and members of Alabama Shakes, Amon Amarth, Anthrax, Asobi Seksu, Bear In Heaven, Black Sabbath, Blind Pilot, Blitzen Trapper, Bowerbirds, Buffalo Killers, Calexico, Califone, California Guitar Trio, Cheer-Accident, The Coal Porters, Coke Dick Motorcycle Awesome, Coliseum, Corrosion of Conformity, Dailey & Vincent, David Wax Museum, Dead Meadow, Death Cab for Cutie, Def Leppard, Dirty Projectors, Down, Dry the River, East Cackalacky Ascetic Marching Death Band, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, Elenowen, Elephant Micah, Father Figures, Father John Misty, Faun Fables, Fleet Foxes, Freakwater, The Funky Meters, Gang Gang Dance, Grupo Fantasma, Ha Ha Tonka, The Head and the Heart, Heartless Bastards, Heavy Trash, Helmet, Horse Feathers, Houndmouth, Insane Clown Posse, The Jayhawks, JC Brooks & the Uptown Sound, JEFF the Brotherhood, Junior Boys, Junip, The Lee Boys, Lil' Ed & the Blues Imperials, A Lion Named Roar, Los Campesinos!, The Low Anthem, Maiden Radio, Matmos, Melvins, Menomena, Milo Greene, Mint Condition, Mountain Heart, Mucca Pazza, My Morning Jacket, The National, Natural Child, Neptune, The New Mastersounds, Obits, Of Montreal, Old Baby, The Pass, The Pennies, The Phantom Family Halo, Pierced Arrows, Puscifer, Red Baraat, Rodan, Sebadoh, Seluah, Shabazz Palaces, Shipping News, The Shondes, Small Sur, Social Distortion, The Soft Moon, Spirits of the Red City, The Staves, The Tedeschi Trucks Band, They Might Be Giants, Those Darlins, Trampled By Turtles, The Walkmen, Wax Fang, Whistle Peak, White Denim, Whitehorse, White Rabbits, Winterpills, Woods, Xerxes, and more.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Shoot me out the sky
Here
Rodan reissues old recordings in a new world
a fire in its heart
will not let it die
it roars and fumes and cries all day
shoot me out the sky
—From “Shiner”
Fifteen Quiet Years ended up taking 19 years. The album, a reissue of early material by Rodan, one of the defining bands of the Louisville scene, made it out despite roadblocks created by bankruptcy, death and relative indifference.
Fifteen Quiet Years isn’t the definitive collection of Rodan’s music, and this story isn’t the definitive story of Rodan; it’s likely that neither can ever happen now.
A band with the conventional rock line-up of two guitars, a bassist and a drummer, Rodan evolved from a late-teens attempt at hip-hop by Jeff Mueller and Jason Noble, the duo who would become Rodan’s guitarists. The band would break up after three years. Officially, the members wouldn’t work on Rodan again for 15 years — hence, the title of the new collection released June 11 — though the truth is, as usual, more complicated.
You are what you eat
Jeff Mueller and Jason Noble’s previous group, with friend Greg King, was King G & the J Krew (“G” being Greg, “J Krew” being Jeff and Jason — brilliant, stupid, or both?). As the Krew struggled to play their sample and electronically based rap/rock compositions (as heard on their CD Indestructible Songs of the Humpback Whale), King left the band.
“(The group) was just too crazy, and we just didn’t know how to make live music. It had been entirely a craft project to that point, just a studio project,” Mueller recalls. “We tried a couple of times to play live shows and it worked, sort of — it was very loose.”
King G had songs like “Bass: The Final Frontier,” “Kung Fu Kick to Ya Mind” and “Biscuits N Gravy (Bowel Death N Raven Mix),” demonstrating the goofy humor known to all who have encountered them, and a quality less obvious in Rodan. Musically, they were inspired by some of the first wave of hip-hoppers who had appealed to white, middle-class teen boys like them — Public Enemy, Run-D.M.C. and LL Cool J. But in trying to translate their hip-hop to the stage, the guys realized they lacked the know-how to make it work. Also, Mueller says, “We thought it was just too fun to be loud and dirty and punk.”
As they returned their focus to their guitars, Mueller and Noble had become even more inspired by the local bands they were going to see.
Though their national audience would assume Rodan had been primarily inspired by the Chicago post-punk underground, in part due to their eventual deal with Touch and Go Records, their local social circle had a larger effect on Rodan than Second City bands like the Jesus Lizard or Big Black.
“I had freshly graduated from high school and actually dropped out of Indiana after two years of college,” Mueller says. “And going to see Kinghorse, Crain and Slint and those sorts of things, that was our access; that was our conduit into that kind of music, those bands.”
Their allegiance to their hometown came with a price.
“We would get harshed for sounding like some of the bands that we grew up with.”
“I always think it is an interesting criticism, when it’s so apparent that Rodan was clearly a band from Louisville. From the start, it was ‘Rodan, Louisville band.’ To me, that’s what it felt like. It felt like the Kentucky Derby, you know? It’s what Louisville felt like,” Mueller says.
But you are what you eat, he adds. “I think it is impossible not to draw comparisons between certain things and to source our inspirations … but we always tried to plant our own vantage point on things.”
A little family
Rodan became a combination of the band members’ influences, their city, the times in which they lived, and the chemistry between them. “As far as the impetus or the inspiration for Rodan, it was very broad,” Mueller recalls. “I think we were just trying to grab onto whatever made sense once we were in the room together for practice.”
In late 1991, Mueller and Noble moved into a Victorian in Old Louisville known as “The Rocket House.” Its owner was friend and fellow musician Jon Cook.
“Jon had agreed to help us make some of our song ideas into actual songs, and that was one of the most cathartic moments for me — figuring out which way to go with music,” Mueller says. “Playing with Jon (on drums) was one of the most invigorating experiences because he was so fast and easy in some ways — in some ways he was really, really horrible to play with,” he says with a laugh, “but he was amazing to be in a room with.”
Now the band had a drummer, and the last slot left to fill was bass. Tara Jane O’Neil played in a band called Drinking Woman, and had sung and played bass live for King G. She was a walking contradiction — someone who would go to hardcore shows wearing a hippie tapestry dress.
“I literally was a teenager,” says O’Neil, who is now working on her seventh solo album. “It wasn’t like, ‘Oh, this is going to be a career.’”
They were all just friends hanging out. “There was a time when we all lived in the Rocket House,” she says. “We were a little family.”
But Cook didn’t last long, nor did replacement John Weiss. Finally, Kevin Coultas, who had added drums to King G’s album, entered as the final permanent member. He might have been the original drummer, but his parents insisted he finish college, while the other three were impatient to hit the road.
Finally, he earned a degree in psychology, “so naturally I joined a rock band.”
“It was almost full-circle,” Coultas says about his circuitous return to the band when they needed him most, “like it was in a script or something.”
They went through a few attempts at naming the band before stopping at Rodan, a 1950s Japanese movie character — a flying monster who was frenemies with Godzilla.
Meaty beaty big and bouncy
Rodan recorded a demo, called Aviary, in Baltimore in 1993. That demo appears cleaned up and in its entirety on Fifteen Quiet Years. Some of its songs were also re-recorded for their national debut, Rusty, a year later, with engineer Bob Weston. “We were just kids trying to figure out how to make it work,” Mueller says.
He continues, “There are some from the Aviary session versus the Rusty session (where) the (demo) versions of those songs to me sound more ferocious.”
Which is not, he stresses, to discredit the more professional job Weston did with their material. In Baltimore, it was all so new and exciting to be in an actual recording studio. “We didn’t really know how to play our instruments, and (so our attitude was), ‘Let’s just kind of go at it and make it as brassy as we possibly can,’” Mueller says.
At that point, they were more fond of abrasiveness, and keeping mistakes in — or making sounds that sounded like mistakes but really weren’t, that were planned, as long as it sounded right to them. But as they toured, Rodan learned to refine their rougher edges without losing the original spirit.
Mueller points to a song called “Shiner,” which they recorded twice. The first version appears on Fifteen Quiet Years as “Shiner 92” to differentiate it from the 1994 Rusty version. He likes the original better — “I just think it sounds more meaty and raunchy.”
That’s one reason why Fifteen Quiet Years was put together — to try to rewrite what little of their story they can, to clarify what they were trying to do, and to show people how much more they could do.
Another song, “Darjeeling,” was recorded for a 7” single for Simple Machines, an indie label in Arlington, Va. During the re-mastering process in 2009, Weston beefed the song up even more, says Mueller. “He made it more grisly ... and that version of the song sounds — maybe to someone else it might not sound that different, but to me it sounds significantly different.”
Moving on
Rodan broke up less than a year after Rusty’s April 1994 release. Though they could bicker like siblings at times, there was no big blow-up. Noble and O’Neil had other ideas they were eager to explore, and Mueller alludes to troubles within the band’s social group in Louisville at the time. Mueller started a new band, June of 44. Noble resurrected his modern classical group Rachel’s (in which he was reunited with King G, Greg King). O’Neil started two of her own projects, The Sonora Pine and Retsin. Coultas continued working with O’Neil for a period. Soon, Mueller and Noble reunited with a new band, Shipping News. Though Mueller hasn’t lived in Louisville since 1995, and Noble stayed, they continued to work together on Shipping News for the next 15 years, until Noble’s death from a rare form of cancer last year.
A bad connection
On their one tour of England, Rodan played on legendary BBC radio DJ John Peel’s show. His “Peel Sessions,” recorded between 1967 and 2004, became a touchstone for bands. Rodan’s biggest goal, and problem, in compiling Fifteen Quiet Years became getting the BBC to license them their own recordings, three songs performed on June 3, 1994.
“They were just really slow,” Mueller says. “An email exchange that required a yes or no response — that could take them six months. Often times, it would come back convoluted.”
As the years passed, the price came down as interest in the band waned and the music business changed. During those quiet years, a few offers came in to reunite, but nothing like the sold-out tours Slint came back to when they reunited in 2005. “We were a success in our own eyes, and I think we had some pretty intense and amazing fans,” Mueller says. “But I don’t think we were one of those status bands.”
Playing together again “could have been fun,” O’Neil says. “Who knows? I’m glad this record came together. That’s just going to have to be good enough.”
Jimmy Fallon’s music booker, Jonathan Cohen, is a big fan of the band. He tells LEO, “I would have killed to have had them reunite on the show. The thought never occurred to me when Jason was alive simply because there was no activity in their camp, and they had always consistently said (in the press) they weren’t interested.”
Back in the spotlight
In 2009, as the band worked on the project, Touch and Go Records, the Chicago-based label who had signed them and several of the members’ subsequent bands, announced they could no longer afford to release new albums. Victims of the downloading era, the company laid off most of its staff and focused on keeping their catalog in print. Their subsidiary, Quarterstick Records, has now briefly awakened from its coma to release Fifteen Quiet Years.
Label head Corey Rusk is “really excited to finally be releasing Fifteen Quiet Years.” Rodan has remained close to his heart throughout the years, both for the music and for the personal relationships it led to.
“They are all such special, sweet people. In regards to Rusty, I don’t think any of us felt like it really needs re-mastering,” he says, though Coultas disagrees. “But the tracks on Fifteen Quiet Years have been MIA for far too long … this album really needs to exist.”
Mueller and Noble often discussed how best to put the collection together affordably. Another question became, “What do we do if the record does come out? How do we promote it? If you’re not touring, you won’t sell any records these days.”
“I don’t know how it will land, or if it will register,” O’Neil muses about the scattered media landscape. “People could be super-excited about it, and I wouldn’t necessarily even know.”
Last month, Cohen posted “Shiner 92” on the Jimmy Fallon show’s Tumblr, calling Rodan “one of my all-time favorite bands.”
“It was the first time we’ve ever done something like that here, and I really went to bat for it because I am passionate about exposing new listeners to Rodan’s music,” Cohen says. “It isn’t often that a band who was barely around for three years and only released one album is finding new fans nearly 20 years later. And the reason why that still happens is because the music remains so vital and unique.”
The children
These days, Mueller is a family man who runs a letterpress business with his wife in New Haven, Conn. O’Neil remains a traveling musician. Coultas is a fifth-grade teacher in Louisville. Noble and Cook died within six months of each other, in August 2012 and February 2013, respectively; Cook died of complications from pancreatitis, exacerbated by alcohol use.
According to Mueller, “(Rodan) was mostly a creative project for all of us to exercise our musical demons, to try and make something for ourselves that was worth something and hopefully make it viable for someone else as well.”
Mueller hopes this release is received as sounding as fresh as the band felt about their music back then, rather than being perceived as a nostalgia record. “I hope people like it. I hope it is not seen as a vanity release or something like that — and it kind of is, to be perfectly honest,” he laughs.
Ben Sears, 24, drums in several Louisville bands. He says, “Rodan will always be relevant. Sure, they came out in the ’90s and they are from Louisville, so that might make them ‘period pieces’ to some people, but the songs are so intricate and aggressive and well-played that they can’t not be relevant … (Rodan) definitely changed how I observe and play music.”
Coultas recently taught a guitar class at his school. One day, a fifth–grade student — the son of another musician — said to him, “Hey, Mr. Coultas! I like Rodan a lot. Can you play some Rodan?”
Coultas, bemused, told him the music wasn’t playable on acoustic guitars, but the child persisted.
“Don’t tell my dad, but I like Rodan a lot better than any of his bands.”
Photo by Ewolf. c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Rodan reissues old recordings in a new world
a fire in its heart
will not let it die
it roars and fumes and cries all day
shoot me out the sky
—From “Shiner”
Fifteen Quiet Years ended up taking 19 years. The album, a reissue of early material by Rodan, one of the defining bands of the Louisville scene, made it out despite roadblocks created by bankruptcy, death and relative indifference.
Fifteen Quiet Years isn’t the definitive collection of Rodan’s music, and this story isn’t the definitive story of Rodan; it’s likely that neither can ever happen now.
A band with the conventional rock line-up of two guitars, a bassist and a drummer, Rodan evolved from a late-teens attempt at hip-hop by Jeff Mueller and Jason Noble, the duo who would become Rodan’s guitarists. The band would break up after three years. Officially, the members wouldn’t work on Rodan again for 15 years — hence, the title of the new collection released June 11 — though the truth is, as usual, more complicated.
You are what you eat
Jeff Mueller and Jason Noble’s previous group, with friend Greg King, was King G & the J Krew (“G” being Greg, “J Krew” being Jeff and Jason — brilliant, stupid, or both?). As the Krew struggled to play their sample and electronically based rap/rock compositions (as heard on their CD Indestructible Songs of the Humpback Whale), King left the band.
“(The group) was just too crazy, and we just didn’t know how to make live music. It had been entirely a craft project to that point, just a studio project,” Mueller recalls. “We tried a couple of times to play live shows and it worked, sort of — it was very loose.”
King G had songs like “Bass: The Final Frontier,” “Kung Fu Kick to Ya Mind” and “Biscuits N Gravy (Bowel Death N Raven Mix),” demonstrating the goofy humor known to all who have encountered them, and a quality less obvious in Rodan. Musically, they were inspired by some of the first wave of hip-hoppers who had appealed to white, middle-class teen boys like them — Public Enemy, Run-D.M.C. and LL Cool J. But in trying to translate their hip-hop to the stage, the guys realized they lacked the know-how to make it work. Also, Mueller says, “We thought it was just too fun to be loud and dirty and punk.”
As they returned their focus to their guitars, Mueller and Noble had become even more inspired by the local bands they were going to see.
Though their national audience would assume Rodan had been primarily inspired by the Chicago post-punk underground, in part due to their eventual deal with Touch and Go Records, their local social circle had a larger effect on Rodan than Second City bands like the Jesus Lizard or Big Black.
“I had freshly graduated from high school and actually dropped out of Indiana after two years of college,” Mueller says. “And going to see Kinghorse, Crain and Slint and those sorts of things, that was our access; that was our conduit into that kind of music, those bands.”
Their allegiance to their hometown came with a price.
“We would get harshed for sounding like some of the bands that we grew up with.”
“I always think it is an interesting criticism, when it’s so apparent that Rodan was clearly a band from Louisville. From the start, it was ‘Rodan, Louisville band.’ To me, that’s what it felt like. It felt like the Kentucky Derby, you know? It’s what Louisville felt like,” Mueller says.
But you are what you eat, he adds. “I think it is impossible not to draw comparisons between certain things and to source our inspirations … but we always tried to plant our own vantage point on things.”
A little family
Rodan became a combination of the band members’ influences, their city, the times in which they lived, and the chemistry between them. “As far as the impetus or the inspiration for Rodan, it was very broad,” Mueller recalls. “I think we were just trying to grab onto whatever made sense once we were in the room together for practice.”
In late 1991, Mueller and Noble moved into a Victorian in Old Louisville known as “The Rocket House.” Its owner was friend and fellow musician Jon Cook.
“Jon had agreed to help us make some of our song ideas into actual songs, and that was one of the most cathartic moments for me — figuring out which way to go with music,” Mueller says. “Playing with Jon (on drums) was one of the most invigorating experiences because he was so fast and easy in some ways — in some ways he was really, really horrible to play with,” he says with a laugh, “but he was amazing to be in a room with.”
Now the band had a drummer, and the last slot left to fill was bass. Tara Jane O’Neil played in a band called Drinking Woman, and had sung and played bass live for King G. She was a walking contradiction — someone who would go to hardcore shows wearing a hippie tapestry dress.
“I literally was a teenager,” says O’Neil, who is now working on her seventh solo album. “It wasn’t like, ‘Oh, this is going to be a career.’”
They were all just friends hanging out. “There was a time when we all lived in the Rocket House,” she says. “We were a little family.”
But Cook didn’t last long, nor did replacement John Weiss. Finally, Kevin Coultas, who had added drums to King G’s album, entered as the final permanent member. He might have been the original drummer, but his parents insisted he finish college, while the other three were impatient to hit the road.
Finally, he earned a degree in psychology, “so naturally I joined a rock band.”
“It was almost full-circle,” Coultas says about his circuitous return to the band when they needed him most, “like it was in a script or something.”
They went through a few attempts at naming the band before stopping at Rodan, a 1950s Japanese movie character — a flying monster who was frenemies with Godzilla.
Meaty beaty big and bouncy
Rodan recorded a demo, called Aviary, in Baltimore in 1993. That demo appears cleaned up and in its entirety on Fifteen Quiet Years. Some of its songs were also re-recorded for their national debut, Rusty, a year later, with engineer Bob Weston. “We were just kids trying to figure out how to make it work,” Mueller says.
He continues, “There are some from the Aviary session versus the Rusty session (where) the (demo) versions of those songs to me sound more ferocious.”
Which is not, he stresses, to discredit the more professional job Weston did with their material. In Baltimore, it was all so new and exciting to be in an actual recording studio. “We didn’t really know how to play our instruments, and (so our attitude was), ‘Let’s just kind of go at it and make it as brassy as we possibly can,’” Mueller says.
At that point, they were more fond of abrasiveness, and keeping mistakes in — or making sounds that sounded like mistakes but really weren’t, that were planned, as long as it sounded right to them. But as they toured, Rodan learned to refine their rougher edges without losing the original spirit.
Mueller points to a song called “Shiner,” which they recorded twice. The first version appears on Fifteen Quiet Years as “Shiner 92” to differentiate it from the 1994 Rusty version. He likes the original better — “I just think it sounds more meaty and raunchy.”
That’s one reason why Fifteen Quiet Years was put together — to try to rewrite what little of their story they can, to clarify what they were trying to do, and to show people how much more they could do.
Another song, “Darjeeling,” was recorded for a 7” single for Simple Machines, an indie label in Arlington, Va. During the re-mastering process in 2009, Weston beefed the song up even more, says Mueller. “He made it more grisly ... and that version of the song sounds — maybe to someone else it might not sound that different, but to me it sounds significantly different.”
Moving on
Rodan broke up less than a year after Rusty’s April 1994 release. Though they could bicker like siblings at times, there was no big blow-up. Noble and O’Neil had other ideas they were eager to explore, and Mueller alludes to troubles within the band’s social group in Louisville at the time. Mueller started a new band, June of 44. Noble resurrected his modern classical group Rachel’s (in which he was reunited with King G, Greg King). O’Neil started two of her own projects, The Sonora Pine and Retsin. Coultas continued working with O’Neil for a period. Soon, Mueller and Noble reunited with a new band, Shipping News. Though Mueller hasn’t lived in Louisville since 1995, and Noble stayed, they continued to work together on Shipping News for the next 15 years, until Noble’s death from a rare form of cancer last year.
A bad connection
On their one tour of England, Rodan played on legendary BBC radio DJ John Peel’s show. His “Peel Sessions,” recorded between 1967 and 2004, became a touchstone for bands. Rodan’s biggest goal, and problem, in compiling Fifteen Quiet Years became getting the BBC to license them their own recordings, three songs performed on June 3, 1994.
“They were just really slow,” Mueller says. “An email exchange that required a yes or no response — that could take them six months. Often times, it would come back convoluted.”
As the years passed, the price came down as interest in the band waned and the music business changed. During those quiet years, a few offers came in to reunite, but nothing like the sold-out tours Slint came back to when they reunited in 2005. “We were a success in our own eyes, and I think we had some pretty intense and amazing fans,” Mueller says. “But I don’t think we were one of those status bands.”
Playing together again “could have been fun,” O’Neil says. “Who knows? I’m glad this record came together. That’s just going to have to be good enough.”
Jimmy Fallon’s music booker, Jonathan Cohen, is a big fan of the band. He tells LEO, “I would have killed to have had them reunite on the show. The thought never occurred to me when Jason was alive simply because there was no activity in their camp, and they had always consistently said (in the press) they weren’t interested.”
Back in the spotlight
In 2009, as the band worked on the project, Touch and Go Records, the Chicago-based label who had signed them and several of the members’ subsequent bands, announced they could no longer afford to release new albums. Victims of the downloading era, the company laid off most of its staff and focused on keeping their catalog in print. Their subsidiary, Quarterstick Records, has now briefly awakened from its coma to release Fifteen Quiet Years.
Label head Corey Rusk is “really excited to finally be releasing Fifteen Quiet Years.” Rodan has remained close to his heart throughout the years, both for the music and for the personal relationships it led to.
“They are all such special, sweet people. In regards to Rusty, I don’t think any of us felt like it really needs re-mastering,” he says, though Coultas disagrees. “But the tracks on Fifteen Quiet Years have been MIA for far too long … this album really needs to exist.”
Mueller and Noble often discussed how best to put the collection together affordably. Another question became, “What do we do if the record does come out? How do we promote it? If you’re not touring, you won’t sell any records these days.”
“I don’t know how it will land, or if it will register,” O’Neil muses about the scattered media landscape. “People could be super-excited about it, and I wouldn’t necessarily even know.”
Last month, Cohen posted “Shiner 92” on the Jimmy Fallon show’s Tumblr, calling Rodan “one of my all-time favorite bands.”
“It was the first time we’ve ever done something like that here, and I really went to bat for it because I am passionate about exposing new listeners to Rodan’s music,” Cohen says. “It isn’t often that a band who was barely around for three years and only released one album is finding new fans nearly 20 years later. And the reason why that still happens is because the music remains so vital and unique.”
The children
These days, Mueller is a family man who runs a letterpress business with his wife in New Haven, Conn. O’Neil remains a traveling musician. Coultas is a fifth-grade teacher in Louisville. Noble and Cook died within six months of each other, in August 2012 and February 2013, respectively; Cook died of complications from pancreatitis, exacerbated by alcohol use.
According to Mueller, “(Rodan) was mostly a creative project for all of us to exercise our musical demons, to try and make something for ourselves that was worth something and hopefully make it viable for someone else as well.”
Mueller hopes this release is received as sounding as fresh as the band felt about their music back then, rather than being perceived as a nostalgia record. “I hope people like it. I hope it is not seen as a vanity release or something like that — and it kind of is, to be perfectly honest,” he laughs.
Ben Sears, 24, drums in several Louisville bands. He says, “Rodan will always be relevant. Sure, they came out in the ’90s and they are from Louisville, so that might make them ‘period pieces’ to some people, but the songs are so intricate and aggressive and well-played that they can’t not be relevant … (Rodan) definitely changed how I observe and play music.”
Coultas recently taught a guitar class at his school. One day, a fifth–grade student — the son of another musician — said to him, “Hey, Mr. Coultas! I like Rodan a lot. Can you play some Rodan?”
Coultas, bemused, told him the music wasn’t playable on acoustic guitars, but the child persisted.
“Don’t tell my dad, but I like Rodan a lot better than any of his bands.”
Photo by Ewolf. c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Bend it like Buck Owens
Here
Sometimes the name says it all. For you might assume that a Kentucky Hellbender is someone around here who gets totally crunk — and you wouldn’t be wrong. But did you know that, according to band leader Amos Hopkins’ dictionary, a Hellbender is also a giant salamander endemic to our region? They are large and odd-looking, some say. And the salamander is, too.
But seriously, the deep-voiced Hopkins and his latest band (when asked how many bands he’s in now, he couldn’t count that high) have a new album out, Straightnin’ the Curves, Flattnin’ the Hills, which proves, among other things, that their spelling is very creative.
Its release — including a release show at Uncle Slayton’s on Friday at 9 p.m. — comes just in time for Hopkins to leave town for Tucson, sort of, and only for a year (during this episode, he’ll be back in Louisville several times). The album hints at a Southwestern influence, if you consider West Texas to be in that area. Other influences are more obvious, as the Kentucky Hellbenders cover classics by Glen Campbell, Gram Parsons and the Rolling Stones, among others.
The band is joined on the album by a modern pedal steel guitarist, Pete Finney, who plays in Patty Loveless’ band. Hopkins met him while working in Nashville. Their original pedal steel hire didn’t meet the band’s standards, and time in the studio was tight (14 songs recorded in four hours).
“We were doing some traditional country that was just screaming for a pedal steel,” says Hopkins, referring to songs like “Streets of Baltimore,” written by Tompall Glaser and Harlan Howard, known to Hopkins through Gram Parsons’ version of the song.
It was Parsons who “changed my life,” getting him back into roots music. There’s a Johnny Cash song on the new album, and it ends with a Cajun song, featuring Hopkins on the fiddle.
Hopkins grew up with old-timey musician parents, “so of course, growing up, I didn’t want to have anything to do with that kind of music."
Learn more at facebook.com/KentuckyHellbenders.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Sometimes the name says it all. For you might assume that a Kentucky Hellbender is someone around here who gets totally crunk — and you wouldn’t be wrong. But did you know that, according to band leader Amos Hopkins’ dictionary, a Hellbender is also a giant salamander endemic to our region? They are large and odd-looking, some say. And the salamander is, too.But seriously, the deep-voiced Hopkins and his latest band (when asked how many bands he’s in now, he couldn’t count that high) have a new album out, Straightnin’ the Curves, Flattnin’ the Hills, which proves, among other things, that their spelling is very creative.
Its release — including a release show at Uncle Slayton’s on Friday at 9 p.m. — comes just in time for Hopkins to leave town for Tucson, sort of, and only for a year (during this episode, he’ll be back in Louisville several times). The album hints at a Southwestern influence, if you consider West Texas to be in that area. Other influences are more obvious, as the Kentucky Hellbenders cover classics by Glen Campbell, Gram Parsons and the Rolling Stones, among others.
The band is joined on the album by a modern pedal steel guitarist, Pete Finney, who plays in Patty Loveless’ band. Hopkins met him while working in Nashville. Their original pedal steel hire didn’t meet the band’s standards, and time in the studio was tight (14 songs recorded in four hours).
“We were doing some traditional country that was just screaming for a pedal steel,” says Hopkins, referring to songs like “Streets of Baltimore,” written by Tompall Glaser and Harlan Howard, known to Hopkins through Gram Parsons’ version of the song.
It was Parsons who “changed my life,” getting him back into roots music. There’s a Johnny Cash song on the new album, and it ends with a Cajun song, featuring Hopkins on the fiddle.
Hopkins grew up with old-timey musician parents, “so of course, growing up, I didn’t want to have anything to do with that kind of music."
Learn more at facebook.com/KentuckyHellbenders.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
Highs and lows
Here
Last week, the five young ladies who have performed together over the last nine years as The Hi-Tops came to the LEO office. It’s not every day a quintet of girls, all wearing coordinated Chucks, shows up here, and they’re certainly the only quintet this music department has watched actually grow up.
The legend’s not all true, though. They switched from hi-tops to lo-tops a while back, but still uniformly wear the latter together for band events (even in an interview only being witnessed by a handful of LEO staffers). Also, bassist Bayley Whitlow just turned 15, so she’s not going anywhere yet.
It all started in third grade. Ally Whitlow (keyboards) and Remi Maxwell (vocals/guitar) watched the movie “Freaky Friday” — the Lohan version, which featured her character playing in a band called Pink Slip. The duo wanted their own Pink Slip, so they recruited Madi Cunningham to play drums. Jessie Madill was the new girl in school, and the group was excited to learn she played guitar. Needing a bassist, they finally came to young Bayley.
Maxwell’s father Mark is a musician and the owner of Mom’s Music. He has coached the band, pushing them to improve even if it meant making the young girls mad at times. Today, they all appreciate his efforts, as well as their other parents, manager Kim Elliot (a Whitlow aunt) and producer Michael Sanders.
Their advice for young bands: Keep trying, even if at first you suck. They thank their fans for supporting them through the years. Now the original quartet is all off to college around this region, except for the California-bound Maxwell, who hopes to stay in music and succeed as a performer.
Nine years can be a long life for any band. The Hi-Tops said at the beginning that they would stick together until college, whether they made it big or not. They achieved that goal, and the friendships and unique experiences they’ve shared is definitely a success story.
Their final gig, a free show, is Sunday at the Jeffersonville RiverStage at 6 p.m.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Last week, the five young ladies who have performed together over the last nine years as The Hi-Tops came to the LEO office. It’s not every day a quintet of girls, all wearing coordinated Chucks, shows up here, and they’re certainly the only quintet this music department has watched actually grow up.
The legend’s not all true, though. They switched from hi-tops to lo-tops a while back, but still uniformly wear the latter together for band events (even in an interview only being witnessed by a handful of LEO staffers). Also, bassist Bayley Whitlow just turned 15, so she’s not going anywhere yet.
It all started in third grade. Ally Whitlow (keyboards) and Remi Maxwell (vocals/guitar) watched the movie “Freaky Friday” — the Lohan version, which featured her character playing in a band called Pink Slip. The duo wanted their own Pink Slip, so they recruited Madi Cunningham to play drums. Jessie Madill was the new girl in school, and the group was excited to learn she played guitar. Needing a bassist, they finally came to young Bayley.
Maxwell’s father Mark is a musician and the owner of Mom’s Music. He has coached the band, pushing them to improve even if it meant making the young girls mad at times. Today, they all appreciate his efforts, as well as their other parents, manager Kim Elliot (a Whitlow aunt) and producer Michael Sanders.
Their advice for young bands: Keep trying, even if at first you suck. They thank their fans for supporting them through the years. Now the original quartet is all off to college around this region, except for the California-bound Maxwell, who hopes to stay in music and succeed as a performer.
Nine years can be a long life for any band. The Hi-Tops said at the beginning that they would stick together until college, whether they made it big or not. They achieved that goal, and the friendships and unique experiences they’ve shared is definitely a success story.
Their final gig, a free show, is Sunday at the Jeffersonville RiverStage at 6 p.m.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Jason Isbell’s new interests
Here
Jason Isbell is well on his way to becoming recognized as one of the best songwriters today, but for a while, the writer couldn’t find his way past the biggest cliché. Drinking to excess is such an easy trap to fall into when one spends enough time on the road, driving countless hours to play an hour or two a night in a bar. Having sopped up inspiration from decades of rock, country and soul music, Isbell found himself becoming a little too inspired by the antics of his heroes.
“Well, you know, it was all good for me, in some ways,” he argues — or justifies it — now. “You need to live life like that for a while if you’re gonna write songs about people who are dealing with their own kind of loss and their own screw-ups.
“I think it all worked out for the best,” he continues. “It certainly wasn’t anything I could have maintained for any longer than I did; it probably ran its course a few years before I actually settled myself down. But it is nice to have that reservoir to draw from when it comes time to write a rock ’n’ roll song. Nobody wants their rock ’n’ roll to sound like Christian rock,” he concludes with a laugh.
Now 34, Isbell has begun his third life in music. Having first made his name as a singer/songwriter and guitarist with the Drive-By Truckers, Isbell left that band in 2007. His exit was inspired in part by his desire to lead his own band — but also because of his divorce from Truckers bassist Shonna Tucker.
In February, he married singer/violinist Amanda Shires, and the Alabama native now lives a new life in Nashville, where the couple spends days writing and nights having sober fun with friends.
“It’s nice to be a … citizen,” he laughs. “Yeah, it’s all great.”
Isbell’s newest album, Southeastern, is due on June 11. It’s the second billed solely under his name since his 2007 solo debut, Sirens of the Ditch, though in the time in-between he’s led Jason Isbell & the 400 Unit. Southeastern didn’t come out as solo as Isbell and his producer had originally intended.
“We were initially going to do a solo acoustic thing,” he says, “but we both got pretty bored with that.” They decided to bring in members of the 400 Unit who were available, as well as some Nashville cats.
The collection was written in the spring and summer of 2012, shortly after Isbell sobered up, and the lyrics don’t shy away from what was on his mind at the time.
Girl, leave your boots by the bed / We ain’t leaving this room / Till someone needs medical help / Or the magnolias bloom.
Shires has a new record coming in August, and Isbell contributed guitar to that, as well. The releases were purposely timed so that each could be a focus of attention at a time. Isbell says he enjoyed working for her because he didn’t have to deal with the usual pressures involved with being the boss.
Additionally, he gets to enjoy more time looking at the woman the Wall Street Journal recently called “The sexiest violinist since Jefferson.”
“Yeah, I saw that,” Isbell says in his soft Southern lilt. “There’s been a lot of violinists since (Thomas) Jefferson … He was oversexed — I don’t know if he was sexy. I know he couldn’t leave his slaves alone, I heard that.”
Shires sings and plays violin on the Southeastern song “Traveling Alone.” On the road now, away from the temptations of women and drink, Isbell has found a few ways to keep his mind occupied and inspired on the long drives. When’s he not reading books, he’s happy to look out the window and watch the highway. “I’m all right sitting still and being quiet for a long time. I don’t mind that.”
There’s also his love of movies. “I love Netflix. Netflix has been a savior for me, that’s been a really good thing.” He’s tried writing some screenplays, as much for writing practice as any real opportunity, and doesn’t rule out trying to do more in the future.
“I don’t really get bored. I think I’m too lazy to get bored.”
Jason Isbell & the 400 Unit
with The Paul Thorn Band and Brigid Kaelin
Friday, June 7
Iroquois Amphitheater
1080 Amphitheater Road
iroquoisamphitheater.com
$20-$22; 7:30 p.m.
Photo by Michael Wilson
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Jason Isbell is well on his way to becoming recognized as one of the best songwriters today, but for a while, the writer couldn’t find his way past the biggest cliché. Drinking to excess is such an easy trap to fall into when one spends enough time on the road, driving countless hours to play an hour or two a night in a bar. Having sopped up inspiration from decades of rock, country and soul music, Isbell found himself becoming a little too inspired by the antics of his heroes.
“Well, you know, it was all good for me, in some ways,” he argues — or justifies it — now. “You need to live life like that for a while if you’re gonna write songs about people who are dealing with their own kind of loss and their own screw-ups.
“I think it all worked out for the best,” he continues. “It certainly wasn’t anything I could have maintained for any longer than I did; it probably ran its course a few years before I actually settled myself down. But it is nice to have that reservoir to draw from when it comes time to write a rock ’n’ roll song. Nobody wants their rock ’n’ roll to sound like Christian rock,” he concludes with a laugh.
Now 34, Isbell has begun his third life in music. Having first made his name as a singer/songwriter and guitarist with the Drive-By Truckers, Isbell left that band in 2007. His exit was inspired in part by his desire to lead his own band — but also because of his divorce from Truckers bassist Shonna Tucker.
In February, he married singer/violinist Amanda Shires, and the Alabama native now lives a new life in Nashville, where the couple spends days writing and nights having sober fun with friends.
“It’s nice to be a … citizen,” he laughs. “Yeah, it’s all great.”
Isbell’s newest album, Southeastern, is due on June 11. It’s the second billed solely under his name since his 2007 solo debut, Sirens of the Ditch, though in the time in-between he’s led Jason Isbell & the 400 Unit. Southeastern didn’t come out as solo as Isbell and his producer had originally intended.
“We were initially going to do a solo acoustic thing,” he says, “but we both got pretty bored with that.” They decided to bring in members of the 400 Unit who were available, as well as some Nashville cats.
The collection was written in the spring and summer of 2012, shortly after Isbell sobered up, and the lyrics don’t shy away from what was on his mind at the time.
Girl, leave your boots by the bed / We ain’t leaving this room / Till someone needs medical help / Or the magnolias bloom.
Shires has a new record coming in August, and Isbell contributed guitar to that, as well. The releases were purposely timed so that each could be a focus of attention at a time. Isbell says he enjoyed working for her because he didn’t have to deal with the usual pressures involved with being the boss.
Additionally, he gets to enjoy more time looking at the woman the Wall Street Journal recently called “The sexiest violinist since Jefferson.”
“Yeah, I saw that,” Isbell says in his soft Southern lilt. “There’s been a lot of violinists since (Thomas) Jefferson … He was oversexed — I don’t know if he was sexy. I know he couldn’t leave his slaves alone, I heard that.”
Shires sings and plays violin on the Southeastern song “Traveling Alone.” On the road now, away from the temptations of women and drink, Isbell has found a few ways to keep his mind occupied and inspired on the long drives. When’s he not reading books, he’s happy to look out the window and watch the highway. “I’m all right sitting still and being quiet for a long time. I don’t mind that.”
There’s also his love of movies. “I love Netflix. Netflix has been a savior for me, that’s been a really good thing.” He’s tried writing some screenplays, as much for writing practice as any real opportunity, and doesn’t rule out trying to do more in the future.
“I don’t really get bored. I think I’m too lazy to get bored.”
Jason Isbell & the 400 Unit
with The Paul Thorn Band and Brigid Kaelin
Friday, June 7
Iroquois Amphitheater
1080 Amphitheater Road
iroquoisamphitheater.com
$20-$22; 7:30 p.m.
Photo by Michael Wilson
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
album review: Stonecutters
Here
Good news, guys, we found Riki Rachtman! Turns out he was hiding inside the new Stonecutters album, Creatio Ex Nihil (Latin for “Creation from Nothingness,” apparently). Fans of the old, real “Headbangers Ball” will be thrilled by the new collection, and any thrashers who just woke up from a 1988 coma will not be surprised by Stonecutters’ traditional approach to the style popularized by Anthrax, Megadeth, Testament and other skateboarding-friendly dark lords. Some of the genre’s favorite tricks are employed, like the standard slow classical guitar intro merging into fast and heavy guitar riffage. While some mad-at-everything lyrics might be too typical and expected, the musicianship is top-notch and tight. Also, bonus points go to the band for choosing Dave Pollard’s typically dark but beautiful artwork, for those who buy the physical version.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Good news, guys, we found Riki Rachtman! Turns out he was hiding inside the new Stonecutters album, Creatio Ex Nihil (Latin for “Creation from Nothingness,” apparently). Fans of the old, real “Headbangers Ball” will be thrilled by the new collection, and any thrashers who just woke up from a 1988 coma will not be surprised by Stonecutters’ traditional approach to the style popularized by Anthrax, Megadeth, Testament and other skateboarding-friendly dark lords. Some of the genre’s favorite tricks are employed, like the standard slow classical guitar intro merging into fast and heavy guitar riffage. While some mad-at-everything lyrics might be too typical and expected, the musicianship is top-notch and tight. Also, bonus points go to the band for choosing Dave Pollard’s typically dark but beautiful artwork, for those who buy the physical version.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Sweet meat
Here
Adam Colvin juggles two different approaches to local cuisine
It might look simple enough: a guy standing at a cart three or four days a week, when the weather’s nice enough, selling sausages on the side of the road. But for Busta Grill proprietor Adam Colvin, it’s just one part of a unique business model. His food reaches many more people around Louisville on a daily basis, and not just via sausages.
In 2004, Colvin’s sister, Rachel Torres, started Dolce, a wholesale bakery, in what is now known as the NuLu district. She bought the space in what had been a pre-Civil War firehouse to make pastries for high-end restaurants like Lilly’s, Azalea and Artemisia. By 2011, burnt out on the long hours away from her family, Torres was ready to step down.
But Dolce stayed in the family, as her brother — who had worked there part time, washing dishes and making deliveries — took over. Under his direction, Dolce has become more focused on making bread, and today provides such for Proof, Game, Feast BBQ, Please & Thank You, Eiderdown and a dozen other operations. “Some we do a lot for, some just one thing,” Colvin says.
“I thought it was the best-tasting stuff, so I wanted to push the bread,” Colvin continues. “We can’t make a ton of it, because everything is made by hand. So we can only make a certain number per day before we start going crazy.” An average day turns out 800 buns.
In 2011, he also started his sausage cart, originally at a “tough” location at Sixth and Chestnut. Because the Metro government regulates locations, ensuring enough distance from other carts, trucks or restaurants, vendors must submit a wish list of five locations. Colvin didn’t get any from his initial list. When First and Washington became available, he jumped on it.
Back at Dolce, his employees work from 6 a.m. until 3 p.m. The boss typically comes in at 7, preps the cart if it’s a Busta Grill day, helps out in the kitchen, and takes care of all the less glamorous details: purchasing, payroll, accounting, deliveries. The idea of opening a retail space has been dismissed, as it would increase labor and compete against accounts that already buy Dolce’s goods. Plus, that space is needed now for Busta Grill’s carts.
It’s a job filled with long hours, but Dolce is an otherwise relaxed place to work. On a recent morning, head baker Aaron Sortman rolled dough while Colvin experimented with a new recipe as Hall & Oates blasted from a speaker. His father, retired from jobs making bourbon and PBR, comes in daily to “steal some coffee,” as the son jokes.
Busta Grill can be a more intense job. It takes someone with experience feeding hundreds of people in a few hours to be able to handle big crowds. Colvin has that experience — his career in the food industry began with janitorial work at an Old Spaghetti Factory, followed by serving and dishwashing at the Limestone Bay Yacht Club, pantry work at the Louisville Country Club and De La Torre’s, and, at 19, a detour to Key West. There, he worked the grill at the Half Shell Raw Bar in between drinking and carrying on, “living like a pirate,” and learning how to work those big crowds.
After returning home, Colvin, also a musician who has drummed for numerous bands, worked as a pipe organ technician for four years before getting back into the food business, working for Creation Gardens and the Come Back Inn. He went back to school, studying at ITT Tech and then U of L, where he graduated with a philosophy degree. He considered becoming a lawyer, even taking the LSAT, before making the philosophical decision to buy a food cart.
He was inspired by his travels: Panama, Ecuador and Portland, Ore., among others, where carts and trucks inspired a nation and offered “a cheap way to get a gig” without having to answer to anyone else. His plan to sell Indian food was halted by the local government — “no raw meat on the street,” as Colvin summarizes the law. “I didn’t know that, so I had to sell sausages.”
In Ecuador, where Torres’ husband is from, Colvin saw the “outrageous hot dogs” covered with mayonnaise, chimichurri and potato sticks. “I took little bits of that and came up with this goofy idea.” Another goofy, and very American, idea was “Joe Pesci Fridays,” where Busta Grill customers can offer their Pesci impression in exchange for a discount.
Soon, Busta Grill will have a second cart at Fourth and Jefferson, which will mean adjustments to the current operation. Also, Colvin and his wife are expecting their first child. It’s the next chapter in a journey where, as Busta Grill’s sign promises, “Awesome is guaranteed!”
Photo by Ron Jasin
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Adam Colvin juggles two different approaches to local cuisine
It might look simple enough: a guy standing at a cart three or four days a week, when the weather’s nice enough, selling sausages on the side of the road. But for Busta Grill proprietor Adam Colvin, it’s just one part of a unique business model. His food reaches many more people around Louisville on a daily basis, and not just via sausages.
In 2004, Colvin’s sister, Rachel Torres, started Dolce, a wholesale bakery, in what is now known as the NuLu district. She bought the space in what had been a pre-Civil War firehouse to make pastries for high-end restaurants like Lilly’s, Azalea and Artemisia. By 2011, burnt out on the long hours away from her family, Torres was ready to step down.
But Dolce stayed in the family, as her brother — who had worked there part time, washing dishes and making deliveries — took over. Under his direction, Dolce has become more focused on making bread, and today provides such for Proof, Game, Feast BBQ, Please & Thank You, Eiderdown and a dozen other operations. “Some we do a lot for, some just one thing,” Colvin says.
“I thought it was the best-tasting stuff, so I wanted to push the bread,” Colvin continues. “We can’t make a ton of it, because everything is made by hand. So we can only make a certain number per day before we start going crazy.” An average day turns out 800 buns.
In 2011, he also started his sausage cart, originally at a “tough” location at Sixth and Chestnut. Because the Metro government regulates locations, ensuring enough distance from other carts, trucks or restaurants, vendors must submit a wish list of five locations. Colvin didn’t get any from his initial list. When First and Washington became available, he jumped on it.
Back at Dolce, his employees work from 6 a.m. until 3 p.m. The boss typically comes in at 7, preps the cart if it’s a Busta Grill day, helps out in the kitchen, and takes care of all the less glamorous details: purchasing, payroll, accounting, deliveries. The idea of opening a retail space has been dismissed, as it would increase labor and compete against accounts that already buy Dolce’s goods. Plus, that space is needed now for Busta Grill’s carts.
It’s a job filled with long hours, but Dolce is an otherwise relaxed place to work. On a recent morning, head baker Aaron Sortman rolled dough while Colvin experimented with a new recipe as Hall & Oates blasted from a speaker. His father, retired from jobs making bourbon and PBR, comes in daily to “steal some coffee,” as the son jokes.
Busta Grill can be a more intense job. It takes someone with experience feeding hundreds of people in a few hours to be able to handle big crowds. Colvin has that experience — his career in the food industry began with janitorial work at an Old Spaghetti Factory, followed by serving and dishwashing at the Limestone Bay Yacht Club, pantry work at the Louisville Country Club and De La Torre’s, and, at 19, a detour to Key West. There, he worked the grill at the Half Shell Raw Bar in between drinking and carrying on, “living like a pirate,” and learning how to work those big crowds.
After returning home, Colvin, also a musician who has drummed for numerous bands, worked as a pipe organ technician for four years before getting back into the food business, working for Creation Gardens and the Come Back Inn. He went back to school, studying at ITT Tech and then U of L, where he graduated with a philosophy degree. He considered becoming a lawyer, even taking the LSAT, before making the philosophical decision to buy a food cart.
He was inspired by his travels: Panama, Ecuador and Portland, Ore., among others, where carts and trucks inspired a nation and offered “a cheap way to get a gig” without having to answer to anyone else. His plan to sell Indian food was halted by the local government — “no raw meat on the street,” as Colvin summarizes the law. “I didn’t know that, so I had to sell sausages.”
In Ecuador, where Torres’ husband is from, Colvin saw the “outrageous hot dogs” covered with mayonnaise, chimichurri and potato sticks. “I took little bits of that and came up with this goofy idea.” Another goofy, and very American, idea was “Joe Pesci Fridays,” where Busta Grill customers can offer their Pesci impression in exchange for a discount.
Soon, Busta Grill will have a second cart at Fourth and Jefferson, which will mean adjustments to the current operation. Also, Colvin and his wife are expecting their first child. It’s the next chapter in a journey where, as Busta Grill’s sign promises, “Awesome is guaranteed!”
Photo by Ron Jasin
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
The Staves’ family values
Here
Twenty-something sisters Emily, Jessica and Camilla Staveley-Taylor have been performing together for many years, though their first record was only released in 2010. Now the trio from Watford, England, on the road promoting their first full-length album, Dead & Born & Grown, is happy to be returning to the United States.
“I don’t know if Americans will understand the thrill for British people coming over to the land you’ve grown up hearing so much about, through films and music and television programs — it’s such a big part of our culture,” Emily says. “It’s brilliant, it’s such a pleasure to come over here.”
Though they’ve yet to score a Mumford-sized hit, they’ve sung with Tom Jones and toured with Bon Iver, Josh Ritter and others, including a sold-out night opening for the Civil Wars at our Brown Theater. “One of our best friends has some family who live in Louisville, so she’s always going on about Louisville. I feel like I’ve known about Kentucky more than other states for a good few years before I ever came out to America,” Emily says.
The Brit says she especially loves the accent around here, as well as how warm and friendly the people are. “Whenever I see it on our list of tour dates, I call my friend. ‘Louisville’s brilliant! I’ve got cousins and aunties there!’”
While they are headlining most shows on this tour, their Louisville stop has them playing first in the evening at Waterfront Park. They’ve had experience performing their gentle folk songs at outdoor gigs, which she says can be difficult due to the unavoidable factors that can impact such shows — cars, weather and the like. “But then we’ve played some gigs where people are sitting down on blankets and lying down and able to completely relax in a way you cannot do in a theater or a club, and let the music wash over them. I think for an audience member, that might be a wonderful way to experience the gig.”
When the sisters are singing together in public, are they singing more to the audience or to each other?
“Well, that’s quite an interesting question, actually … I guess it is to the audience. But we always make sure that we can see ourselves. If you can’t see each other, you can get a bit locked into just singing your part,” she says. “As soon as you start focusing on yourself, rather than the thing as a whole, it kind of falls apart … I guess I would say maybe 50/50 singing to each other, but allowing other people into that.”
When they received a call asking if they’d like to sing backup for Tom Jones, “I was like, ‘Ummm, yeah!’ (The label representative) said, ‘Ethan Johns is producing it.’ We said, ‘Right, definitely then.’” Since then, Johns and his father, Glyn Johns, have come together to produce Dead & Born & Grown, the first collaboration for the father and son whose collective résumé runs from Led Zeppelin and The Who to Ryan Adams and Kings of Leon.
Family is the thing for these folkies. Their parents were a big influence. “I guess they taught us … everything, really. How to get along as sisters; they taught us to enjoy music, how to sing, how to hear a harmony — and they did that without appearing that they were teaching us anything.”
The eldest Staveley-Taylor daughter says their parents shared a joy for music as a way to be sociable and a way to express emotions — happy or sad — in a healthy way. They kept a steady diet of Simon & Garfunkel, Neil Young, Fleetwood Mac and Motown flowing in the home and sheltered their girls from the horrors of bad music.
The girls remain grateful. “By listening to it, you are able to empathize with whatever expression is going on through music … even if you’re not the one behind the music making it,” Emily says. “It’s a big release to people, I think, to hear it and have it expressed on their behalf.”
What if they had been a different family? If The Staves were the Jacksons, which one would be Michael, Jermaine and Tito?
“Oh, my god,” she laughs. “OK, I’m gonna go with Jermaine, because I think Jermaine’s awesome. I’ll claim him for myself. I’ll say Milly is Michael Jackson, and Jess can be Tito.”
WFPK WATERFRONT WEDNESDAY WITH THE STAVES, THE LONE BELLOW AND THE REV. PEYTON’S BIG DAMN BAND
Wednesday, May 29
Waterfront Park (Big Four Lawn)
wfpk.org
Free; 6 p.m.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Twenty-something sisters Emily, Jessica and Camilla Staveley-Taylor have been performing together for many years, though their first record was only released in 2010. Now the trio from Watford, England, on the road promoting their first full-length album, Dead & Born & Grown, is happy to be returning to the United States.
“I don’t know if Americans will understand the thrill for British people coming over to the land you’ve grown up hearing so much about, through films and music and television programs — it’s such a big part of our culture,” Emily says. “It’s brilliant, it’s such a pleasure to come over here.”
Though they’ve yet to score a Mumford-sized hit, they’ve sung with Tom Jones and toured with Bon Iver, Josh Ritter and others, including a sold-out night opening for the Civil Wars at our Brown Theater. “One of our best friends has some family who live in Louisville, so she’s always going on about Louisville. I feel like I’ve known about Kentucky more than other states for a good few years before I ever came out to America,” Emily says.
The Brit says she especially loves the accent around here, as well as how warm and friendly the people are. “Whenever I see it on our list of tour dates, I call my friend. ‘Louisville’s brilliant! I’ve got cousins and aunties there!’”
While they are headlining most shows on this tour, their Louisville stop has them playing first in the evening at Waterfront Park. They’ve had experience performing their gentle folk songs at outdoor gigs, which she says can be difficult due to the unavoidable factors that can impact such shows — cars, weather and the like. “But then we’ve played some gigs where people are sitting down on blankets and lying down and able to completely relax in a way you cannot do in a theater or a club, and let the music wash over them. I think for an audience member, that might be a wonderful way to experience the gig.”
When the sisters are singing together in public, are they singing more to the audience or to each other?
“Well, that’s quite an interesting question, actually … I guess it is to the audience. But we always make sure that we can see ourselves. If you can’t see each other, you can get a bit locked into just singing your part,” she says. “As soon as you start focusing on yourself, rather than the thing as a whole, it kind of falls apart … I guess I would say maybe 50/50 singing to each other, but allowing other people into that.”
When they received a call asking if they’d like to sing backup for Tom Jones, “I was like, ‘Ummm, yeah!’ (The label representative) said, ‘Ethan Johns is producing it.’ We said, ‘Right, definitely then.’” Since then, Johns and his father, Glyn Johns, have come together to produce Dead & Born & Grown, the first collaboration for the father and son whose collective résumé runs from Led Zeppelin and The Who to Ryan Adams and Kings of Leon.
Family is the thing for these folkies. Their parents were a big influence. “I guess they taught us … everything, really. How to get along as sisters; they taught us to enjoy music, how to sing, how to hear a harmony — and they did that without appearing that they were teaching us anything.”
The eldest Staveley-Taylor daughter says their parents shared a joy for music as a way to be sociable and a way to express emotions — happy or sad — in a healthy way. They kept a steady diet of Simon & Garfunkel, Neil Young, Fleetwood Mac and Motown flowing in the home and sheltered their girls from the horrors of bad music.
The girls remain grateful. “By listening to it, you are able to empathize with whatever expression is going on through music … even if you’re not the one behind the music making it,” Emily says. “It’s a big release to people, I think, to hear it and have it expressed on their behalf.”
What if they had been a different family? If The Staves were the Jacksons, which one would be Michael, Jermaine and Tito?
“Oh, my god,” she laughs. “OK, I’m gonna go with Jermaine, because I think Jermaine’s awesome. I’ll claim him for myself. I’ll say Milly is Michael Jackson, and Jess can be Tito.”
WFPK WATERFRONT WEDNESDAY WITH THE STAVES, THE LONE BELLOW AND THE REV. PEYTON’S BIG DAMN BAND
Wednesday, May 29
Waterfront Park (Big Four Lawn)
wfpk.org
Free; 6 p.m.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Bourbon Street
Here
Mark Hamilton has played in many Louisville bands. But it took a trip to New Orleans for the guitarist to find the inspiration to start a band of his own.
The Billy Goat Strut Revue was founded in 2011 to play the “antique jazz” of the 1920s and ’30s, with the players’ respective Kentucky flavors added. It’s riverboat music, perfect for boozy journeys down the Ohio and outrunning sheriffs and husbands. Hamilton put the band together one at a time. He’d ask, “What do you think of this idea?” Some musicians liked it; they became members.
Their first gig was with vocalist Brigid Kaelin. When she moved away, she recommended Laura Ellis, who had sung and played accordion with Shine-Ola for a decade.
“I’m like the imposter Brigid,” laughs Ellis. When the original had to leave, the part was recast, as on “Roseanne.” “I’m like the second Becky!”
The band started out backing for burlesque dancers. At first the dancers were supposed to be the main focus of the evening. Eventually, the band became the stars, with the dancers providing added value. “It was like a partnership — we’ll provide live music for burlesque dancers, and in between while they change, we’ll play some other stuff,” Ellis says. “That was really fun, but then you’re talking about seven people in the band, five dancers, everybody wants to get paid, nobody can practice at the same time … whew, it was a lot.”
How did they manage it?
“Well, we really didn’t,” Ellis says, and she and Hamilton laugh. On their fifth gig, the band played a wedding and realized they could hold a crowd’s attention on their own. “I hope we get to play with them again someday,” she adds.
Their debut album, This is Bourbon Jazz, will be released at a show at Uncle Slayton’s on Friday. The songs are all covers, chosen by various members. “We’ve talked about (writing new songs),” Hamilton says. “It would be really cool. We’ll see what happens. Right now it seems fresh to breathe new life into these old tunes.”
Photo by Chris Boone
Go back at facebook.com/billygoatstrutrevue.
Mark Hamilton has played in many Louisville bands. But it took a trip to New Orleans for the guitarist to find the inspiration to start a band of his own.
The Billy Goat Strut Revue was founded in 2011 to play the “antique jazz” of the 1920s and ’30s, with the players’ respective Kentucky flavors added. It’s riverboat music, perfect for boozy journeys down the Ohio and outrunning sheriffs and husbands. Hamilton put the band together one at a time. He’d ask, “What do you think of this idea?” Some musicians liked it; they became members.
Their first gig was with vocalist Brigid Kaelin. When she moved away, she recommended Laura Ellis, who had sung and played accordion with Shine-Ola for a decade.
“I’m like the imposter Brigid,” laughs Ellis. When the original had to leave, the part was recast, as on “Roseanne.” “I’m like the second Becky!”
The band started out backing for burlesque dancers. At first the dancers were supposed to be the main focus of the evening. Eventually, the band became the stars, with the dancers providing added value. “It was like a partnership — we’ll provide live music for burlesque dancers, and in between while they change, we’ll play some other stuff,” Ellis says. “That was really fun, but then you’re talking about seven people in the band, five dancers, everybody wants to get paid, nobody can practice at the same time … whew, it was a lot.”
How did they manage it?
“Well, we really didn’t,” Ellis says, and she and Hamilton laugh. On their fifth gig, the band played a wedding and realized they could hold a crowd’s attention on their own. “I hope we get to play with them again someday,” she adds.
Their debut album, This is Bourbon Jazz, will be released at a show at Uncle Slayton’s on Friday. The songs are all covers, chosen by various members. “We’ve talked about (writing new songs),” Hamilton says. “It would be really cool. We’ll see what happens. Right now it seems fresh to breathe new life into these old tunes.”
Photo by Chris Boone
Go back at facebook.com/billygoatstrutrevue.
Wednesday, May 08, 2013
album review: Louisville Leopard Percussionists
Here
Louisville Leopard Percussionists
In the SPOT Light
SELF-RELEASED
It’s a shame the LLPs (who are between 7 and 12 years old) weren’t aren’t around for 1970s game shows, because their millions o’ mallets and sticks approach to jazz (and often, by accident, swingin’ bachelor pad lounge music) would have been perfect for those leisure suit-wearing hosts. For their fourth studio album, the collective has recorded another set of fun tunes from Basie and Parker, Davis and Waller, as well as Mozart, the Jacksons and Rush (yes, the power-trio Hall of Famers) and more. Musical director Diane Downs has again selected a winning group of titles, from the “Rocky & Bullwinkle” and “Angry Birds” themes to a smattering of Cuban-themed classics (Ray Bryant’s “Cubano Chant,” “Besame Mucho,” “Manteca”). What the kids lack in Lincoln Center-level experience is more than made up for with heart and soul.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Louisville Leopard Percussionists
In the SPOT Light
SELF-RELEASED
It’s a shame the LLPs (who are between 7 and 12 years old) weren’t aren’t around for 1970s game shows, because their millions o’ mallets and sticks approach to jazz (and often, by accident, swingin’ bachelor pad lounge music) would have been perfect for those leisure suit-wearing hosts. For their fourth studio album, the collective has recorded another set of fun tunes from Basie and Parker, Davis and Waller, as well as Mozart, the Jacksons and Rush (yes, the power-trio Hall of Famers) and more. Musical director Diane Downs has again selected a winning group of titles, from the “Rocky & Bullwinkle” and “Angry Birds” themes to a smattering of Cuban-themed classics (Ray Bryant’s “Cubano Chant,” “Besame Mucho,” “Manteca”). What the kids lack in Lincoln Center-level experience is more than made up for with heart and soul.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Forging a path
Here
The life and riffs of Coliseum's Ryan Patterson
When Ryan Patterson met his wife, he screamed in her ear.
His band, Coliseum, was on tour, playing this night at an all-ages youth center in Birmingham, Ala., called Cave 9. As the hardcore punks tore through their blistering set, Patterson — the band’s founder, leader, songwriter, singer and guitarist — kept getting shocked. The waves reverberated through his skull, and the imposing Patterson got angrier. He smashed the mic stand and jumped into the crowd, screaming into the faces in front of him. That’s when Ryan met Jamie.
Jamie Beard was a Coliseum fan and offered to let the band sleep at her home before they moved on to their next stop. Patterson looked around her place, saw that her tastes and interests were similar to his, and the two began to talk. Quickly, he realized, “She’s really awesome.”
It might not have gone any further than that, but drummer Matt Jaha (Patterson’s cousin) left his glasses behind. Beard tracked down Patterson to return them, and they kept talking and emailing, and within months, she moved to Louisville.
“We knew right off the bat that we were meant for each other,” Patterson says today, eight years later. “That was that.”
The wonder years
Born in Lexington in 1977, Ryan Patterson comes from a family of South End Louisvillians — “fourth or fifth generation” — though his parents had moved away for college and work. When he was 8, they moved to Elizabethtown.
In middle school, Patterson wanted to be an actor. He earned roles in local productions of “Hello Dolly,” “The Miracle Worker” and “Annie,” but it wasn’t the kind of performing that would give him the confidence he lacked. He was awkward — not athletic like his father and brother — but didn’t feel like he fit in with the theater scene, either.
His brother, Evan, is four years younger and also a guitarist, vocalist and bandleader. Would Evan have taken up guitar without his big brother’s example? “I would assume the first time he ever picked up a guitar was one of my guitars,” Patterson says. “I wouldn’t say that I’m the reason why, but we grew up with that together, for sure, very much so.” In turn, Patterson says Evan’s guitar playing has had “a huge impact” on him, adding that his little brother is “an extremely creative guitar player.”
Ever feel jealous? “Absolutely,” the older brother quickly replies. “It’s just a sibling thing. Not a straight competitiveness,” he says. “I don’t know if he does or not; for me, it’s part of deep-rooted insecurities ...”
Their parents were very supportive, letting them practice in the basement, even letting them put on a show there. “So few parents would do that,” he marvels. “If I had kids now, I wouldn’t let them put on a show in my garage,” Patterson laughs.
It was through dad’s record collection that the boys began discovering music, from Led Zeppelin and The Beatles to Black Sabbath. Dad even had a single by The Clash. “That was huge for us.”
Through skating, Patterson discovered punk rock. “That was when my identity as a human was formed. Skateboarding and punk, it’s all about creating your own identity, finding your own path, doing things yourself, looking at everything in a different way. Politically, punk and hardcore and indie rock changed my perspective. That set me off on the path.”
Early music
At age 15, Patterson bought a guitar. He learned some chords and some songs by Minor Threat and the Ramones. MTV and Thrasher magazine taught him more about punk and a related sub-genre then called “alternative,” turning him on to bands like The Cure. “Or, there were a couple of older punk dudes in E-town who had Misfits jackets. You’d see those things around; you’d see a Black Flag shirt on a skateboarder and you’d go, ‘OK...’ So then you figure out what those bands are, and then you’d buy everything on that label you could find.”
In the local mall, the punks had Disc Jockey Records, where they could buy cassettes on the SST and Dischord labels. “That was it. That was how we discovered the world,” he says.
Meanwhile, “I didn’t know there was a local scene up here (in Louisville) or anything like that. I was completely oblivious to that.”
Louisville hardcore, punk and more
For Patterson, entry into the local scene came through the band Endpoint, who released a 7-inch with covers of Misfits and Dischord band songs. “That was when I realized that a music scene can happen anytime, anywhere. You just make it and there it is. So that was a really good thing for me, that there were actual bands putting out records in this town. That was a huge turning point.”
His first show as an attendee, at the Machine, featured a Dischord band, Jawbox. That band’s leader, J. Robbins, has since produced records by Coliseum (including their latest, Sister Faith, released last week) and an earlier Patterson band, Black Cross. Once he could drive, Patterson was coming up to Louisville as often as he could.
He sang in a band, Synapsis, and passed their demo tapes to local scene stars like Duncan Barlow, Chris Higdon and Mark Brickey. “Those guys seemed so larger-than-life to us,” Patterson says. He and his friends were now putting on shows in E-town and booked Louisville bands such as Guilt, Enkindel and Metroschifter to play with them.
He was still finding himself, and music gave him an identity and “a confidence that I think I wouldn’t have otherwise.”
“I’m sure there were things I said or did that were annoying or obnoxious. One time, Mark Brickey from Enkindel had me stay the night up at the house he lived in with Duncan Barlow and Benny Clark on Grinstead. That was, like, ‘Holy shit!’ To hang out in Duncan’s room … we’re all talking and I’m looking around at all his guitars and posters and records in the room. I think Duncan showed me the Teen Idles 7-inch on Dischord … it was just awesome.”
The Louisvillians began inviting Synapsis to play in their city. Enkindel shared their list of promoter contacts, and when Synapsis got added to a couple of shows, Enkindel let them borrow some equipment. “I don’t know if they saw something in me and my friends that was worth them lending us a helping hand, but it changed my life, for sure.”
“That acknowledgement — you give your demo to somebody and they write you a letter and say, ‘Hey, the demo was great, thanks a lot,’ that was very meaningful to me. That was a big, big part of my late high school experience. After that, that was when, I guess, I kind of integrated into that world.”
What else are you doing?
A couple of bands later, Patterson became closer with Enkindel vocalist Mark Brickey. When that band’s bassist left, Patterson was asked to replace him. They told him they were going to make a record and tour — possibly in Europe. No longer thinking the band was all that cool, Patterson initially declined, even though all he was doing at the time was working “some crappy job.” Looking back, he says, “There was a point when maybe I had got too cool.”
It was Patterson’s mom who convinced him that passing up this opportunity was a mistake, pointing out this was everything he wanted to do with his life.
Only 19 when he joined, his new bandmates quickly took to mocking him. “I thought they were so cruel, but I know, in hindsight, that I was such a little putz. I had no experience in the world — that world of really touring in a band.”
He had $17 at the time. After one record store performance, Patterson cleaned the store’s bathroom in exchange for pizza.
His year with Enkindel was “a huge turning point,” he says — first tour, first album — but he wasn’t into the music, and they parted ways. Patterson felt his identity slipping away again, and so he went in a new direction.
The musician had previously met Andy Rich, owner of Initial Records, who hired him as the label’s “zine guy,” in charge of getting press coverage for their bands. He would go on to also be their graphic designer, and, eventually, the manager, signing bands and booking their KrazyFests.
“It felt like my label, for the last two years, but ultimately it wasn’t my label. It was Andy’s, it was owned by somebody else. So when Initial closed, it was the right time for me to go on and do my own thing.”
Decade of aggression
In 2003, Patterson formed Coliseum. He added his cousin Matt Jaha on drums, bassist Keith Bryant and guitarist Tony Ash for their first album, Coliseum, which was released by a label in New York, Level Plane. “I remember sitting at my desk at Initial, designing the (first Coliseum) record,” he says. “But I wanted Coliseum to be on a different label, not always associating myself with Initial.”
A year after Coliseum’s birth, Initial closed, but Patterson was in control of his own destiny. “Maybe I’m just a control freak. But that was why I started the band — I didn’t want to have that thing where you have a band for years and then someone else quits, and you have to stop what you started.”
For their second record, the Goddamage EP, Bryant was replaced by Mike Pascal. Jaha and two more replacements left quickly before Chris Maggio took over on drums, though he, too, would leave after three years, replaced finally by Carter Wilson.
Ash left before their next full-length, No Salvation, a collection that would test the band’s mettle — and metal.
Patterson says, “I’ve never seen anybody in the band as being temporary, and when anyone has ever been in the band, they have been a full member and are treated as such.” He started Coliseum with the idea that “I have the ability to control this band’s destiny. No one else can pull the rug out from under me. And that’s … maybe kind of cut-throat, but I do feel like there’s a point of self-preservation.”
“And I will say that we have good relationships with everybody who’s been in the band, and some of them have joined us onstage — things like that.”
Bassist Pascal leaving after seven years was the most difficult change. “I very much believe it was better for him and me that he was no longer in the band. I do believe that, with time, that relationship will be good again, at least in terms of friends. I don’t know …”
Life on the road can be grueling, contributing to the instability of the band’s lineup. “To be in a band that’s touring, that’s a lot to ask of somebody. Most people, even if they think they want it, when they get into it, it’s not what they want. Your priorities might be all over the place. You might enjoy doing this, but there might be a band you like more. Or you might have a job that you can’t get out of.”
Today, Coliseum tries to only stay out for two or three weeks at a time, then comes home for several weeks. In the last few years, “A lot of things (made me say), ‘What am I doing?’ … Being a guy who lives on the road is not interesting to me. So it’s a challenge, there’s a balancing act. It’s a little stressful right now to think about how much we’re going to be doing for the rest of the year, but we were home all of last year — that’s the give-and-take.”
He doesn’t want the band to feel like “Ryan and the other guys,” reiterating that they all are a part of the whole. “I want it to be Coliseum. Even though I may be most identified with it, we’re a band. We’re experiencing everything together, and what we’re accomplishing, we’re all accomplishing together.”
Both of his current bandmates, best friends since childhood, are from Birmingham — just like his wife — though bassist Kayhan Vaziri lives in Nashville now. Brother Evan Patterson found drummer Carter Wilson for Coliseum when Evan’s band Young Widows played with Wilson’s band.
When Vaziri joined, Patterson sat him down, just like the others, to give him the speech: “It’s a huge commitment. We’ll be gone a lot; if it’s something like a marriage ceremony, we can try to schedule around that, but we don’t schedule around other bands. This is the top priority.”
“Also, sometimes you have to invest some money. Most of the time you’re paid back and you make money, but …”
Patterson adds, “I probably told him I can be intense to deal with, that I’m extremely passionate about this. It’s really nice to be able to 100 percent count on these guys, as friends, and to do their part — there’s never any bullshit or any foot-dragging.”
Coliseum is stronger than ever these days, he says. “I love everybody that’s been in the band. I’m so happy to have had the times I’ve had with them, and I hope that they’re appreciative — no, that they look back fondly on what we’ve done. I hope that they’re not unhappy.”
Growing pains
Coliseum is a punk rock band, according to Patterson, and he dislikes being labeled as heavy metal. But the tag has stuck to the loud, heavy band partly because Patterson accepted an offer from powerhouse metal label Relapse Records in 2007 for their second album, No Salvation. On paper, it was a good idea: Coliseum would now be available not just in small, independent stores, but also internationally, in chains like Best Buy. To date, their Relapse record is still their biggest seller.
But the metal world rubbed Patterson the wrong way. Its culture didn’t match up to how he identifies himself and what he believes in. “We were just a band on a package. It wasn’t part of a community, it wasn’t part of anything, it was just this gear turning. I really hated that.”
Though the band’s popularity did grow as a result, “I think that we got a little bit tripped up, in terms of what we wanted to do. I think, musically, we felt like we should compete — we should be a Relapse-caliber band. We should be crazier, we should be a bit more intense.”
Though Relapse was interested in another record, Coliseum asked to be released from their contract.
“It’s not like at any point we’re going to be a household name,” he says. “The difference in this and that is so minute, you might as well do what feels right to you.”
Coliseum has since signed with Temporary Residence, a label run by a Louisville native, which also now releases Evan Patterson’s Young Widows records.
Life and death
After the more indie-inspired House with a Curse in 2010, Patterson says Sister Faith is “the most comfortable record we’ve ever done. It’s not a reaction to anything, it’s just the joy of creating.”
“I don’t think that means that it’s boring or lazy,” he adds. “I just think that means it feels good in its own skin.”
The new album was inspired by loss. Last year, both Patterson’s father-in-law and fellow musician Jason Noble died, resulting in an album he describes as “more personally inspired.”
Noble — who died last summer of a rare form of cancer — worked with Coliseum on Curse and became close with Patterson. “We’d known each other for a long time, but we had never hung out until he was sick. And I don’t know anyone else’s experiences — I don’t know if it was because of the situation, but we’d go see movies and hang out and talk and eat food. He had a huge impact on me, as (he did) for all of us.”
The album is full of dark places, he says, but also a renewed appetite “to embrace life and keep finding adventures, experiencing things that most people don’t get to experience … appreciating time while we’re here, and realizing that people live on with you, even if they’re not here. That, to me, is as close to an afterlife as you’ll get.”
Patterson, Louisville’s man in black, is pretty happy these days.
“This is my identity. This is my legacy … I would be happy for Coliseum to define my public life. I want to be a good brother and son and husband, and be this guy. I want this to be the body of work I can look back over … I wouldn’t be sitting here, talking to you, otherwise, you know?”
And though sometimes he questions his path, in the end, he says, “I wouldn’t trade it for the world. It’s very much worth it. It’s just a beautiful experience. I couldn’t imagine life any other way, really.”
Coliseum plays Friday night at Zanzabar.
Photo by Nick Thieneman.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
The life and riffs of Coliseum's Ryan Patterson
When Ryan Patterson met his wife, he screamed in her ear.
His band, Coliseum, was on tour, playing this night at an all-ages youth center in Birmingham, Ala., called Cave 9. As the hardcore punks tore through their blistering set, Patterson — the band’s founder, leader, songwriter, singer and guitarist — kept getting shocked. The waves reverberated through his skull, and the imposing Patterson got angrier. He smashed the mic stand and jumped into the crowd, screaming into the faces in front of him. That’s when Ryan met Jamie.
Jamie Beard was a Coliseum fan and offered to let the band sleep at her home before they moved on to their next stop. Patterson looked around her place, saw that her tastes and interests were similar to his, and the two began to talk. Quickly, he realized, “She’s really awesome.”
It might not have gone any further than that, but drummer Matt Jaha (Patterson’s cousin) left his glasses behind. Beard tracked down Patterson to return them, and they kept talking and emailing, and within months, she moved to Louisville.
“We knew right off the bat that we were meant for each other,” Patterson says today, eight years later. “That was that.”
The wonder years
Born in Lexington in 1977, Ryan Patterson comes from a family of South End Louisvillians — “fourth or fifth generation” — though his parents had moved away for college and work. When he was 8, they moved to Elizabethtown.
In middle school, Patterson wanted to be an actor. He earned roles in local productions of “Hello Dolly,” “The Miracle Worker” and “Annie,” but it wasn’t the kind of performing that would give him the confidence he lacked. He was awkward — not athletic like his father and brother — but didn’t feel like he fit in with the theater scene, either.
His brother, Evan, is four years younger and also a guitarist, vocalist and bandleader. Would Evan have taken up guitar without his big brother’s example? “I would assume the first time he ever picked up a guitar was one of my guitars,” Patterson says. “I wouldn’t say that I’m the reason why, but we grew up with that together, for sure, very much so.” In turn, Patterson says Evan’s guitar playing has had “a huge impact” on him, adding that his little brother is “an extremely creative guitar player.”
Ever feel jealous? “Absolutely,” the older brother quickly replies. “It’s just a sibling thing. Not a straight competitiveness,” he says. “I don’t know if he does or not; for me, it’s part of deep-rooted insecurities ...”
Their parents were very supportive, letting them practice in the basement, even letting them put on a show there. “So few parents would do that,” he marvels. “If I had kids now, I wouldn’t let them put on a show in my garage,” Patterson laughs.
It was through dad’s record collection that the boys began discovering music, from Led Zeppelin and The Beatles to Black Sabbath. Dad even had a single by The Clash. “That was huge for us.”
Through skating, Patterson discovered punk rock. “That was when my identity as a human was formed. Skateboarding and punk, it’s all about creating your own identity, finding your own path, doing things yourself, looking at everything in a different way. Politically, punk and hardcore and indie rock changed my perspective. That set me off on the path.”
Early music
At age 15, Patterson bought a guitar. He learned some chords and some songs by Minor Threat and the Ramones. MTV and Thrasher magazine taught him more about punk and a related sub-genre then called “alternative,” turning him on to bands like The Cure. “Or, there were a couple of older punk dudes in E-town who had Misfits jackets. You’d see those things around; you’d see a Black Flag shirt on a skateboarder and you’d go, ‘OK...’ So then you figure out what those bands are, and then you’d buy everything on that label you could find.”
In the local mall, the punks had Disc Jockey Records, where they could buy cassettes on the SST and Dischord labels. “That was it. That was how we discovered the world,” he says.
Meanwhile, “I didn’t know there was a local scene up here (in Louisville) or anything like that. I was completely oblivious to that.”
Louisville hardcore, punk and more
For Patterson, entry into the local scene came through the band Endpoint, who released a 7-inch with covers of Misfits and Dischord band songs. “That was when I realized that a music scene can happen anytime, anywhere. You just make it and there it is. So that was a really good thing for me, that there were actual bands putting out records in this town. That was a huge turning point.”
His first show as an attendee, at the Machine, featured a Dischord band, Jawbox. That band’s leader, J. Robbins, has since produced records by Coliseum (including their latest, Sister Faith, released last week) and an earlier Patterson band, Black Cross. Once he could drive, Patterson was coming up to Louisville as often as he could.
He sang in a band, Synapsis, and passed their demo tapes to local scene stars like Duncan Barlow, Chris Higdon and Mark Brickey. “Those guys seemed so larger-than-life to us,” Patterson says. He and his friends were now putting on shows in E-town and booked Louisville bands such as Guilt, Enkindel and Metroschifter to play with them.
He was still finding himself, and music gave him an identity and “a confidence that I think I wouldn’t have otherwise.”
“I’m sure there were things I said or did that were annoying or obnoxious. One time, Mark Brickey from Enkindel had me stay the night up at the house he lived in with Duncan Barlow and Benny Clark on Grinstead. That was, like, ‘Holy shit!’ To hang out in Duncan’s room … we’re all talking and I’m looking around at all his guitars and posters and records in the room. I think Duncan showed me the Teen Idles 7-inch on Dischord … it was just awesome.”
The Louisvillians began inviting Synapsis to play in their city. Enkindel shared their list of promoter contacts, and when Synapsis got added to a couple of shows, Enkindel let them borrow some equipment. “I don’t know if they saw something in me and my friends that was worth them lending us a helping hand, but it changed my life, for sure.”
“That acknowledgement — you give your demo to somebody and they write you a letter and say, ‘Hey, the demo was great, thanks a lot,’ that was very meaningful to me. That was a big, big part of my late high school experience. After that, that was when, I guess, I kind of integrated into that world.”
What else are you doing?
A couple of bands later, Patterson became closer with Enkindel vocalist Mark Brickey. When that band’s bassist left, Patterson was asked to replace him. They told him they were going to make a record and tour — possibly in Europe. No longer thinking the band was all that cool, Patterson initially declined, even though all he was doing at the time was working “some crappy job.” Looking back, he says, “There was a point when maybe I had got too cool.”
It was Patterson’s mom who convinced him that passing up this opportunity was a mistake, pointing out this was everything he wanted to do with his life.
Only 19 when he joined, his new bandmates quickly took to mocking him. “I thought they were so cruel, but I know, in hindsight, that I was such a little putz. I had no experience in the world — that world of really touring in a band.”
He had $17 at the time. After one record store performance, Patterson cleaned the store’s bathroom in exchange for pizza.
His year with Enkindel was “a huge turning point,” he says — first tour, first album — but he wasn’t into the music, and they parted ways. Patterson felt his identity slipping away again, and so he went in a new direction.
The musician had previously met Andy Rich, owner of Initial Records, who hired him as the label’s “zine guy,” in charge of getting press coverage for their bands. He would go on to also be their graphic designer, and, eventually, the manager, signing bands and booking their KrazyFests.
“It felt like my label, for the last two years, but ultimately it wasn’t my label. It was Andy’s, it was owned by somebody else. So when Initial closed, it was the right time for me to go on and do my own thing.”
Decade of aggression
In 2003, Patterson formed Coliseum. He added his cousin Matt Jaha on drums, bassist Keith Bryant and guitarist Tony Ash for their first album, Coliseum, which was released by a label in New York, Level Plane. “I remember sitting at my desk at Initial, designing the (first Coliseum) record,” he says. “But I wanted Coliseum to be on a different label, not always associating myself with Initial.”
A year after Coliseum’s birth, Initial closed, but Patterson was in control of his own destiny. “Maybe I’m just a control freak. But that was why I started the band — I didn’t want to have that thing where you have a band for years and then someone else quits, and you have to stop what you started.”
For their second record, the Goddamage EP, Bryant was replaced by Mike Pascal. Jaha and two more replacements left quickly before Chris Maggio took over on drums, though he, too, would leave after three years, replaced finally by Carter Wilson.
Ash left before their next full-length, No Salvation, a collection that would test the band’s mettle — and metal.
Patterson says, “I’ve never seen anybody in the band as being temporary, and when anyone has ever been in the band, they have been a full member and are treated as such.” He started Coliseum with the idea that “I have the ability to control this band’s destiny. No one else can pull the rug out from under me. And that’s … maybe kind of cut-throat, but I do feel like there’s a point of self-preservation.”
“And I will say that we have good relationships with everybody who’s been in the band, and some of them have joined us onstage — things like that.”
Bassist Pascal leaving after seven years was the most difficult change. “I very much believe it was better for him and me that he was no longer in the band. I do believe that, with time, that relationship will be good again, at least in terms of friends. I don’t know …”
Life on the road can be grueling, contributing to the instability of the band’s lineup. “To be in a band that’s touring, that’s a lot to ask of somebody. Most people, even if they think they want it, when they get into it, it’s not what they want. Your priorities might be all over the place. You might enjoy doing this, but there might be a band you like more. Or you might have a job that you can’t get out of.”
Today, Coliseum tries to only stay out for two or three weeks at a time, then comes home for several weeks. In the last few years, “A lot of things (made me say), ‘What am I doing?’ … Being a guy who lives on the road is not interesting to me. So it’s a challenge, there’s a balancing act. It’s a little stressful right now to think about how much we’re going to be doing for the rest of the year, but we were home all of last year — that’s the give-and-take.”
He doesn’t want the band to feel like “Ryan and the other guys,” reiterating that they all are a part of the whole. “I want it to be Coliseum. Even though I may be most identified with it, we’re a band. We’re experiencing everything together, and what we’re accomplishing, we’re all accomplishing together.”
Both of his current bandmates, best friends since childhood, are from Birmingham — just like his wife — though bassist Kayhan Vaziri lives in Nashville now. Brother Evan Patterson found drummer Carter Wilson for Coliseum when Evan’s band Young Widows played with Wilson’s band.
When Vaziri joined, Patterson sat him down, just like the others, to give him the speech: “It’s a huge commitment. We’ll be gone a lot; if it’s something like a marriage ceremony, we can try to schedule around that, but we don’t schedule around other bands. This is the top priority.”
“Also, sometimes you have to invest some money. Most of the time you’re paid back and you make money, but …”
Patterson adds, “I probably told him I can be intense to deal with, that I’m extremely passionate about this. It’s really nice to be able to 100 percent count on these guys, as friends, and to do their part — there’s never any bullshit or any foot-dragging.”
Coliseum is stronger than ever these days, he says. “I love everybody that’s been in the band. I’m so happy to have had the times I’ve had with them, and I hope that they’re appreciative — no, that they look back fondly on what we’ve done. I hope that they’re not unhappy.”
Growing pains
Coliseum is a punk rock band, according to Patterson, and he dislikes being labeled as heavy metal. But the tag has stuck to the loud, heavy band partly because Patterson accepted an offer from powerhouse metal label Relapse Records in 2007 for their second album, No Salvation. On paper, it was a good idea: Coliseum would now be available not just in small, independent stores, but also internationally, in chains like Best Buy. To date, their Relapse record is still their biggest seller.
But the metal world rubbed Patterson the wrong way. Its culture didn’t match up to how he identifies himself and what he believes in. “We were just a band on a package. It wasn’t part of a community, it wasn’t part of anything, it was just this gear turning. I really hated that.”
Though the band’s popularity did grow as a result, “I think that we got a little bit tripped up, in terms of what we wanted to do. I think, musically, we felt like we should compete — we should be a Relapse-caliber band. We should be crazier, we should be a bit more intense.”
Though Relapse was interested in another record, Coliseum asked to be released from their contract.
“It’s not like at any point we’re going to be a household name,” he says. “The difference in this and that is so minute, you might as well do what feels right to you.”
Coliseum has since signed with Temporary Residence, a label run by a Louisville native, which also now releases Evan Patterson’s Young Widows records.
Life and death
After the more indie-inspired House with a Curse in 2010, Patterson says Sister Faith is “the most comfortable record we’ve ever done. It’s not a reaction to anything, it’s just the joy of creating.”
“I don’t think that means that it’s boring or lazy,” he adds. “I just think that means it feels good in its own skin.”
The new album was inspired by loss. Last year, both Patterson’s father-in-law and fellow musician Jason Noble died, resulting in an album he describes as “more personally inspired.”
Noble — who died last summer of a rare form of cancer — worked with Coliseum on Curse and became close with Patterson. “We’d known each other for a long time, but we had never hung out until he was sick. And I don’t know anyone else’s experiences — I don’t know if it was because of the situation, but we’d go see movies and hang out and talk and eat food. He had a huge impact on me, as (he did) for all of us.”
The album is full of dark places, he says, but also a renewed appetite “to embrace life and keep finding adventures, experiencing things that most people don’t get to experience … appreciating time while we’re here, and realizing that people live on with you, even if they’re not here. That, to me, is as close to an afterlife as you’ll get.”
Patterson, Louisville’s man in black, is pretty happy these days.
“This is my identity. This is my legacy … I would be happy for Coliseum to define my public life. I want to be a good brother and son and husband, and be this guy. I want this to be the body of work I can look back over … I wouldn’t be sitting here, talking to you, otherwise, you know?”
And though sometimes he questions his path, in the end, he says, “I wouldn’t trade it for the world. It’s very much worth it. It’s just a beautiful experience. I couldn’t imagine life any other way, really.”
Coliseum plays Friday night at Zanzabar.
Photo by Nick Thieneman.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Workingman
Here
Southern Indiana-based Americana singer/songwriter Nick Dittmeier has been playing music professionally for almost half his life, and now he has an EP, Extra Better, to show for it. While it’s the first release under his given name, he led the band Slithering Beast for several years, so he’s no newborn. WFPK has been playing “I Can Sing” from the EP, and Dittmeier celebrates its release with a show at the Monkey Wrench on Friday, May 17.
“My grandma is a music teacher, she taught me how to play guitar,” he says, sounding like a country song even in conversation. His dad Paul Dittmeier is now his pedal steel player, though he never showed young Nick how to play two decades ago.
As a boy, Dittmeier wanted to play in a band, partly because he thought a kid across the street was in a band he could join. He was wrong, so they started a new band instead.
In his teens, the streets of Louisville were filled with coffeehouses and other all-ages venues welcoming to unknown troubadours, more so than today, so he began learning how to win over crowds in that polite fashion. Today he mostly plays in bars and sees what he does as a job like any other, “like a guy who sweeps the floors.” He’s unlikely to label himself “an artist” but doesn’t care what you call him (“Nick”’s fine).
His new EP was recorded in his drummer’s house off Mellwood Avenue. “It was probably the most fun record I’ve gotten to make, because I didn’t think too hard about it. When I was tracking, I’d just go and do it and then leave.”
As a result, he sounds more relaxed, “more mellow,” he thinks, on the new recordings. He’s equally relaxed about its commercial prospects, even as he begins working on the next one.
His hope is to get a label interested in putting out his next record, or some radio airplay out of town — no private cruise with Beyoncé for this regular guy, just a realistic, down-to-earth dream he can work toward.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Southern Indiana-based Americana singer/songwriter Nick Dittmeier has been playing music professionally for almost half his life, and now he has an EP, Extra Better, to show for it. While it’s the first release under his given name, he led the band Slithering Beast for several years, so he’s no newborn. WFPK has been playing “I Can Sing” from the EP, and Dittmeier celebrates its release with a show at the Monkey Wrench on Friday, May 17.
“My grandma is a music teacher, she taught me how to play guitar,” he says, sounding like a country song even in conversation. His dad Paul Dittmeier is now his pedal steel player, though he never showed young Nick how to play two decades ago.
As a boy, Dittmeier wanted to play in a band, partly because he thought a kid across the street was in a band he could join. He was wrong, so they started a new band instead.
In his teens, the streets of Louisville were filled with coffeehouses and other all-ages venues welcoming to unknown troubadours, more so than today, so he began learning how to win over crowds in that polite fashion. Today he mostly plays in bars and sees what he does as a job like any other, “like a guy who sweeps the floors.” He’s unlikely to label himself “an artist” but doesn’t care what you call him (“Nick”’s fine).
His new EP was recorded in his drummer’s house off Mellwood Avenue. “It was probably the most fun record I’ve gotten to make, because I didn’t think too hard about it. When I was tracking, I’d just go and do it and then leave.”
As a result, he sounds more relaxed, “more mellow,” he thinks, on the new recordings. He’s equally relaxed about its commercial prospects, even as he begins working on the next one.
His hope is to get a label interested in putting out his next record, or some radio airplay out of town — no private cruise with Beyoncé for this regular guy, just a realistic, down-to-earth dream he can work toward.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
The amazing adventures of Houndmouth
Here
How was your winter? Mine wasn’t great — but Houndmouth’s was awesome. After recording their first full-length album, From the Hills Below the City (due June 4), they hit the road, traveling all over the United States and, for the first time, in Europe, sharing stages with the Drive-By Truckers, Lucero, Alabama Shakes and Grace Potter and the Nocturnals.
They stood out at the 2,000-plus-bands SXSW festival in Austin for the second year in a row, where they were interviewed for NBC’s “Rock Center” and made a new fan in veteran Rolling Stone writer David Fricke. The latter’s support led to Rolling Stone announcing Houndmouth’s album release. In their downtime, they released an eponymous beer made in collaboration with their neighbors, the New Albanian Brewing Company.
On Friday, they return home for a headlining show at Iroquois Amphitheater, whose 2,400 seating capacity is a big step up for the 18-month-old band. LEO Weekly asks guitarist/vocalist Matt Myers if he could guess, in comparison, what the capacity is for a more earthy local venue — the Irish Exit — where the members once practiced their craft. “Man, I don’t know!” he says. “Maybe 200?”
The band’s been getting used to bigger crowds, even if it means balancing some of the quieter moments in their songs with the chattering in the venue. In the album’s closing song, “Palmyra,” Myers sings of a “Kentucky shower,” which he defines as “when somebody takes a shower in the rain … There’s no gross connection with that,” he clarifies, laughing.
“Every time I sing ‘Kentucky shower,’ somebody laughs.”
Otherwise, it’s been a smooth, successful season for the rookies. “All the bands we’ve toured with not only have been great musicians but good people, and treated us really well,” Myers says.
Word of mouth has been spreading quickly, from online to fans of the headlining bands telling their friends. They’ve done especially well in New York. “Every time we’ve played here … we don’t expect anybody to show up, and now we’ve sold out shows. It blew us away, we had no idea.”
Europe has also been eye-opening. “We had some weird shows in France. They didn’t quite get it,” he laughs. “We heard, ‘Your stage presence is strange.’”
London was the best overseas date. “And the Netherlands — that kind of music, the folky sound goes over well in the Netherlands. That was great, too.”
Outside the Netherlands, getting mellow has become easier now that there’s a Houndmouth beer, what the NABC calls “a hopped-up American Wheat Ale.” The collaboration came together when the band filmed a video in their brewery. “We kind of brought that up in passing, that we’d like to do a beer with them if they’d be willing,” Myers says. “When you order it, you become a member of Houndmouth.”
The band went into SXSW knowing how much they’d need those ales to keep them steady during that hectic week. The previous year was “extremely stressful,” he says, “not only because we’d never been, but because we’d been a band for a couple months.” They did well enough then to earn a record deal with Rough Trade, so 2013 promised to be less intense.
“This year, we knew how stressful it was gonna be. We kind of prepared for it. It turned out to be good.”
Their summer adventures include some of their first festival dates, and they’re big ones: Lollapalooza, Outside Lands, and the Newport Folk Festival (where colleague and fan Jim James is a member of the advisory board this year).
With the album almost ready for public consumption, Houndmouth has no plans yet to go back into the studio, though they have been working up some fresh songs for their hometown fans.
“We play Louisville more than any other city, and we don’t want to go out there with all the same material. We’ve been testing songs on the road … hopefully it’ll be nice and tight for the Iroquois show.”
The band is in an enviable place right now, but growing pains are inevitable. One early favorite might be leaving the band soon.
“We’re getting tired of playing ‘Penitentiary.’ We’ve just been opening with it, getting that out of the way,” says Myers. “We know it like the back of our hands.”
Houndmouth with Joe Pug and Ranger
Friday, April 26
Iroquois Amphitheater
1080 Amphitheater Road
iroquoisamphitheater.com
$12-$15; 8 p.m.
Photo by Tyler Zoller.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
How was your winter? Mine wasn’t great — but Houndmouth’s was awesome. After recording their first full-length album, From the Hills Below the City (due June 4), they hit the road, traveling all over the United States and, for the first time, in Europe, sharing stages with the Drive-By Truckers, Lucero, Alabama Shakes and Grace Potter and the Nocturnals.
They stood out at the 2,000-plus-bands SXSW festival in Austin for the second year in a row, where they were interviewed for NBC’s “Rock Center” and made a new fan in veteran Rolling Stone writer David Fricke. The latter’s support led to Rolling Stone announcing Houndmouth’s album release. In their downtime, they released an eponymous beer made in collaboration with their neighbors, the New Albanian Brewing Company.
On Friday, they return home for a headlining show at Iroquois Amphitheater, whose 2,400 seating capacity is a big step up for the 18-month-old band. LEO Weekly asks guitarist/vocalist Matt Myers if he could guess, in comparison, what the capacity is for a more earthy local venue — the Irish Exit — where the members once practiced their craft. “Man, I don’t know!” he says. “Maybe 200?”
The band’s been getting used to bigger crowds, even if it means balancing some of the quieter moments in their songs with the chattering in the venue. In the album’s closing song, “Palmyra,” Myers sings of a “Kentucky shower,” which he defines as “when somebody takes a shower in the rain … There’s no gross connection with that,” he clarifies, laughing.
“Every time I sing ‘Kentucky shower,’ somebody laughs.”
Otherwise, it’s been a smooth, successful season for the rookies. “All the bands we’ve toured with not only have been great musicians but good people, and treated us really well,” Myers says.
Word of mouth has been spreading quickly, from online to fans of the headlining bands telling their friends. They’ve done especially well in New York. “Every time we’ve played here … we don’t expect anybody to show up, and now we’ve sold out shows. It blew us away, we had no idea.”
Europe has also been eye-opening. “We had some weird shows in France. They didn’t quite get it,” he laughs. “We heard, ‘Your stage presence is strange.’”
London was the best overseas date. “And the Netherlands — that kind of music, the folky sound goes over well in the Netherlands. That was great, too.”
Outside the Netherlands, getting mellow has become easier now that there’s a Houndmouth beer, what the NABC calls “a hopped-up American Wheat Ale.” The collaboration came together when the band filmed a video in their brewery. “We kind of brought that up in passing, that we’d like to do a beer with them if they’d be willing,” Myers says. “When you order it, you become a member of Houndmouth.”
The band went into SXSW knowing how much they’d need those ales to keep them steady during that hectic week. The previous year was “extremely stressful,” he says, “not only because we’d never been, but because we’d been a band for a couple months.” They did well enough then to earn a record deal with Rough Trade, so 2013 promised to be less intense.
“This year, we knew how stressful it was gonna be. We kind of prepared for it. It turned out to be good.”
Their summer adventures include some of their first festival dates, and they’re big ones: Lollapalooza, Outside Lands, and the Newport Folk Festival (where colleague and fan Jim James is a member of the advisory board this year).
With the album almost ready for public consumption, Houndmouth has no plans yet to go back into the studio, though they have been working up some fresh songs for their hometown fans.
“We play Louisville more than any other city, and we don’t want to go out there with all the same material. We’ve been testing songs on the road … hopefully it’ll be nice and tight for the Iroquois show.”
The band is in an enviable place right now, but growing pains are inevitable. One early favorite might be leaving the band soon.
“We’re getting tired of playing ‘Penitentiary.’ We’ve just been opening with it, getting that out of the way,” says Myers. “We know it like the back of our hands.”
Houndmouth with Joe Pug and Ranger
Friday, April 26
Iroquois Amphitheater
1080 Amphitheater Road
iroquoisamphitheater.com
$12-$15; 8 p.m.
Photo by Tyler Zoller.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
The lives and deaths of Juan MacLean
Here
Most people see DJs working a crowd into a frenzy on a wet Friday night and only see a good time. For Juan MacLean, however, such nights can be a different kind of escape — time spent not thinking about dead friends or his own inevitable demise.
“You Are My Destiny” is the latest recording of stylish house music by his band, The Juan MacLean, so LEO Weekly asked what his destiny is. “My destiny is to continue to have near-death experiences — I seem to have one a year lately — until I die, probably in a motorcycle accident,” laments the man formerly known as John MacLean, once a guitarist in the groundbreaking and provocative ’90s electronic post-punk band Six Finger Satellite. “Until then, I’ll continue to make melancholic electronic music.”
MacLean says it wasn’t as big of a leap as it might seem for him to have gone from a noisy Sub Pop band to a DFA dance machine. “Six Finger Satellite was a post-punk band utilizing dance music elements like synths and a rhythm section influenced by disco,” he notes. “The Juan MacLean, in its inception, was simply a reversal of this, a dance music project utilizing live band elements, particularly live drums.”
Six Finger — aka 6FS — faced tragedy when bassist Kurt Niemand died of a drug overdose in 1995, and MacLean again suffered a huge loss when his friend and live drummer Jerry Fuchs died in an accident in 2009. For MacLean, who already quit music once (retiring to New Hampshire, teaching English, “happier to chop wood and do yoga” than play music, as he puts it), the loss of Fuchs has caused him to re-evaluate his path once again.
“So much of my live touring and playing experience was tied into my relationship with Jerry ... A lot of the fun of touring with a band is the adventures you have with your friends, though this can also be the biggest nightmare for some people,” MacLean says. “For me, with The Juan MacLean, the band has always been friends that I love and enjoy being around immensely. But in terms of Jerry, I’m just not sure how to address it at this point. It’s still a very painful loss on a personal level, and it resonates through the music.”
MacLean has kept up a steady schedule of DJ nights and plans a new band record soon. When it’s done, he says they’ll figure out what the band will be at that point. “Jerry obviously left an enormous hole that needs to be filled.”
MacLean describes his personality as “destructively all-or-nothing,” which is why he not only quit 6FS, but, “Once I was done, I swore off music altogether … I vowed to never make music again.” It was several years before James Murphy, 6FS’s soundman, was able to persuade MacLean that “it was in my soul and could not be denied.”
Murphy, who went on to lead his own dance-rock band, LCD Soundsystem, also co-founded the label DFA Records, which introduced The Juan MacLean to dance and rock audiences in 2003.
Now, a decade back into it, MacLean appreciates what his two, sometimes conflicting, musical sides have given him. He has spent more years now touring as a DJ than with a band, “as opposed to a lot of band dudes who sort of do it as a fun thing to do after a show or whatever,” MacLean clarifies. “A lot of electronic music producers and DJs come from initial live music backgrounds — I think it makes them far more interesting. If electronic dance music is your only reference, it’s a bit limiting. No, it’s fucking boring.”
While DJ nights such as this Friday’s party at Zanzabar pay better, due to the overhead of traveling a full band around the country, MacLean laughs, “These days, you can just throw a MIDI controller in front of your laptop and call it ‘live,’ and no one is really going to call you out on it.
“I do love DJing, though. After all this time, it’s still my favorite thing to do in all of life, I think.”
Juan MacLean with OK Deejays & Lady Carol
Friday, April 19
Zanzabar
2100 S. Preston St.
$8-$10; 9 p.m.
Photo by Rob Phillips
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Most people see DJs working a crowd into a frenzy on a wet Friday night and only see a good time. For Juan MacLean, however, such nights can be a different kind of escape — time spent not thinking about dead friends or his own inevitable demise.
“You Are My Destiny” is the latest recording of stylish house music by his band, The Juan MacLean, so LEO Weekly asked what his destiny is. “My destiny is to continue to have near-death experiences — I seem to have one a year lately — until I die, probably in a motorcycle accident,” laments the man formerly known as John MacLean, once a guitarist in the groundbreaking and provocative ’90s electronic post-punk band Six Finger Satellite. “Until then, I’ll continue to make melancholic electronic music.”
MacLean says it wasn’t as big of a leap as it might seem for him to have gone from a noisy Sub Pop band to a DFA dance machine. “Six Finger Satellite was a post-punk band utilizing dance music elements like synths and a rhythm section influenced by disco,” he notes. “The Juan MacLean, in its inception, was simply a reversal of this, a dance music project utilizing live band elements, particularly live drums.”
Six Finger — aka 6FS — faced tragedy when bassist Kurt Niemand died of a drug overdose in 1995, and MacLean again suffered a huge loss when his friend and live drummer Jerry Fuchs died in an accident in 2009. For MacLean, who already quit music once (retiring to New Hampshire, teaching English, “happier to chop wood and do yoga” than play music, as he puts it), the loss of Fuchs has caused him to re-evaluate his path once again.
“So much of my live touring and playing experience was tied into my relationship with Jerry ... A lot of the fun of touring with a band is the adventures you have with your friends, though this can also be the biggest nightmare for some people,” MacLean says. “For me, with The Juan MacLean, the band has always been friends that I love and enjoy being around immensely. But in terms of Jerry, I’m just not sure how to address it at this point. It’s still a very painful loss on a personal level, and it resonates through the music.”
MacLean has kept up a steady schedule of DJ nights and plans a new band record soon. When it’s done, he says they’ll figure out what the band will be at that point. “Jerry obviously left an enormous hole that needs to be filled.”
MacLean describes his personality as “destructively all-or-nothing,” which is why he not only quit 6FS, but, “Once I was done, I swore off music altogether … I vowed to never make music again.” It was several years before James Murphy, 6FS’s soundman, was able to persuade MacLean that “it was in my soul and could not be denied.”
Murphy, who went on to lead his own dance-rock band, LCD Soundsystem, also co-founded the label DFA Records, which introduced The Juan MacLean to dance and rock audiences in 2003.
Now, a decade back into it, MacLean appreciates what his two, sometimes conflicting, musical sides have given him. He has spent more years now touring as a DJ than with a band, “as opposed to a lot of band dudes who sort of do it as a fun thing to do after a show or whatever,” MacLean clarifies. “A lot of electronic music producers and DJs come from initial live music backgrounds — I think it makes them far more interesting. If electronic dance music is your only reference, it’s a bit limiting. No, it’s fucking boring.”
While DJ nights such as this Friday’s party at Zanzabar pay better, due to the overhead of traveling a full band around the country, MacLean laughs, “These days, you can just throw a MIDI controller in front of your laptop and call it ‘live,’ and no one is really going to call you out on it.
“I do love DJing, though. After all this time, it’s still my favorite thing to do in all of life, I think.”
Juan MacLean with OK Deejays & Lady Carol
Friday, April 19
Zanzabar
2100 S. Preston St.
$8-$10; 9 p.m.
Photo by Rob Phillips
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Neptune manipulates the sounds around
Here
Neptune is a long-running, adventurous band from Boston that uses unusual and homemade instruments to make their sounds. Their latest album, msg rcvd, focuses on radio frequencies. We asked leader Jason Stanford about their unusual approach to rock music.
LEO: Can you explain The Feedback Organ and elaborate on how you compose with it?
Jason Sanford: The Feedback Organ works by putting small microphones near speakers and letting the signal feed back. The microphones are at one end of a column, or pipe, and the speakers are at the other end, so the length of the column determines the pitch of the feedback. When Neptune composes material, we often are looking for quirky things that our instruments do. The Feedback Organ has plenty of these quirks, so it makes composing easy for us. The Feedback Organ is especially well-suited for droning and dissonant sounds.
The current model of The Feedback Organ — model VI — also has the added feature of “key reversal switches.” Normally, the Organ is played like any organ or keyboard: by pressing the keys down. But when the switches are thrown, the corresponding pitches become “always on” until the key is depressed. This is useful for building polyphonic droning sounds, and also very useful for turning upside-down the way one usually thinks about making music. Doing things in a backwards kind of way can often lead to surprising results that would not otherwise have been reached.
LEO: Is it true that you’ve built all your instruments out of scrap metal? If yes, why do all that work?
JS: A friend of mine told me about going to a senior painting show at an art college. Pretty much all the paintings seemed in a similar style, “of the same school,” yet the work of one student stood out as remarkably different. My friend couldn’t figure out why; the subject matter was similar to the other work, the brush strokes were not so different. On asking around, he discovered that this student had mixed all of his own colors from raw pigments while all the other students just bought the pre-mixed paint in a tube.
Making your own instruments does not guarantee that your music will be good, but you can be pretty sure that you won’t sound like other bands. These days, Neptune continues to use welded scrap-metal guitars and drum constructions, as well as many homemade electronic and electro-acoustic devices, including The Feedback Organ, various electronic oscillators, radio-gating sequencers and some self-made electronic distortion effects.
LEO: How are you working with radio waves and frequencies now?
JS: Radio waves are an interesting and abundant material that surround us and penetrate us continuously. Neptune has always worked with scraps and trash, and radio waves fit our expanded definition of what can be thought of as trash. Lately, we have been sending different radio signals to homemade gated sequencers. This can create sound patterns that have rhythmic regularity but indeterminate sonic content.
LEO: How does it feel to confound an audience?
JS: If an audience walks away from a concert feeling (like), “That was nice,” then I don’t feel that I am doing my job. Our music is, at times, challenging. Hopefully, some will also find it rewarding.
Neptune with Junk Yard Dogs
Saturday, April 20
Quonset Hut
599 Rubel Ave.
$10-$15; 7 p.m.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Neptune is a long-running, adventurous band from Boston that uses unusual and homemade instruments to make their sounds. Their latest album, msg rcvd, focuses on radio frequencies. We asked leader Jason Stanford about their unusual approach to rock music.
LEO: Can you explain The Feedback Organ and elaborate on how you compose with it?
Jason Sanford: The Feedback Organ works by putting small microphones near speakers and letting the signal feed back. The microphones are at one end of a column, or pipe, and the speakers are at the other end, so the length of the column determines the pitch of the feedback. When Neptune composes material, we often are looking for quirky things that our instruments do. The Feedback Organ has plenty of these quirks, so it makes composing easy for us. The Feedback Organ is especially well-suited for droning and dissonant sounds.
The current model of The Feedback Organ — model VI — also has the added feature of “key reversal switches.” Normally, the Organ is played like any organ or keyboard: by pressing the keys down. But when the switches are thrown, the corresponding pitches become “always on” until the key is depressed. This is useful for building polyphonic droning sounds, and also very useful for turning upside-down the way one usually thinks about making music. Doing things in a backwards kind of way can often lead to surprising results that would not otherwise have been reached.
LEO: Is it true that you’ve built all your instruments out of scrap metal? If yes, why do all that work?
JS: A friend of mine told me about going to a senior painting show at an art college. Pretty much all the paintings seemed in a similar style, “of the same school,” yet the work of one student stood out as remarkably different. My friend couldn’t figure out why; the subject matter was similar to the other work, the brush strokes were not so different. On asking around, he discovered that this student had mixed all of his own colors from raw pigments while all the other students just bought the pre-mixed paint in a tube.
Making your own instruments does not guarantee that your music will be good, but you can be pretty sure that you won’t sound like other bands. These days, Neptune continues to use welded scrap-metal guitars and drum constructions, as well as many homemade electronic and electro-acoustic devices, including The Feedback Organ, various electronic oscillators, radio-gating sequencers and some self-made electronic distortion effects.
LEO: How are you working with radio waves and frequencies now?
JS: Radio waves are an interesting and abundant material that surround us and penetrate us continuously. Neptune has always worked with scraps and trash, and radio waves fit our expanded definition of what can be thought of as trash. Lately, we have been sending different radio signals to homemade gated sequencers. This can create sound patterns that have rhythmic regularity but indeterminate sonic content.
LEO: How does it feel to confound an audience?
JS: If an audience walks away from a concert feeling (like), “That was nice,” then I don’t feel that I am doing my job. Our music is, at times, challenging. Hopefully, some will also find it rewarding.
Neptune with Junk Yard Dogs
Saturday, April 20
Quonset Hut
599 Rubel Ave.
$10-$15; 7 p.m.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
No rest for the wicked
Here
“I’ve been getting good feedback on it so far. Well, at least from my friends,” laughs Brian Omer about the new album by his band Stonecutters. The band celebrates its release with a show Saturday at Headliners.
As founder, vocalist and one of the guitarists in Stonecutters, Omer — a heavy-metal lifer whose other passions are for classic horror movies and similarly over-the-top paintings — has found the perfect vehicle for his obsessions. Previously known for his work with My Own Victim, who toured the world and then came to an end as the music industry was going through its own upheavals, Omer isn’t going anywhere soon, though he prefers CDs and vinyl to digital downloads.
He’s paid his bills through music for 15 years now — clerking at ear X-tacy, then teaching guitar at Mom’s Music and now at Guitar Center. A student of his genre, Omer was thrilled to discover recently that the late guitar master Randy Rhoads had also been a teacher. It’s another connection to past greats for Stonecutters, who shared stages last year with everyone from Anthrax to Down to Goatwhore.
Their new, third studio album, recorded by Kevin Ratterman in his La La Land studios over four days in February, is called Creatio Ex Nihil. It’s the first Stonecutters album for guitarist Chris Leffler, another metal vet, who approached his now-bandmates to ask about joining. It was a new beginning for the band, says Omer, who praises Leffler as one of the best guitarists he’s ever seen — high praise from a guy who gets paid by 50 regular students.
Creatio Ex Nihil translates as “Creation Out of Nothingness.” While not strictly a concept album, there is a recurring theme of annihilation, anger and frustration running through the songs. It’s a healthy release of energy from a band that’s never been happier.
“I think this is definitely the best thing I’ve done. You can hear a progression, from the first album to this one. I’m excited for people to hear it,” says Omer.
Check out facebook.com/stonecuttersky.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
“I’ve been getting good feedback on it so far. Well, at least from my friends,” laughs Brian Omer about the new album by his band Stonecutters. The band celebrates its release with a show Saturday at Headliners.
As founder, vocalist and one of the guitarists in Stonecutters, Omer — a heavy-metal lifer whose other passions are for classic horror movies and similarly over-the-top paintings — has found the perfect vehicle for his obsessions. Previously known for his work with My Own Victim, who toured the world and then came to an end as the music industry was going through its own upheavals, Omer isn’t going anywhere soon, though he prefers CDs and vinyl to digital downloads.
He’s paid his bills through music for 15 years now — clerking at ear X-tacy, then teaching guitar at Mom’s Music and now at Guitar Center. A student of his genre, Omer was thrilled to discover recently that the late guitar master Randy Rhoads had also been a teacher. It’s another connection to past greats for Stonecutters, who shared stages last year with everyone from Anthrax to Down to Goatwhore.
Their new, third studio album, recorded by Kevin Ratterman in his La La Land studios over four days in February, is called Creatio Ex Nihil. It’s the first Stonecutters album for guitarist Chris Leffler, another metal vet, who approached his now-bandmates to ask about joining. It was a new beginning for the band, says Omer, who praises Leffler as one of the best guitarists he’s ever seen — high praise from a guy who gets paid by 50 regular students.
Creatio Ex Nihil translates as “Creation Out of Nothingness.” While not strictly a concept album, there is a recurring theme of annihilation, anger and frustration running through the songs. It’s a healthy release of energy from a band that’s never been happier.
“I think this is definitely the best thing I’ve done. You can hear a progression, from the first album to this one. I’m excited for people to hear it,” says Omer.
Check out facebook.com/stonecuttersky.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
Keep Louisville healthy
Here
Ken Pyle, founder and proprietor of Old Louisville’s venerable and influential club/theater/restaurant/bar/meeting place the Rudyard Kipling, has been a bit unwell lately. His protégé, the musician and actor Ray Rizzo, whose Motherlodge Festival took over the Rud once again last week, has put together an online-based fundraising campaign to help pay off Pyle’s medical bills.
On the site, Rizzo writes about how Pyle, who has had knee replacement surgery, was recently hospitalized with an infection caused by complications from those procedures. “Ken has Medicare, which covers his doctor bills, hospitalization, and what, at the time of this campaign, looks to be 6 weeks in (a) nursing home, but his very costly medication is not covered,” shares Rizzo. “This campaign is raising funds for this.”
The goal at the Give Forward site is set at $15,000, and as of Monday, almost $16,000 had been raised to help Pyle and his wife and Rud partner, Sheila. The donations begin at $10 and have gone up to as much as $1,000 from individuals, some of them musicians who have benefited greatly not only from playing in the venue through the years, but also from enjoying many great nights there as fans as well.
The Rudyard Kipling has had its own share of financial struggles, and boosters like My Morning Jacket’s Jim James have remained eager to perform and spread the word to help keep the doors open. But as much as the community has enjoyed the Rud itself, those who have known Ken have known that it is his tireless spirit that keeps people coming back.
“Ken Pyle is a prince of positivity,” wrote Rizzo. “Whether it be with his family, his friends, his church or his one-of-a-kind establishment The Rudyard Kipling in Louisville, KY, Ken has always emphasized joy and peacefulness in all things.”
To donate, please visit giveforward.com/fundraiser/rk42/kenpylemedicinemoney. The fundraiser ends May 6. Also, check the Rud’s schedule at therudyardkipling.com for upcoming music, comedy and theater performances. And try the burgoo.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Ken Pyle, founder and proprietor of Old Louisville’s venerable and influential club/theater/restaurant/bar/meeting place the Rudyard Kipling, has been a bit unwell lately. His protégé, the musician and actor Ray Rizzo, whose Motherlodge Festival took over the Rud once again last week, has put together an online-based fundraising campaign to help pay off Pyle’s medical bills.
On the site, Rizzo writes about how Pyle, who has had knee replacement surgery, was recently hospitalized with an infection caused by complications from those procedures. “Ken has Medicare, which covers his doctor bills, hospitalization, and what, at the time of this campaign, looks to be 6 weeks in (a) nursing home, but his very costly medication is not covered,” shares Rizzo. “This campaign is raising funds for this.”
The goal at the Give Forward site is set at $15,000, and as of Monday, almost $16,000 had been raised to help Pyle and his wife and Rud partner, Sheila. The donations begin at $10 and have gone up to as much as $1,000 from individuals, some of them musicians who have benefited greatly not only from playing in the venue through the years, but also from enjoying many great nights there as fans as well.
The Rudyard Kipling has had its own share of financial struggles, and boosters like My Morning Jacket’s Jim James have remained eager to perform and spread the word to help keep the doors open. But as much as the community has enjoyed the Rud itself, those who have known Ken have known that it is his tireless spirit that keeps people coming back.
“Ken Pyle is a prince of positivity,” wrote Rizzo. “Whether it be with his family, his friends, his church or his one-of-a-kind establishment The Rudyard Kipling in Louisville, KY, Ken has always emphasized joy and peacefulness in all things.”
To donate, please visit giveforward.com/fundraiser/rk42/kenpylemedicinemoney. The fundraiser ends May 6. Also, check the Rud’s schedule at therudyardkipling.com for upcoming music, comedy and theater performances. And try the burgoo.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Not the R.E.M. album
Here
Not long ago, it seemed like Blunt Honey wouldn’t be planning to release their debut album, or playing a release show at Headliners. With one member battling health issues, singer/guitarist/banjo player Jonathon Mitchell has also been playing with another group, Nellie Pearl.
But on Friday, March 28, Blunt Honey returns to share songs from Green, with the Rumpke Mountain Boys closing and Strung Like a Horse opening at 9 p.m. LEO spoke with Mitchell about his Bluntedness.
The trio (also including fiddler Emily Caudill and mandolinist Sean Michael Jennings) lives together in what Mitchell describes as “a big house,” and they recorded a version of the album by themselves at home. Technical problems led them to DSL Studios in Jeffersontown, where it was completed.
“We do it all live, as a bluegrass band,” says Mitchell, though they were unable to play together around one microphone, in the live bluegrass tradition. “My voice is a lot more powerful than Emily’s, so working out of one mic doesn’t really go down the way we wanted it.”
They recorded nine songs in one day, with minimal overdubs added later. The so-called “progressive bluegrass” bandleader agrees it’s a good time commercially for a band like theirs, though their touring options are currently limited. Mitchell cites the Punch Brothers and Trampled By Turtles as kindred spirits.
“We like to call it bluegrass because we don’t like to chop it down into sub-genres. But we’re not really traditional bluegrass.”
More important was giving the album itself a label.
“We decided to call it Green because it’s our first album, and green’s the color of birth and springtime, and it’s aesthetically pleasing. Plus, our band is called Blunt Honey. It seemed appropriate.”
To spread your pro-marijuana message to everyone?
“Uh, yeah, I mean, kind of … I don’t know if the whole band is as all about it as I am, but I’m an active marijuana smoker, and I like to use my music to make that known sometimes. So that was part of it.”
Smoke ’em if you got ’em at facebook.com/BluntHoney.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Not long ago, it seemed like Blunt Honey wouldn’t be planning to release their debut album, or playing a release show at Headliners. With one member battling health issues, singer/guitarist/banjo player Jonathon Mitchell has also been playing with another group, Nellie Pearl.
But on Friday, March 28, Blunt Honey returns to share songs from Green, with the Rumpke Mountain Boys closing and Strung Like a Horse opening at 9 p.m. LEO spoke with Mitchell about his Bluntedness.
The trio (also including fiddler Emily Caudill and mandolinist Sean Michael Jennings) lives together in what Mitchell describes as “a big house,” and they recorded a version of the album by themselves at home. Technical problems led them to DSL Studios in Jeffersontown, where it was completed.
“We do it all live, as a bluegrass band,” says Mitchell, though they were unable to play together around one microphone, in the live bluegrass tradition. “My voice is a lot more powerful than Emily’s, so working out of one mic doesn’t really go down the way we wanted it.”
They recorded nine songs in one day, with minimal overdubs added later. The so-called “progressive bluegrass” bandleader agrees it’s a good time commercially for a band like theirs, though their touring options are currently limited. Mitchell cites the Punch Brothers and Trampled By Turtles as kindred spirits.
“We like to call it bluegrass because we don’t like to chop it down into sub-genres. But we’re not really traditional bluegrass.”
More important was giving the album itself a label.
“We decided to call it Green because it’s our first album, and green’s the color of birth and springtime, and it’s aesthetically pleasing. Plus, our band is called Blunt Honey. It seemed appropriate.”
To spread your pro-marijuana message to everyone?
“Uh, yeah, I mean, kind of … I don’t know if the whole band is as all about it as I am, but I’m an active marijuana smoker, and I like to use my music to make that known sometimes. So that was part of it.”
Smoke ’em if you got ’em at facebook.com/BluntHoney.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Milo Greene’s road movies
Here
Robbie Arnett is one of the five members of Milo Greene, none of whom are named Milo or Greene. If you’re an NPR-listening, blog-reading music fan, you’ve probably heard the oft-told story of how they got their name (it was the name of a fictitious manager, used by band members trying to book shows while in previous bands, attempting to give the impression that they were more successful).
Milo Greene is a pop-rock band from Los Angeles that has shared not just booking duties but also songwriting and singing, and trades instruments throughout their sets. “I learned guitar first. Everything else, I try to make it up as I go,” Arnett says. “We take as many instruments as we can, learn really simple lines, little melodies, and then figure out how to play it live.”
Unlike some L.A. collectives, Milo Greene doesn’t exude a Manson family cult vibe — they come from the sunny part of town, near the beach, where folks are still young enough to try to succeed, where their dreams haven’t been totally dashed yet.
Living in what the band calls “Americalifornia” has also made it easier to perform on every TV talk show in town, though they have spent much of the past few years touring up and down the highways of the real America. It’s a life that appeals to him, says Arnett, much more than battling the legendary SoCal traffic snarls.
“It’s the way I’ve always lived. My family moved a lot when I was growing up, so it turned into something that feels natural to me — moving around hotels, a different city each night.”
Their travels will take them to Bonnaroo this June, offering a chance to check out both their youthful peers and older legends like Paul McCartney and Tom Petty. It might be the best way for an up-and-coming musician to make Dad proud.
“I was home recently with my dad, and we watched one of those behind-the-album documentaries on Netflix about Tom Petty … I’ve done some harsh music projects before, and this is the one that my dad is like, ‘Oh, I could get into this.’ That’s really cool to think that you can be up there with, like, (laughs) The Doobie Brothers.”
Have you considered that in 10 or 20 years, you might be somebody’s parents’ favorite band? “I hope,” laughs Arnett. “Yeah, that would be cool. It would be, like, the Eagles or us.”
Milo Greene has done well enough that their Louisville show was originally scheduled for Zanzabar but had to move to the larger Headliners to meet demand.
The real test might be the nerve-racking sophomore album, the expectations-raised sequel to the album they spent years preparing.
“We have time off in April, so we’re just starting to think about making new music, which is exciting for me. I’ve been living with these songs for almost four years now at this point.”
“It’ll be nice to get some new blood in there,” he says. “We love working with sounds, recording stuff, and we do it all ourselves. Being in a band with four songwriters is a challenge, but I think that’s a gift,” Arnett continues, describing their commonality as a shared love of lyrics and melody.
Still, Arnett’s not completely sick of their set just yet. “No, no, like I said, we learn instruments on the go, so I’m always challenged.”
You’re still learning how to play your own songs? “Exactly! ‘You want me to jump on this keyboard? Jump on this bass? It’s gonna take some time, but OK …’”
The band’s interest in movies — and marketing savvy — has led them to label their music “cinematic pop.” While the group’s future potential as film composers is still unknown, they have assembled a 40-minute film called “Moddison,” meant to coincide with their self-titled album, which was released last July. “I’m interested in (film scoring) … people have asked, we just haven’t had time to think about things. When you’re on the road, you kind of forget things like what time it is. You can’t focus on real things.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” Arnett concludes. “You’re just focused on things like traveling, and you get an hour each day to really be alive.”
Milo Greene with the Kopecky Family Band
Saturday, March 16
Headliners Music Hall
1386 Lexington Road
headlinerslouisville.com
$12; 9 p.m.
Photo by Liza Boone
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Robbie Arnett is one of the five members of Milo Greene, none of whom are named Milo or Greene. If you’re an NPR-listening, blog-reading music fan, you’ve probably heard the oft-told story of how they got their name (it was the name of a fictitious manager, used by band members trying to book shows while in previous bands, attempting to give the impression that they were more successful).
Milo Greene is a pop-rock band from Los Angeles that has shared not just booking duties but also songwriting and singing, and trades instruments throughout their sets. “I learned guitar first. Everything else, I try to make it up as I go,” Arnett says. “We take as many instruments as we can, learn really simple lines, little melodies, and then figure out how to play it live.”
Unlike some L.A. collectives, Milo Greene doesn’t exude a Manson family cult vibe — they come from the sunny part of town, near the beach, where folks are still young enough to try to succeed, where their dreams haven’t been totally dashed yet.
Living in what the band calls “Americalifornia” has also made it easier to perform on every TV talk show in town, though they have spent much of the past few years touring up and down the highways of the real America. It’s a life that appeals to him, says Arnett, much more than battling the legendary SoCal traffic snarls.
“It’s the way I’ve always lived. My family moved a lot when I was growing up, so it turned into something that feels natural to me — moving around hotels, a different city each night.”
Their travels will take them to Bonnaroo this June, offering a chance to check out both their youthful peers and older legends like Paul McCartney and Tom Petty. It might be the best way for an up-and-coming musician to make Dad proud.
“I was home recently with my dad, and we watched one of those behind-the-album documentaries on Netflix about Tom Petty … I’ve done some harsh music projects before, and this is the one that my dad is like, ‘Oh, I could get into this.’ That’s really cool to think that you can be up there with, like, (laughs) The Doobie Brothers.”
Have you considered that in 10 or 20 years, you might be somebody’s parents’ favorite band? “I hope,” laughs Arnett. “Yeah, that would be cool. It would be, like, the Eagles or us.”
Milo Greene has done well enough that their Louisville show was originally scheduled for Zanzabar but had to move to the larger Headliners to meet demand.
The real test might be the nerve-racking sophomore album, the expectations-raised sequel to the album they spent years preparing.
“We have time off in April, so we’re just starting to think about making new music, which is exciting for me. I’ve been living with these songs for almost four years now at this point.”
“It’ll be nice to get some new blood in there,” he says. “We love working with sounds, recording stuff, and we do it all ourselves. Being in a band with four songwriters is a challenge, but I think that’s a gift,” Arnett continues, describing their commonality as a shared love of lyrics and melody.
Still, Arnett’s not completely sick of their set just yet. “No, no, like I said, we learn instruments on the go, so I’m always challenged.”
You’re still learning how to play your own songs? “Exactly! ‘You want me to jump on this keyboard? Jump on this bass? It’s gonna take some time, but OK …’”
The band’s interest in movies — and marketing savvy — has led them to label their music “cinematic pop.” While the group’s future potential as film composers is still unknown, they have assembled a 40-minute film called “Moddison,” meant to coincide with their self-titled album, which was released last July. “I’m interested in (film scoring) … people have asked, we just haven’t had time to think about things. When you’re on the road, you kind of forget things like what time it is. You can’t focus on real things.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” Arnett concludes. “You’re just focused on things like traveling, and you get an hour each day to really be alive.”
Milo Greene with the Kopecky Family Band
Saturday, March 16
Headliners Music Hall
1386 Lexington Road
headlinerslouisville.com
$12; 9 p.m.
Photo by Liza Boone
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
Grunge is not dead
Here
Mike James grew up on the outskirts of Louisville but has been finding himself increasingly embraced by fans of guitar rock. His latest band, the two-piece Been to the Gallows, releases their second album today (March 13) with a release show at the Tim Faulkner Gallery in Butchertown ($5, 7 p.m.).
LEO: Tell me about how you put this album together. How do you feel it compares to your first one?
Mike James: I kept November through February clear as far as gigs go so that I could focus on the album. There’s nothing I love more than taking my time to experiment with my music, without dreading any sort of deadline. As far as how Cryptozoology compares to my previous album, A Knock at the Door, each certainly reflects elements of the other, but they do differ to a considerable degree. The main difference would be that while Door was basically a compilation of songs I’d done over a few years, Cryptozoology consists of songs that were written specifically to accompany one another, giving it a consistent vibe with recurring themes, and even somewhat of a story arc, if you dig deep enough.
LEO: You get a big, classic rock sound from your guitar. How long have you been playing?
MJ: Guitar has been a part of my life that I take very seriously since I was relatively young. As I was growing up, I was exposed to it on a regular basis; there were always guitars lying around the house, and it was something I just began to toy with. I really started taking it seriously in about sixth grade or so. I still practice on a daily basis, because — despite that I’ve been at it for over a decade — I’ve really only just begun. As a guitar teacher, “Practice, practice, practice” tends to be my motto, and my students can vouch for that.
Go to beentothegallows.wordpress.com.
Photo by David Deaubrey
C. 2013 LEO Weekly
Mike James grew up on the outskirts of Louisville but has been finding himself increasingly embraced by fans of guitar rock. His latest band, the two-piece Been to the Gallows, releases their second album today (March 13) with a release show at the Tim Faulkner Gallery in Butchertown ($5, 7 p.m.).
LEO: Tell me about how you put this album together. How do you feel it compares to your first one?
Mike James: I kept November through February clear as far as gigs go so that I could focus on the album. There’s nothing I love more than taking my time to experiment with my music, without dreading any sort of deadline. As far as how Cryptozoology compares to my previous album, A Knock at the Door, each certainly reflects elements of the other, but they do differ to a considerable degree. The main difference would be that while Door was basically a compilation of songs I’d done over a few years, Cryptozoology consists of songs that were written specifically to accompany one another, giving it a consistent vibe with recurring themes, and even somewhat of a story arc, if you dig deep enough.
LEO: You get a big, classic rock sound from your guitar. How long have you been playing?
MJ: Guitar has been a part of my life that I take very seriously since I was relatively young. As I was growing up, I was exposed to it on a regular basis; there were always guitars lying around the house, and it was something I just began to toy with. I really started taking it seriously in about sixth grade or so. I still practice on a daily basis, because — despite that I’ve been at it for over a decade — I’ve really only just begun. As a guitar teacher, “Practice, practice, practice” tends to be my motto, and my students can vouch for that.
Go to beentothegallows.wordpress.com.
Photo by David Deaubrey
C. 2013 LEO Weekly
Wednesday, March 06, 2013
Rise of the DJs
Here
How dance music moved in on the Louisville music scene
To be at the Germantown nightclub Zanzabar at 1 a.m. on a Saturday night that has become a Sunday morning is to be several things. Most likely, you are young, between 21 and 29. You are probably pretty drunk, though not too drunk yet, if you’re at all civilized (give it another hour).
If you’re a woman, you probably came to hang out with your girlfriends; you might be looking to hook up with someone, or you might just be looking to dance the night away. If you’re a man, you might not even realize there are DJs on the small stage in the back of the room. You are probably there with a handful of your bros, but you are hoping to leave with just one other person. You might get into a fight, tonight or some other night; if you’re that type, maybe on multiple nights.
Throughout the dry-ice-scented, laser-light-filled club, girls tote crossbody bags, decked out in a hipster style that works for the fedora and trucker hat-wearing guys. A swarm of the latter flash gang signs as GlitterTitzDJz knowingly segue from a remix of Icona Pop’s theme from MTV’s “Snooki and JWoww” show into DJ Assault’s classic ode to “Ass-N-Titties.”
Zanzabar opened in 2009 as a combination bar/restaurant/music venue, with the added distinction of boasting an impressive collection of playable pinball machines and old-school video games. But if anything has made it a place to see and be seen on the weekends, it’s the DJs.
The Louisville music scene has a long history of punk, hardcore and heavy metal bands to its credit, along with numerous variations on country, indie rock, jazz, hip-hop, blues and R&B. It’s always been a live music town, where bands from My Morning Jacket to The Crashers have thrilled thousands with their guitars, basses, drums and keyboards.
But increasingly, DJs — not just the wedding or Fourth Street Live variety aiming to play the latest Top 40 hits for less discriminating audiences — have become an important and essential aspect of the scene.
Not coincidentally, DJs have become a big business worldwide. From easily identifiable pop-star-level favorites like Skrillex and Deadmaus to super-producers and writers like Calvin Harris (Rihanna, Kesha, Kylie Minogue) and David Guetta (Black Eyed Peas, Akon, Pitbull), DJs have become a commercial factor like never before. While the music has had a decades-long presence in Europe, and various electronic and/or dance acts such as Moby, Prodigy and Underworld achieved success in the United States in the late-’90s, what is today called EDM (a redundant acronym for “electronic dance music”) is a relatively new phenomenon on Top 40 radio here.
Forecastle Festival founder J.K. McKnight, who has booked DJs at his fests for several years, says he saw the current wave coming a decade ago. “It seemed inevitable. I witnessed it firsthand when I was 19 and in Belfast, Northern Ireland, on a trip. It left a mark. The energy level was off the charts.”
But it would take time for that wave of energy to reach its peak in this town.
“(Louisville) likes its indie rock, it likes its singer-songwriters; it likes a lot of things, but it took a while for Louisville,” says musician Craig Pfunder of the dance-rock band VHS or Beta, a native who now lives in New York. “The times, I’m sure, are different now with the Internet — not as many boundaries.”
As more young music fans turn away from guitars and toward two turntables and a mixer, will Louisville’s next breakthrough act be a traditional rock band like My Morning Jacket or Houndmouth … or a DJ you wouldn’t even recognize at Kroger?
Garrett Crabtree Jr. was raised on classic rock, spending much of his youth attempting to nail perfect guitar solos. But these days, the 31-year-old genuinely loves dance music and is protective of its younger fans.
“Young people — 18-25 — have always been the deciding factor in pop music,” says Crabtree, one half of the DJ duo GlitterTitz. “They drive the world of music, but people just seem to write them off as stupid kids. Ultimately, I think it’s kind of crazy that it’s taken you guys this long to do a story on the DJ scene in Louisville.”
To the younger generation, he adds, this is their music: “It’s not ironic or funny. They look at DJs as artists.”
And as appreciation for this art form grows, so, too, does the number of aspiring DJs.
“There are so many artists these days, it’s like getting a turntable now for Christmas has replaced the acoustic guitar,” McKnight says. “Everyone is doing it, but so few will actually make it.”
British ex-pat Jon Paul Hill, who spins disco Saturdays at the Butchertown bar Meat under the DJ name JP Source, is one of those many. When he was 16, a friend taught him the basics.
“I couldn’t get it out of my mind. And so, when quite soon after I was given a bit of money, it came down to a choice of get driving lessons or some turntables. I chose the decks and, in retrospect, realized that these are the kind of foolish decisions only made by proper DJs.”
Jesse See Tai began learning how to DJ at 15. Within a year, still with braces on his teeth, he began DJing publicly as Jesse Jamz.
“The thing I like about DJing is the interaction,” he says. “When you’re playing to a packed club and everyone is losing it, it’s an amazing feeling.”
He also notes, “It’s pretty ridiculous how much money you can make for playing music for 90 minutes, especially the kind of money the big guys are making.”
Mostly self-taught, he also benefited from advice from mentors Mark Palgy and the aforementioned Craig Pfunder, leaders of VHS or Beta; the duo have also become popular DJs on the side. Today, at 24, See Tai has changed his professional nom-de-dance to Black Matter and has released some of his own music.
It’s here where Black Matter stands out from most of the crowd in Louisville — while some have begun making their own music, most are still in the early stages or just not interested. If live bands make their money from touring and licensing, most DJs today who make it out of their hometowns succeed by writing and producing. Rihanna can’t dub those steps alone, after all.
“Production is what gets you booked now,” says See Tai. “You can’t just be a DJ. Unless you’re a huge artist, you probably won’t make much for sales, but you could still make money from licensing.”
It’s why Carol Hamilton, who DJs as Lady Carol, is beginning to produce some of her own music.
“I’ve got the DJ thing down pat, but now I’m trying to get my own sound out there,” she says. “There’s nothing like playing your own tracks at a club.”
While the media has tried to explain the DJ surge by calling them “the new rock stars,” and rockers like My Morning Jacket’s Jim James (DJ Cap’n Goodies) and Wax Fang’s Scott Carney (DJ Captain Howdy) have dipped their toes into the pool, full-time DJs — several of whom have also played in rock bands — are noticeably hesitant to agree with such a label.
“I do think it’s something different,” is the opinion of Alex Bell, aka A-Bell of OK Deejays, who DJ at Zanzabar on Fridays. “I don’t think DJs have — as they shouldn’t — the showmanship of a guitar-wielding, live, singing rock star.”
His partner, Aaron Chadwell, known as DJ Narwhal, adds, “I don’t even know if there are rock stars anymore.”
But Crabtree maintains it’s both musicianship and the ability to perform that sets some DJs apart.
“They are music producers, not just DJs. They write music. They do the legwork for Justin Bieber tracks. They are highly intelligent computer nerds. A lot of them are accomplished musicians in the classical sense. They just perform their music a little differently than Nirvana did. Ultimately, the music that they write would be impossible to perform live, so they DJ it.
“It might seem ridiculous, but it’s not,” he continues. “It’s still a performance. It’s hard to explain. But yes, DJs ultimately enjoy rock-star status. Follow Diplo on Twitter, and you’ll know what I mean.”
Crabtree’s GlitterTitz partner, Jamey See Tai — DJ Black Matter’s brother — laughs at the question. “I’m sure to some kids they are. I definitely give more credit to the DJs who are also producing music. Some of those dudes are making some really awesome tracks. On the other hand, I also think a lot of DJs look really foolish ‘rockin’ out’ on stage while not really doing anything. But you gotta keep the crowd hyped, I guess.”
It’s that ability to keep the crowd hyped that pushes the locals to the next level. Adjusting their sets on the fly is one element the majority of DJs have in common. It’s almost like performing stand-up comedy — most wade gently into their set, feeling out the crowd.
“It’s improv, man, you don’t know what you’re gonna get,” says DJ Matt Anthony. A veteran of the local scene and a regular host on WFPK, Anthony differs from many DJs because he mostly spins classic soul, Latin and jazz sounds, instead of current hip-hop, house or nu-disco records. At an ongoing gig at the Maker’s Mark Lounge at Fourth Street Live, Anthony was tasked with entertaining crowds ranging from Wal-Mart distribution conventioneers to an all-African-American 1983 high school class reunion.
“You’re trying to manipulate people with sounds; it’s not even songs,” he says. “The electronic guys have proven that. You don’t even need a hook, a song. You can make people dance if you get the right crowd and the right vibe going … Reading the crowd is what it’s all about.”
He says an older DJ told him: “‘Your job is to create hysteria. And you can’t plan on that.’ I always think about that, and I love it. You have to make people go crazy. Until I’ve done that, I don’t feel like I’ve earned my pay yet.”
Sometimes, engaging the crowd requires a little bit of bait and switch.
“You can’t please everyone with every track, so you find clever ways of tricking them into liking things they normally wouldn’t,” Crabtree notes. “Like putting a hip-hop beat behind a Metallica track.”
It’s a trick known to fans of internationally popular acts like Girl Talk. McKnight booked the mash-up favorite in 2007 as a Forecastle Festival headliner. After McKnight’s mother picked up another festival band at the airport, she told him how they had expressed unease at playing on the same bill as the DJ. “They talked about how it was a fad and was going to fade. (How) it had zero staying power, more or less a trend for high school adolescents.”
Now, McKnight says, Girl Talk makes seven times what the festival paid the act back then. “I haven’t heard anything about the other band since.”
Black Matter’s Jesse See Tai agrees with the notion that a DJ must be clever about working the crowd. “When I first started playing here in Louisville, I remember how tough it was to keep everyone happy and dancing … it was almost like I had to trick them into liking what I played. I’d play one song I knew they’d like and then a couple that I liked. Everyone likes familiarity, so you have to make them feel comfortable but, at the same time, introduce new unfamiliar things.”
“Things have changed a lot since then, though,” he adds. “Due to the growth of electronic music in mainstream media, it’s a lot easier for someone who isn’t necessarily into electronic music to go out and have a good time dancing to music they don’t know.”
Jon Paul Hill, aka JP Source, has developed a philosophical approach to his weekly DJ night at Meat.
“I think you just have to do your best at doing your thing. I’ve had gigs where I tried desperately to please everyone, and that’s usually a disastrous approach. It’s pretty nice when people tell you that they ‘usually don’t listen to this kind of thing’ but they enjoyed what you played.”
Though many of the DJs interviewed for this story enjoy pop music, this isn’t a Top 40 group. “I can easily pinpoint the worst experiences as being Top 40 gigs,” says Mark Nelson, who makes his living as gothic and industrial DJ Count Grozny and hosts a monthly “Queer Dance Party” at the Haymarket Whiskey Bar. “Although they can pay well, you have little-to-no artistic liberty.”
And most agree passionately on the issue of requests.
“If you request a song I have, I’ll probably play it at some point in the night,” says OK Deejays’ Chadwell. “But don’t expect me to play any Top 40 in the near future … or ever.”
Sam Sneed, who shares Saturdays at Seidenfaden’s bar in Paristown with Chadwell, is a little more adamant: “Never request!” shouts Sneed, who also co-hosts (with OK Deejays) “Night Visions Radio,” WFPK’s weeknight dance music hour. “I usually have a set planned out, and it’s hard for me to fit in everyone’s love of the Black Eyed Peas and Skrillex.”
But GlitterTitz DJ Jamey See Tai says it goes both ways. “You just have to feel it out. Also, the crowd needs to feel the DJ out. If you are at our party for even just an hour, you should know better than to come up and request Phish. That’s just not gonna happen. True story.”
Matt Anthony walks into an unfamiliar room with crates of records in his arms, purposely trying to get the crowd to see that he’s “a real DJ,” to use his phrase. He wants to work the crowd before the first note hits.
Some of the more popular DJs in Louisville have built up their audience over the past few years, increasing the trust level between them and their regulars. It wasn’t always easy, especially for those who tried in an earlier era.
VHS or Beta’s Pfunder “started playing wherever in Louisville they would let us set up our tables. Friends’ bars, apartments, warehouses, indie shows … really, wherever we could. At first, it was a real pain in the ass. The locals weren’t taking too kindly to four-on-the-floor beats. They’d jump up and down and make our records skip. Or just run into the table and point and laugh.”
Today, though, Pfunder and Palgy can look at their passports and have the last laugh. “We’ve toured around the world as DJs: Sydney, Paris, London, Bangkok, Mexico City, Buenos Aires, São Paulo, Santiago, Bogota, to name a few, and I’ll be playing a couple sets soon in China,” Pfunder says, adding with a laugh, “DJing is easy compared to touring with a band, and for that, I’m grateful. Seriously. Show up and boom. No soundcheck. Just play.”
His protégé Black Matter has toured all over the United States and in Canada, Europe, Asia and Central America, but not every night has been a success. One of See Tai’s worst nights at work was at a warehouse rave in Los Angeles’ Compton neighborhood.
“There was this huge dog chained up outside in the parking lot, and we just thought we were about to get jumped or something. We get into the venue and go onstage, and they have the shittiest gear possible, so we’re trying to swap out equipment during this other guy’s set, and it was just a mess. Of course, getting paid ended up being an ordeal, too, and I got paid in all fives and ones,” he laughs.
OK Deejays have had their best nights in Louisville, most recently at a warehouse party they threw a couple of years ago that drew more than a thousand people. They also opened for the Arcade Fire and LCD Soundsystem at Waterfront Park in 2007, which drew several thousand. “It was easily the biggest system I’ve played through,” Chadwell recalls.
The duo is somewhat unique locally as they also book and promote other DJs (and the odd live band) from all over the world — Rome, London, Brazil and more, 20 in the past year alone. Chadwell sees it as an investment in the local culture. “I could pay my bills from DJing (alone), but then I wouldn’t have much extra cash for bringing in out-of-town DJs or bands to play our fine city.”
One complaint shared by some of the local talent is a lack of suitable venues.
“There are some talented DJs but not a lot of fun nights,” says Jesse See Tai. “I feel like Louisville (people) aren’t comfortable with clubs; they like going to bars. But if people want something to happen, it’s up to them to support it.”
The problem is numbers, according to Nelson, aka Count Grozny. “There simply aren’t enough people to support more underground and niche genres and sub-genres.”
“I’m hoping that people in Louisville appreciate our growing dance scene and don’t take it for granted,” Chadwell says. “Otherwise, the good shows will dry up, and we’ll be stuck seeing the same local folks each week.”
Assuming the scene continues to move on up, does the current class see itself continuing into their 40s and 50s, like Tom Petty or Wilco?
VHS or Beta’s Pfunder and Hill see a long future of DJing ahead, even if it does get to be a bit awkward. Pfunder says, “Yes, I’ll be DJing for my kids, probably in 20 years, and they’ll be like, “Dad, you’re so embarrassing!”
Hill replies, “I would like to be making music in 10-20 years, for sure, but I’m positive it’s going to be utterly weird shit that will embarrass my family.”
GlitterTitz’s Crabtree is characteristically blunt about their future. “It’s hard to say. We both write music, and we’re trying to put it out there like the next guy. We’re just gonna ride the train as far as it takes us, I guess. One weekend at a time.”
Additional reporting by Damien McPherson.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
How dance music moved in on the Louisville music scene
To be at the Germantown nightclub Zanzabar at 1 a.m. on a Saturday night that has become a Sunday morning is to be several things. Most likely, you are young, between 21 and 29. You are probably pretty drunk, though not too drunk yet, if you’re at all civilized (give it another hour).
If you’re a woman, you probably came to hang out with your girlfriends; you might be looking to hook up with someone, or you might just be looking to dance the night away. If you’re a man, you might not even realize there are DJs on the small stage in the back of the room. You are probably there with a handful of your bros, but you are hoping to leave with just one other person. You might get into a fight, tonight or some other night; if you’re that type, maybe on multiple nights.
Throughout the dry-ice-scented, laser-light-filled club, girls tote crossbody bags, decked out in a hipster style that works for the fedora and trucker hat-wearing guys. A swarm of the latter flash gang signs as GlitterTitzDJz knowingly segue from a remix of Icona Pop’s theme from MTV’s “Snooki and JWoww” show into DJ Assault’s classic ode to “Ass-N-Titties.”
Zanzabar opened in 2009 as a combination bar/restaurant/music venue, with the added distinction of boasting an impressive collection of playable pinball machines and old-school video games. But if anything has made it a place to see and be seen on the weekends, it’s the DJs.
The Louisville music scene has a long history of punk, hardcore and heavy metal bands to its credit, along with numerous variations on country, indie rock, jazz, hip-hop, blues and R&B. It’s always been a live music town, where bands from My Morning Jacket to The Crashers have thrilled thousands with their guitars, basses, drums and keyboards.
But increasingly, DJs — not just the wedding or Fourth Street Live variety aiming to play the latest Top 40 hits for less discriminating audiences — have become an important and essential aspect of the scene.
Not coincidentally, DJs have become a big business worldwide. From easily identifiable pop-star-level favorites like Skrillex and Deadmaus to super-producers and writers like Calvin Harris (Rihanna, Kesha, Kylie Minogue) and David Guetta (Black Eyed Peas, Akon, Pitbull), DJs have become a commercial factor like never before. While the music has had a decades-long presence in Europe, and various electronic and/or dance acts such as Moby, Prodigy and Underworld achieved success in the United States in the late-’90s, what is today called EDM (a redundant acronym for “electronic dance music”) is a relatively new phenomenon on Top 40 radio here.
Forecastle Festival founder J.K. McKnight, who has booked DJs at his fests for several years, says he saw the current wave coming a decade ago. “It seemed inevitable. I witnessed it firsthand when I was 19 and in Belfast, Northern Ireland, on a trip. It left a mark. The energy level was off the charts.”
But it would take time for that wave of energy to reach its peak in this town.
“(Louisville) likes its indie rock, it likes its singer-songwriters; it likes a lot of things, but it took a while for Louisville,” says musician Craig Pfunder of the dance-rock band VHS or Beta, a native who now lives in New York. “The times, I’m sure, are different now with the Internet — not as many boundaries.”
As more young music fans turn away from guitars and toward two turntables and a mixer, will Louisville’s next breakthrough act be a traditional rock band like My Morning Jacket or Houndmouth … or a DJ you wouldn’t even recognize at Kroger?
Garrett Crabtree Jr. was raised on classic rock, spending much of his youth attempting to nail perfect guitar solos. But these days, the 31-year-old genuinely loves dance music and is protective of its younger fans.
“Young people — 18-25 — have always been the deciding factor in pop music,” says Crabtree, one half of the DJ duo GlitterTitz. “They drive the world of music, but people just seem to write them off as stupid kids. Ultimately, I think it’s kind of crazy that it’s taken you guys this long to do a story on the DJ scene in Louisville.”
To the younger generation, he adds, this is their music: “It’s not ironic or funny. They look at DJs as artists.”
And as appreciation for this art form grows, so, too, does the number of aspiring DJs.
“There are so many artists these days, it’s like getting a turntable now for Christmas has replaced the acoustic guitar,” McKnight says. “Everyone is doing it, but so few will actually make it.”
British ex-pat Jon Paul Hill, who spins disco Saturdays at the Butchertown bar Meat under the DJ name JP Source, is one of those many. When he was 16, a friend taught him the basics.
“I couldn’t get it out of my mind. And so, when quite soon after I was given a bit of money, it came down to a choice of get driving lessons or some turntables. I chose the decks and, in retrospect, realized that these are the kind of foolish decisions only made by proper DJs.”
Jesse See Tai began learning how to DJ at 15. Within a year, still with braces on his teeth, he began DJing publicly as Jesse Jamz.
“The thing I like about DJing is the interaction,” he says. “When you’re playing to a packed club and everyone is losing it, it’s an amazing feeling.”
He also notes, “It’s pretty ridiculous how much money you can make for playing music for 90 minutes, especially the kind of money the big guys are making.”
Mostly self-taught, he also benefited from advice from mentors Mark Palgy and the aforementioned Craig Pfunder, leaders of VHS or Beta; the duo have also become popular DJs on the side. Today, at 24, See Tai has changed his professional nom-de-dance to Black Matter and has released some of his own music.
It’s here where Black Matter stands out from most of the crowd in Louisville — while some have begun making their own music, most are still in the early stages or just not interested. If live bands make their money from touring and licensing, most DJs today who make it out of their hometowns succeed by writing and producing. Rihanna can’t dub those steps alone, after all.
“Production is what gets you booked now,” says See Tai. “You can’t just be a DJ. Unless you’re a huge artist, you probably won’t make much for sales, but you could still make money from licensing.”
It’s why Carol Hamilton, who DJs as Lady Carol, is beginning to produce some of her own music.
“I’ve got the DJ thing down pat, but now I’m trying to get my own sound out there,” she says. “There’s nothing like playing your own tracks at a club.”
While the media has tried to explain the DJ surge by calling them “the new rock stars,” and rockers like My Morning Jacket’s Jim James (DJ Cap’n Goodies) and Wax Fang’s Scott Carney (DJ Captain Howdy) have dipped their toes into the pool, full-time DJs — several of whom have also played in rock bands — are noticeably hesitant to agree with such a label.
“I do think it’s something different,” is the opinion of Alex Bell, aka A-Bell of OK Deejays, who DJ at Zanzabar on Fridays. “I don’t think DJs have — as they shouldn’t — the showmanship of a guitar-wielding, live, singing rock star.”
His partner, Aaron Chadwell, known as DJ Narwhal, adds, “I don’t even know if there are rock stars anymore.”
But Crabtree maintains it’s both musicianship and the ability to perform that sets some DJs apart.
“They are music producers, not just DJs. They write music. They do the legwork for Justin Bieber tracks. They are highly intelligent computer nerds. A lot of them are accomplished musicians in the classical sense. They just perform their music a little differently than Nirvana did. Ultimately, the music that they write would be impossible to perform live, so they DJ it.
“It might seem ridiculous, but it’s not,” he continues. “It’s still a performance. It’s hard to explain. But yes, DJs ultimately enjoy rock-star status. Follow Diplo on Twitter, and you’ll know what I mean.”
Crabtree’s GlitterTitz partner, Jamey See Tai — DJ Black Matter’s brother — laughs at the question. “I’m sure to some kids they are. I definitely give more credit to the DJs who are also producing music. Some of those dudes are making some really awesome tracks. On the other hand, I also think a lot of DJs look really foolish ‘rockin’ out’ on stage while not really doing anything. But you gotta keep the crowd hyped, I guess.”
It’s that ability to keep the crowd hyped that pushes the locals to the next level. Adjusting their sets on the fly is one element the majority of DJs have in common. It’s almost like performing stand-up comedy — most wade gently into their set, feeling out the crowd.
“It’s improv, man, you don’t know what you’re gonna get,” says DJ Matt Anthony. A veteran of the local scene and a regular host on WFPK, Anthony differs from many DJs because he mostly spins classic soul, Latin and jazz sounds, instead of current hip-hop, house or nu-disco records. At an ongoing gig at the Maker’s Mark Lounge at Fourth Street Live, Anthony was tasked with entertaining crowds ranging from Wal-Mart distribution conventioneers to an all-African-American 1983 high school class reunion.
“You’re trying to manipulate people with sounds; it’s not even songs,” he says. “The electronic guys have proven that. You don’t even need a hook, a song. You can make people dance if you get the right crowd and the right vibe going … Reading the crowd is what it’s all about.”
He says an older DJ told him: “‘Your job is to create hysteria. And you can’t plan on that.’ I always think about that, and I love it. You have to make people go crazy. Until I’ve done that, I don’t feel like I’ve earned my pay yet.”
Sometimes, engaging the crowd requires a little bit of bait and switch.
“You can’t please everyone with every track, so you find clever ways of tricking them into liking things they normally wouldn’t,” Crabtree notes. “Like putting a hip-hop beat behind a Metallica track.”
It’s a trick known to fans of internationally popular acts like Girl Talk. McKnight booked the mash-up favorite in 2007 as a Forecastle Festival headliner. After McKnight’s mother picked up another festival band at the airport, she told him how they had expressed unease at playing on the same bill as the DJ. “They talked about how it was a fad and was going to fade. (How) it had zero staying power, more or less a trend for high school adolescents.”
Now, McKnight says, Girl Talk makes seven times what the festival paid the act back then. “I haven’t heard anything about the other band since.”
Black Matter’s Jesse See Tai agrees with the notion that a DJ must be clever about working the crowd. “When I first started playing here in Louisville, I remember how tough it was to keep everyone happy and dancing … it was almost like I had to trick them into liking what I played. I’d play one song I knew they’d like and then a couple that I liked. Everyone likes familiarity, so you have to make them feel comfortable but, at the same time, introduce new unfamiliar things.”
“Things have changed a lot since then, though,” he adds. “Due to the growth of electronic music in mainstream media, it’s a lot easier for someone who isn’t necessarily into electronic music to go out and have a good time dancing to music they don’t know.”
Jon Paul Hill, aka JP Source, has developed a philosophical approach to his weekly DJ night at Meat.
“I think you just have to do your best at doing your thing. I’ve had gigs where I tried desperately to please everyone, and that’s usually a disastrous approach. It’s pretty nice when people tell you that they ‘usually don’t listen to this kind of thing’ but they enjoyed what you played.”
Though many of the DJs interviewed for this story enjoy pop music, this isn’t a Top 40 group. “I can easily pinpoint the worst experiences as being Top 40 gigs,” says Mark Nelson, who makes his living as gothic and industrial DJ Count Grozny and hosts a monthly “Queer Dance Party” at the Haymarket Whiskey Bar. “Although they can pay well, you have little-to-no artistic liberty.”
And most agree passionately on the issue of requests.
“If you request a song I have, I’ll probably play it at some point in the night,” says OK Deejays’ Chadwell. “But don’t expect me to play any Top 40 in the near future … or ever.”
Sam Sneed, who shares Saturdays at Seidenfaden’s bar in Paristown with Chadwell, is a little more adamant: “Never request!” shouts Sneed, who also co-hosts (with OK Deejays) “Night Visions Radio,” WFPK’s weeknight dance music hour. “I usually have a set planned out, and it’s hard for me to fit in everyone’s love of the Black Eyed Peas and Skrillex.”
But GlitterTitz DJ Jamey See Tai says it goes both ways. “You just have to feel it out. Also, the crowd needs to feel the DJ out. If you are at our party for even just an hour, you should know better than to come up and request Phish. That’s just not gonna happen. True story.”
Matt Anthony walks into an unfamiliar room with crates of records in his arms, purposely trying to get the crowd to see that he’s “a real DJ,” to use his phrase. He wants to work the crowd before the first note hits.
Some of the more popular DJs in Louisville have built up their audience over the past few years, increasing the trust level between them and their regulars. It wasn’t always easy, especially for those who tried in an earlier era.
VHS or Beta’s Pfunder “started playing wherever in Louisville they would let us set up our tables. Friends’ bars, apartments, warehouses, indie shows … really, wherever we could. At first, it was a real pain in the ass. The locals weren’t taking too kindly to four-on-the-floor beats. They’d jump up and down and make our records skip. Or just run into the table and point and laugh.”
Today, though, Pfunder and Palgy can look at their passports and have the last laugh. “We’ve toured around the world as DJs: Sydney, Paris, London, Bangkok, Mexico City, Buenos Aires, São Paulo, Santiago, Bogota, to name a few, and I’ll be playing a couple sets soon in China,” Pfunder says, adding with a laugh, “DJing is easy compared to touring with a band, and for that, I’m grateful. Seriously. Show up and boom. No soundcheck. Just play.”
His protégé Black Matter has toured all over the United States and in Canada, Europe, Asia and Central America, but not every night has been a success. One of See Tai’s worst nights at work was at a warehouse rave in Los Angeles’ Compton neighborhood.
“There was this huge dog chained up outside in the parking lot, and we just thought we were about to get jumped or something. We get into the venue and go onstage, and they have the shittiest gear possible, so we’re trying to swap out equipment during this other guy’s set, and it was just a mess. Of course, getting paid ended up being an ordeal, too, and I got paid in all fives and ones,” he laughs.
OK Deejays have had their best nights in Louisville, most recently at a warehouse party they threw a couple of years ago that drew more than a thousand people. They also opened for the Arcade Fire and LCD Soundsystem at Waterfront Park in 2007, which drew several thousand. “It was easily the biggest system I’ve played through,” Chadwell recalls.
The duo is somewhat unique locally as they also book and promote other DJs (and the odd live band) from all over the world — Rome, London, Brazil and more, 20 in the past year alone. Chadwell sees it as an investment in the local culture. “I could pay my bills from DJing (alone), but then I wouldn’t have much extra cash for bringing in out-of-town DJs or bands to play our fine city.”
One complaint shared by some of the local talent is a lack of suitable venues.
“There are some talented DJs but not a lot of fun nights,” says Jesse See Tai. “I feel like Louisville (people) aren’t comfortable with clubs; they like going to bars. But if people want something to happen, it’s up to them to support it.”
The problem is numbers, according to Nelson, aka Count Grozny. “There simply aren’t enough people to support more underground and niche genres and sub-genres.”
“I’m hoping that people in Louisville appreciate our growing dance scene and don’t take it for granted,” Chadwell says. “Otherwise, the good shows will dry up, and we’ll be stuck seeing the same local folks each week.”
Assuming the scene continues to move on up, does the current class see itself continuing into their 40s and 50s, like Tom Petty or Wilco?
VHS or Beta’s Pfunder and Hill see a long future of DJing ahead, even if it does get to be a bit awkward. Pfunder says, “Yes, I’ll be DJing for my kids, probably in 20 years, and they’ll be like, “Dad, you’re so embarrassing!”
Hill replies, “I would like to be making music in 10-20 years, for sure, but I’m positive it’s going to be utterly weird shit that will embarrass my family.”
GlitterTitz’s Crabtree is characteristically blunt about their future. “It’s hard to say. We both write music, and we’re trying to put it out there like the next guy. We’re just gonna ride the train as far as it takes us, I guess. One weekend at a time.”
Additional reporting by Damien McPherson.
c. 2013 LEO Weekly
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